Wipe Head – Chapter 7: Halloween Blood
(William, 18 years old)
The night sank its teeth into the town like a living thing.
Cold wind slithered through empty streets, rattling loose decorations and scraping plastic skeletons against wooden doors. Orange lights flickered weakly from porches, their glow swallowed by shadows stretching unnaturally long across the pavement. Halloween had arrived—but here, near the mountains, celebration had rotted into silence.
People stayed inside.
Curtains were drawn tight.
Doors were double-locked.
Phones buzzed with the same message, passed from house to house like a curse:
Don't go out after six.
Turn off the lights.
Wipe Head is awake.
Fear had replaced candy. And fear… only made him hungrier.
William stood at the edge of the town, watching.
At eighteen, he was no longer recognizable as the burned child who once limped through hospital halls or hid in orphanage corners. He towered at seven feet tall, a massive silhouette carved from muscle, bone, and something far darker. His body moved with unnatural control—every step calculated, every breath measured.
The bandages were gone.
In their place sat a mask made from human skin—stitched crudely but tightly, seams visible like scars that refused to heal. Eyeholes cut deep, revealing eyes that no longer held fear, only patience. Only judgment.
Across his back, a chainsaw rested like an extension of his spine. In his right hand, a long knife caught the moonlight, its edge polished to a perfect, merciless shine.
William inhaled.
The town smelled different on Halloween. Sugar. Smoke. Fear. Old memories. His lips twitched beneath the mask—not a smile, but something close.
He stepped forward.
His boots made no sound.
He moved through narrow alleys, shadows bending around him as if they recognized their master. Wind brushed against his coat, but he felt nothing. Cold had lost its meaning years ago in the mountains. Pain had too.
From somewhere far away, laughter echoed—children inside warm houses, protected by walls their parents believed were strong enough. William tilted his head slightly, listening.
Walls had never stopped fire.
They wouldn't stop him.
At the corner of a quiet street, he stopped.
A house.
Small. Neatly kept. Yellow lights glowing behind thin curtains. Plastic pumpkins lined the porch. Fake cobwebs hung lazily from the roof. A bowl of candy sat on a table near the door—untouched, as if even trick-or-treaters had sensed something wrong.
Inside, shadows moved.
A family.
William watched through the window.
A mother adjusting her coat, smiling nervously.
A father checking his phone, distracted.
A small child bouncing excitedly, clutching a costume mask, unaware of the truth standing just feet away.
They were preparing to leave. A babysitter would arrive soon. Laughter filled the room—real laughter.
Something twisted inside William's chest.
Not sadness.
Not jealousy.
Recognition.
He stepped onto the porch.
The wood creaked softly beneath his weight.
Inside, the mother paused. Her smile faded slightly. She turned toward the door, confused.
William raised his hand.
The doorknob turned without resistance.
He stepped inside.
Warmth wrapped around him, thick and artificial. The smell of cooked food and perfume hit his senses. For a brief moment—just a flicker—memories flashed through his mind: a kitchen long ago, a voice calling his name, laughter before fire swallowed everything.
Then he spoke.
"Trick… or treat."
His voice was low. Altered. Heavy. It crawled through the room like smoke, settling into every corner.
The mother stared.
Her eyes widened—not in fear at first, but recognition.
Then she laughed. A weak, uncomfortable sound.
"Oh my God…" she said nervously. "That's disgusting. Look at you—you've… grown, Wipe Head."
The name struck him harder than any blade ever could.
Wipe Head.
The word echoed in his skull, dragging with it years of whispers, laughter, fingers pointing at burned skin. Hospital hallways. Orphanage rooms. Faces twisting in disgust.
Something inside him snapped—not loudly, but completely.
William moved.
The knife rose.
The mother barely had time to inhale before the blade plunged downward. Steel met bone. The sound was wet, final. Her body stiffened, then collapsed, blood spreading across the floor in a dark, glistening pool.
The child screamed.
The father turned, horror finally catching up to reality. His mouth opened—but William was already there.
One hand grabbed the man by the collar, lifting him effortlessly. The knife flashed again. Precise. Efficient. Life drained from the father's eyes before his body hit the floor.
Silence followed—thick, suffocating.
Then the backdoor burst open.
The babysitter.
She froze, scream caught in her throat as she took in the scene—the blood, the bodies, the towering figure standing in the middle of it all.
William turned slowly.
He pulled the chainsaw from his back.
The engine roared to life, tearing through the silence like a beast awakened from sleep. The vibration traveled through his arms, familiar, comforting.
The babysitter screamed.
William charged.
The chainsaw met flesh.
The sound was unbearable—metal chewing through bone, the scream cutting off mid-note. Blood sprayed the walls, painting Halloween decorations red. When it was over, the chainsaw's roar faded into a low growl.
Only dripping remained.
The child stood frozen in the living room, clutching a small stuffed toy so tightly its seams strained. Tears streamed down the child's face, silent, confused.
William approached.
Each step felt slow, deliberate. He could hear the child's heartbeat. Smell fear flooding the air.
For a split second, something stirred deep inside him—a distant echo of what he once was.
Then it vanished.
The toy slipped from the child's hands.
One swing.
One stab.
Silence.
William stood alone.
Blood coated the floor. Walls dripped red. The warmth of life faded from the room, replaced by cold inevitability. He looked around, taking it all in—not with excitement, but with ownership.
Outside, laughter echoed faintly again.
Unaware.
William wiped the blade clean on his coat and stepped back into the night. Halloween lights flickered as he passed beneath streetlamps. Shadows stretched and followed him like loyal servants.
A curtain moved.
Someone inside a nearby house saw him.
A scream rang out.
Doors slammed. Lights went out.
The town understood now.
He walked on, unstoppable.
No locks mattered.
No prayers worked.
No hiding saved anyone.
Tonight, William was no longer a story parents whispered to scare children into obedience.
He was real.
He was Wipe Head.
And as fear spread through the town like a disease, his legend deepened—written in blood, sealed in screams, destined to be remembered long after Halloween ended.
Far above, the mountains watched in silence.
And they remembered him. Now wipe head was not a urban legend any more but a deadly serial killer , now the unaware friends planning to camp here are unaware of this monster .