Jamie Chen had judged exactly forty-seven Halloween costumes in the past three hours, and number forty-eight was about to ruin everything.
"Next contestant, please!" Mayor Blackwood's voice boomed through the megaphone with the caffeinated enthusiasm of someone who'd mainlined pumpkin spice since dawn. The perfectly coiffed former marketing executive had transformed Maple Hills into a Halloween destination through sheer force of brand management and an advertising budget that would make Silicon Valley blush. The town square, decorated with approximately seventeen million orange lights and enough fake cobwebs to wrap the moon, buzzed with ten thousand tourists armed with smartphones and disposable income.
Jamie adjusted his judge's badge—a laminated piece of paper that read "OFFICIAL COSTUME EXPERT" in Comic Sans, because apparently the town's graphic designer had a sense of humor—and tried not to think about what happened two years ago. The Werewolf Incident. His fingers, still stained purple from last night's latex molding experiment, drummed nervously against his scoresheet.
The memory crashed over him like it always did during competitions: October 31st, two years ago, behind the gymnasium. Marcus Webb in what Jamie could've sworn was a full transformation. The fur had been individually punched into silicone—he'd counted the follicles. The facial prosthetics moved with muscle groups that shouldn't exist in any mask. There were even scent glands releasing actual musk. Jamie had screamed, called 911, evacuated the entire Halloween dance. The video of him sobbing "IT'S REAL! THE WEREWOLF IS REAL!" while Marcus calmly removed his elaborate costume head had gotten twelve million views. Someone made a techno remix. His mother still heard it at the grocery store.
But Marcus, instead of hating him forever, had become his unlikely protector. "You were just really observant," Marcus had said the next day, finding Jamie hiding in the library. "That's actually pretty cool. Most people can't see what's right in front of them."
Now Jamie knew costumes. Every YouTube tutorial, every behind-the-scenes documentary, every frame of practical effects had been absorbed into his brain. He'd made himself the youngest judge in Maple Hills Halloween Festival history through pure obsessive expertise. He was absolutely not going to have another incident.
The contestant shuffled onto the stage, and Jamie's trained eye immediately catalogued the details: approximately four feet tall, mottled green skin with a wet sheen that caught the stage lights perfectly, elongated ears that twitched—actually twitched—in response to sound, and teeth that looked like someone had crossbred a shark with a very angry cheese grater.
"Incredible prosthetics," Judge Marcy whispered, fanning herself with her scoring card. "The articulation on those ears! Must be servo-controlled."
Jamie's pencil hovered over his scoresheet. The thing was, he couldn't see any seams. Not where the ears met the skull, not along the jawline where a prosthetic would need to blend, not even around the eyes where contact lenses should create a subtle ridge. His stomach performed a slow, uncomfortable roll that had nothing to do with the three candy apples he'd demolished for breakfast.
The goblin—the contestant, Jamie corrected himself firmly—grinned at the crowd and spoke in a voice like gravel in a garbage disposal: "Greetings, meat-sacks! I mean... hello, fellow humans enjoying this capitalist celebration of death!"
The crowd roared with laughter. Someone shouted, "Stay in character, dude!" The goblin's eyes tracked to the voice with predatory precision, and its grin widened to reveal a second row of teeth that definitely weren't part of any dental prosthetic Jamie had ever seen.
"Technical score?" Judge Pete asked, nudging Jamie with his elbow. Pete was seventy-three, had been judging this contest since 1987, and thought everything was either "neat" or "real neat."
"I need a closer look," Jamie said, standing up.
"Oh, come on, Chen," Judge Marcy laughed. "You're not going to pull another werewolf thing, are you?"
The crowd within earshot chuckled. Jamie's cheeks burned, but he stepped forward anyway, pulling out his phone's flashlight. "Just checking the quality of the... the craftsmanship."
The goblin tracked Jamie's approach with eyes that reflected light like a cat's. Up close, Jamie could smell it—not the usual convention smell of spirit gum and liquid latex, but something earthier. Like mulch and copper pennies and the inside of a cave that had never seen sunlight.
"Where did you get your costume?" Jamie asked, trying to keep his voice casual.
The goblin tilted its head at an angle that should have snapped several vertebrae. "Grew it myself. Took seventy-three years to get the teeth right."
More laughter from the crowd. Someone's livestream chat was probably exploding with fire emojis. Jamie noticed something else: the goblin's breath didn't fog in the crisp October air. Every human's breath created little puffs of vapor in the forty-degree weather. But not the goblin's.
"Jamie, we need to keep things moving," Mayor Blackwood called out, checking his phone for the festival's real-time social media engagement metrics. "We've got seventy more contestants and we're already trending number four nationwide!"
Jamie backed away, hands trembling as he marked his score. Seven out of ten—high enough to avoid suspicion, low enough to hopefully prevent victory. The goblin's eyes narrowed at the score reveal, and for just a second, its genial expression slipped into something ancient and hungry.
"You see well for a human child," it muttered, just loud enough for Jamie to hear. "The old treaty won't protect your kind forever."
Three more goblins registered for the contest in the next hour. Each one more impossibly detailed than the last.
By sunset, Jamie had identified seventeen definite goblins, three maybes, and one guy who was just really committed to method acting. He'd tried to subtly point out the impossibilities to the other judges: the way contestant number fifty-six's skin literally changed color with her emotions like a mood ring made of flesh, how contestant seventy-two had accidentally extended his tongue three feet while licking a candy apple, how contestant eighty-one's "costume" included functional wing membranes that created actual lift.
"You're being paranoid," Marcy said during the dinner break, aggressively buttering her third corn on the cob. "Just because someone has a Hollywood-quality costume doesn't mean they're actually a monster."
"But what if—"
"No." Pete held up a hand. "We've been over this. After the Werewolf Incident, you promised to judge based on craftsmanship, not conspiracy theories."
Jamie found Marcus at the corn maze entrance, where he usually worked during the festival, charming tourists with the same easy confidence that had made him student body vice president. He still wore elements of the werewolf costume that had become his signature look—the fur-trimmed jacket with "REFORMED WEREWOLF" embroidered on the back.
"Jay!" Marcus's face lit up when he saw him, then immediately shifted to concern. "Dude, you look like you've seen a ghost. Or, knowing you, an incredibly realistic ghost costume that you're about to report to the authorities."
"Marcus, I need your help." Jamie grabbed his arm, pulling him away from the crowd. "The new contestants. They're not wearing costumes."
Marcus's expression cycled through surprise, concern, and landed on gentle sympathy. "Jamie..."
"I know how it sounds. But I know costumes now, Marcus. Better than anyone in this town. I've spent two years learning everything. Those aren't prosthetics. They're real."
"Real goblins."
"Yes."
"Here to what, enter our costume contest?"
Jamie pulled out his phone, showing Marcus the video he'd secretly recorded. "Look at this. Watch when the flash goes off."
The screen showed the goblin contestant, but when someone's camera flash fired, the image distorted, the goblin's features swimming like oil on water.
Marcus studied the footage, his natural leadership instincts kicking in. "Okay. Let's say you're right. What's their endgame?"
"The trophy. They keep mentioning it. And one of them said something about an old treaty."
Marcus's eyes widened. "The Thornfield Treaty. My grandmother used to tell stories about it. Something about a bargain made in 1847."
They found Mayor Blackwood at the judge's tent, livestreaming with Grzk'theta the Devourer.
"And here's our frontrunner!" the Mayor said to his phone. "Already at fifty million views on TikTok! Maple Hills is going viral, baby! We're beating Salem! We're crushing Sleepy Hollow!"
"Mayor Blackwood," Jamie started, but the Mayor was already shaking his head.
"Jamie, whatever you're about to say, the answer is no. We are not evacuating. We are not calling the state police. We are not canceling the midnight ceremony." He showed them his phone screen, which displayed a real-time dashboard of metrics. "Do you see this engagement? The festival has made enough money to fund the town for the entire year. Channel 6 is here. The Food Network is here. We're going to win Best Halloween Town in America, and nothing—nothing—is going to stop that."
"But sir, what if I told you these contestants might be connected to the Thornfield Treaty?"
The Mayor's marketing smile flickered for just a moment. "That's... that's just a legend. Historical color for the tourists."
Grzk'theta leaned in, his breath smelling like a compost heap that had achieved sentience. "Yes, young judge. Just a legend. Though legends have such interesting ways of becoming true, don't they? Especially when the proper forms are filed." He produced a contest registration form, perfectly filled out in triplicate. "We're very thorough about paperwork. Municipal code 31.13, subsection J."
Jamie and Marcus retreated to the library, which was the only building in town not decorated for Halloween. Mrs. Henderson, who split her time between the library and the high school drama department, was at the desk looking frazzled.
"Mrs. H," Marcus said, using his student government charm. "We need to research the Thornfield Treaty."
Her expression shifted from exhausted to wary. "Why would you... oh no. They're back, aren't they? The contestants with the too-perfect costumes?"
"You know about them?" Jamie asked.
"I've been watching them all day. In forty years of costume work, I've never seen seams that don't exist. But the Mayor won't listen. He's got his heart set on that 'Best Halloween Town' award." She pulled out an old brass key. "Special collections. Third shelf. But boys? Be careful. Some things shouldn't be awakened."
In the dusty special collections room, they found Samuel Thornfield's journal, written in spidery handwriting that seemed to move when you weren't looking directly at it.
Jamie read aloud: "'The Folk of the Underground came to me in dreams, speaking of ancient compacts and doorways long sealed. They showed me the design for a key—a trophy, they insisted, for it must be won fairly to open what was closed. I have built their key, but hidden its nature. Let it be a prize for human revelry, never to fall into their grasping claws. Should they claim it through legitimate victory, the treaty grants them territorial rights to establish a colony.'"
"A colony," Marcus repeated. "They're not just here for the trophy. They're here to stay."
They tried everyone. Chief Patterson dismissed them immediately, more concerned about underage drinking than interdimensional invasion. The fire department was busy with a pumpkin-related structure fire. The news station thought they were pitching a found-footage horror film.
By ten PM, the goblins owned the leaderboard. Grzk'theta the Devourer was so far ahead that second place was mathematically eliminated. The other goblins had swept every category except "Sexiest Costume," which had gone to someone dressed as "Attractive Student Loan Forgiveness."
"We need backup," Marcus said, pulling out his phone. "And I know exactly who to call."
Sam Rodriguez burst onto the scene fifteen minutes later like a caffeinated hurricane. Marcus's younger cousin was fifteen, had the energy of a squirrel on espresso, and possessed the social media skills of a Gen Z influencer.
"Marcus said you've got actual monsters?" Sam's eyes were bright with excitement. "Like, real deal, not-costumes, about-to-eat-everyone monsters?"
"And nobody will believe us," Jamie added.
"Then we don't convince them," Sam said, already filming everything. "We just do what every horror movie protagonist should do—arm ourselves with their weakness. What kills goblins? Fire? Silver? The power of friendship?"
That's when Mrs. Henderson appeared with a shopping cart full of maple syrup.
"Every Vermont cryptid has the same weakness," she said matter-of-factly. "The sugar concentration in maple syrup causes a violent allergic reaction. My grandmother used it during the invasion of 1962."
"There was an invasion in 1962?" Jamie asked.
"Why do you think Vermont produces so much maple syrup? It's not just for pancakes, dear. It's strategic defense."
They had forty-five minutes until midnight. Marcus used his student government connections to "borrow" keys to the hardware store. They "requisitioned" every Super Soaker from the summer clearance section, plus a few garden sprayers for good measure.
"This is insane," Sam said, filming everything for posterity while filling their arsenal with genuine Vermont maple syrup that cost roughly the same as liquid gold. "We're going to fight monsters with breakfast condiments."
"Got a better idea?" Jamie asked, testing the stream on a Super Soaker XL 3000.
"No, but when we survive this, we're going to have the best college application essays ever."
They positioned themselves around the town square just as Mayor Blackwood took the stage for the final ceremony. The crowd had swelled to maximum capacity, a sea of phones ready to record whatever happened next. The goblins had clustered near the stage, no longer bothering to stay in character. One was literally hovering three feet off the ground. Chad, who everyone thought was just an intense method actor, stood with them, his movements too fluid, too wrong.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" The Mayor's voice echoed across the square. "The moment we've all been waiting for! But first, a word about our town's history..."
He launched into a clearly rehearsed speech about the Thornfield Treaty, trying to make it sound like historical entertainment. "And legend says, whoever wins the trophy three times gains permanent residency in Maple Hills!"
The crowd laughed. The goblins didn't.
"The votes have been tallied, the scores computed, and the winner with an unprecedented perfect score is... Grzk'theta the Devourer!"
The goblin loped onto stage with movements that no human skeleton could achieve, reaching for the trophy with both hands. The metal began to glow with a sickly green light that definitely wasn't part of its usual display.
"Now!" Marcus shouted, his leadership voice carrying over the crowd.
They opened fire.
Streams of maple syrup arced through the air like amber lasers. The first blast caught Grzk'theta in the face just as his claws touched the trophy. His scream was like nails on a chalkboard mixed with a dial-up modem trying to connect to hell. His skin bubbled and smoked where the syrup hit.
The crowd, for one beautiful moment, thought it was part of the show. Then Chad burst into flames.
"SYRUP!" one goblin screamed. "THE HUMANS HAVE WEAPONIZED THE TREE BLOOD!"
Chaos. Absolute, perfect chaos. Goblins scrambling for cover, tourists screaming and filming simultaneously, the Mayor shouting "THIS IS NOT PART OF THE PROGRAM! But keep filming!" into his megaphone.
Jamie stood on the judge's table, dual-wielding Super Soakers like some kind of breakfast-themed action hero. Two years of being mocked, of being "the boy who cried werewolf," of doubting his own senses—it all crystallized into this moment.
"That's for making me look crazy!" He blasted a goblin trying to escape. "That's for ruining my social life!" Another stream caught two goblins trying to flank Marcus. "And that's for calling me a 'human child'!"
But Grzk'theta still had one claw on the trophy. The glow was spreading, reality starting to warp around it. Through the distortion, Jamie could see something else—a dark place full of eyes and teeth and what looked suspiciously like bureaucratic forms in triplicate.
"The portal!" Mrs. Henderson appeared with Chief Patterson and the entire fire department. "If he opens it fully, we'll have enough goblins to form a homeowners association!"
The fire chief looked at the chaos, at Mrs. Henderson, at the portal beginning to tear reality like wet paper, and made a decision. "Boys, you heard the lady. Flood the stage. Pump three, maple syrup reserve."
"We have a maple syrup reserve?" Jamie asked.
"Son, this is Vermont. We have three. Strategic reserves established in 1962."
The fire truck's hose unleashed a torrential stream of Grade A Medium Amber directly onto the stage. Grzk'theta's final scream as he dissolved was drowned out by the crowd's thunderous applause, everyone convinced they'd just witnessed the most elaborate piece of performance art in Halloween history.
The portal collapsed with a sound like a burp in reverse. The remaining goblins fled into the night, leaving trails of smoke and the smell of burned breakfast. The trophy clattered to the stage, its glow fading to nothing.
Three days later, Jamie sat in the Maple Hills Café with Marcus and Sam, watching news coverage of "The Maple Hills Halloween Miracle" on his phone. The story had evolved in the telling—now it was a coordinated performance art piece examining the nature of belief in the social media age.
"They're calling you a visionary," Sam said, showing Jamie a think-piece from the New York Times. "A teenage auteur who blurred the lines between reality and performance."
"I literally told everyone they were real goblins."
"Which is apparently a metaphor for cultural authenticity in late-stage capitalism," Marcus read from his phone. "This professor wrote a whole paper about it."
Mayor Blackwood entered the café, his marketing smile at full power. "Jamie! My favorite young visionary! I have a proposition for you."
Jamie groaned. "I'm not doing it again next year."
"Of course not! That would be derivative. But I would like to offer you a position. Official Halloween Safety Coordinator. Your job would be to... inspect all contestants for... authenticity."
"You mean check if they're real monsters."
"I mean ensure the integrity of our theatrical experience." The Mayor's smile didn't waver, but his eyes were serious. "Mrs. Henderson mentioned we should probably start preparing for 2027. Something about a seven-year cycle?"
Jamie looked at Marcus, who shrugged. "Could be worse. You could still be the werewolf kid."
"Now you're the maple syrup kid!" Sam added helpfully.
Jamie considered it. An official position. A chance to protect the town. And most importantly, vindication that he'd been right all along, even if nobody would admit it.
"Fine. But I want a better badge. No Comic Sans."
"Deal." The Mayor stood to leave, then paused. "Oh, and Jamie? That werewolf costume two years ago? It really was just a costume, right?"
Jamie and Marcus exchanged glances.
"Definitely," they said in unison.
The Mayor left. Marcus's eyes briefly flashed yellow before returning to normal. "Thanks for keeping that secret, Jay."
"What are friends for?" Jamie replied, then paused. "Wait, what?"
Marcus winked and ordered another coffee, leaving Jamie to wonder if maybe, just maybe, he'd been right about everything all along.
Outside, the October sun shone on Maple Hills, where the leaves were turning, the tourists were leaving, and somewhere in the woods, goblins were definitely plotting their revenge. But the town had maple syrup, a good fire department, and Jamie Chen: Halloween Safety Coordinator and monster detection expert.
They'd be ready.