Gravedancer

1. WELCOME TO CALAMITY...

The house stood still, just a few blocks away from my house. No one dared coming near that house again. The basement, they said, was still unchanged as the moment they left it. But after the witch was burned at stake, the screams stopped.

No one knew what was going on under there.

It gave me the creeps. Every single Halloween here in Calamity, eighteen year-olds would sneak into the house. Just for one night of good scare. It was probably some sort of a dare at first, but now it came off as some ritual. Boys who were eighteen as of Halloween night must go spend the night in the Witch House.

None of them came out the same after that.

Not that their personalities changed, but they became so sensitive to everything around them - the slightest sounds could scare them like shushed cats. They almost immediately paled, screamed, and looked around with wide-eyed paranoia. Most of them needed psychiatric help after their turn in the House - although lately, most of the psychologists were Witch House veterans themselves.

The urban legend, plus this yearly incident, made witchcraft a famous Halloween theme in Calamity. And ever since Harry Potter was out, everyone was wearing black cloaks and striped shawls. Iconic tourist traps were built, celebrating the witchcraft imagery, selling weird stuff they picked up from garbage bags, rivaling the fame of the local church.

Huh. Was that ironic or what?

Problem was: I turned eighteen last month, which meant the kids at school would try to invite me along to go to the Witch House this year.

No, I didn't want to. But no, I wouldn't have any other choice. It was some sort of a tradition by then - no matter how wimpy you are, when you're tagged, you come along. It wasn't the wisest tradition, but really, in Calamity, your whole life depended on it. Whatever happened the night you got tagged would determine where your life would go in this calamitous town.

"I'm home," I said as I entered.

For eighteen years of living, I was raised by Amanda and Jack. Hmm, it felt weird calling them that. I was so used to calling them Mom and Dad until last year. Apparently their idea of a seventeenth birthday gift was to inform me that I was adopted - and they weren't kidding. I kind of hoped that it was just some sort of a mean birthday joke, but they didn't negate it the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. I could even see every morning that their eyes reddened. They actually cried loads over those nights. So did I - I mean, come on. Seventeen years of thinking that they were your parents and one night to shatter it all. Sure, I knew that they actually did love me. And no, I never doubted that. But to know that Mom - Amanda, whatever - couldn't conceive and just suddenly received a baby out her doorstep one night with no letters whatsoever? That was quite disturbing.

No letters of information. No traces at all. Amanda showed me the basket and blankets she found me in - there were no fingerprints (she managed to persuade Jack a few years back to try and run a personal check - nothing there).

I'd forgiven them just a few weeks ago. I couldn't bear it. They finally broke down crying in front of me and it was a huge group hug that lasted overnight until we all woke up in the morning all entwined and emotionally drained.

The days after that went normally, but I'd asked Amanda if I could try and seek where I actually came from. She gave me her blessing.

"Hi!" Amanda's voice greeted from the kitchen. She was just one doorframe away from the front door. "You got those groceries?"

I entered the kitchen and put my bag down on the table. Unzipping it, a pumpkin rolled out and a plastic bag could be seen in there. "Sure. Are we making Jack-o-Lanterns?"