Anthology Blurb
Every Halloween, the town’s children gather at the old library for candy, costumes... and stories that bite back.
The Creepy Librarian has dusted off his most twisted tales this year. From International bestselling author J. P. Uvalle come three terrifying stories that slither through shadow and scream. In a haunting debut, child author Daphne Rae delivers The Little Girl—a tale so eerie, even the librarian hesitated to read it aloud.
With lanterns lit and whispers rising from the stacks, Tricks, Treats, and Terrifying Tales invites readers into a night of fright, delight, and beautifully twisted storytelling. Just don’t stay past closing time…
I have this thing where I always have to be the first one through the door. It’s not an ego thing (okay, it’s kind of an ego thing), but mostly because if something jumps out at us, I’d rather it chew my face off than, say, Anna’s. Her mom is, like, the president of the school board. I doubt she’d take it well…
So when I reached the iron gate of the old cottage, the first thing I did was shove it open like it was a test of strength on one of those dumb TV game shows. The hinges screamed. Carrie and Anna both jumped at the sound. I grinned, wiggling my fingers in a spooky fashion. Carrie gave me a weak thumbs up. Anna mumbled, “This is a terrible idea,” but followed anyway, because she always did.
The yard looked like Halloween had thrown up all over it: dead leaves, twisty branches, a birdbath full of what might be rainwater or something way more disgusting—bird poop. The wind did that thing where it only howled when you were alone, which was annoying because I was here with my two besties, and we should not be scared—not yet, not until we were inside.
Carrie was the first to break the silence. “If we die here, I want ‘Death by Peer Pressure’ on my tombstone. Maybe with little ghost emojis.” She shivered as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. “Seriously, Bella, remind me again why we can’t watch scary movies like normal teens?”
I flicked my flashlight on and wiggled it under my chin. “Because, Carrie, mysteries demand evidence. Netflix has zero evidence. Creepy Cottage, on the other hand…” I waggled my eyebrows. The house loomed over us—three stories, paint peeled to gray shreds, every window either busted out or dust-fogged. It was haunted-house perfection, which is probably why Principal Abadi threatened suspension if she caught anyone trespassing.
Anna pulled her cardigan tighter. “You know the fire department condemned this place, right? It could collapse. We could, um, get tetanus. Or die of mold inhalation.” She kicked at a chunk of mossy stone on the path. “I did not bring my inhaler.”
“Relax. You’ve survived my mom’s cooking. You’re basically immortal,” I said, and Carrie cackled in a way that bounced off the cottage’s siding and returned to haunt us.