13 Oct Maggots, Eyeballs and Other Halloween Treats

Posted at 13:44h in Body Horror, Deaths, Murders, and Disappearances, Ghosts and Spirits, Halloween Stories, Investigations and Crimes, Madness, Paranoia, and Mental Illness, Psychological Horror, Suspense and Thrillers by CreepypastaStories.com 0 Comments

📅 Published on October 13, 2025

“Maggots, Eyeballs and Other Halloween Treats”

Written by N.M Brown
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 11 minutes

Rating: 10.00/10. From 3 votes.

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I’m going to start this by saying that I still have no idea how this is all going to shake out. All I can attest to is what’s happened up to this point. The events that led us here warrant examination, and the story, unfortunately, deserves to be told.

First, let me tell you a bit about myself. Character development is vital in most any situation, and if this goes to trial, I’ll have to do this anyway– or rather, my lawyer will.

I moved here a few months ago, just when the heat was starting to become uncomfortable. Though my mind was still reeling from my recent divorce ruling, I was doing my best to be grateful for the change of scenery. Yeah, sure, it’s bullshit that my ex got to destroy our marriage out of boredom and get to keep the house, too. But I also got to start over, going to bed each night knowing I no longer had to be plagued by why she was out so late, or why she didn’t answer her phone when she was with friends, etc. There were no children between us (thankfully), but it was definitely on our future agenda had things not gone the way they did.

The place I was renting was older, but sleek in design: just small enough to be cozy but large enough for me to be comfortable. And even better– it was affordable. There were a few other houses scattered around on the street I lived on, not enough to be intrusive, but not too few in case someone needed help. It all seemed to be a perfect blend of middle ground, and I was thankful I found it.

As egotistical as it is to say, there shouldn’t be any reason for anyone to have a problem with me. I keep to myself, except when I smile, wave, or lend a hand if someone needs it. I don’t cause any problems, and do my best to react with a level head when issues are brought my way.

The thing is, despite that, now… I do have a problem. And a damned big one.

It all seems so stupid in retrospect. We were all just trying to celebrate the holiday with a touch of dark nostalgia. And now we’re all cooked (as the kids say).

* * * * * *

It was during my second month here when I first noticed it. I was touring the town and wanted to check out the community gardens when I was greeted by a dilapidated building that was too large to be a residential house. The foundation looked solid, but the graffiti on the weathered walls gave away the fact that it was long abandoned. It stood out in the area it sat in, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it had been like during the days when it was alive, with the bustling of people and tasks.

Whether I was aware of it or not, I found myself taking the longer way home just to catch a glimpse of it. It was made apparent early on that I wasn’t the only one. There would be different vehicles parked there from time to time, constantly changing, and never staying for long. And of course, with me being a solitary figure in town with not much else to do, it piqued my interest.

My curiosity led me to post on my new community’s page, asking for more information about it. A message appeared after I completed the process, stating that an administrator had to approve my post before it could be displayed. Okay, no big deal. It was denied moments later, leading me to wonder what I’d done wrong. My mind was about to spiderweb into a plethora of questions when a message appeared in my inbox.

The username was ridiculously general, with no profile picture and no meaningful message in the body, other than an animated graphic inviting the recipient to a Halloween party. My initial instinct was to shrug it off until I noticed the address: the building, the very one I’d passed and inquired about. A line of instruction was written beneath the date and time, saying that full costumes were optional, but a mask was required for entry. A dancing skeleton juggled the letters BYOBP on a repeated loop.

It wasn’t even a choice at this point. I was determined to go.

Some of the excitement about my commitment failed once I remembered how close Halloween actually was. The stores would surely be out of them by now, with Christmas merchandise breathing down their necks for a grand entrance. Spooky decorations, costumes, candy, and the like filled the shelves the first week of September, only to clear out by the first of October, with no intention of returning for the rest of the season.

Once I figured out my appearance for the party, the only thing left was piecing together the items. The idea was that I was a convict who mugged the first person he saw upon escape, stealing their clothes and cash. So I went to a thrift shop and bought some pants that were a little too short and a shirt that was a little too tight to give the backstory some authenticity. A black ski mask would complete the makeshift costume. However, I had no idea how difficult it would be for me to find one during this time of year, especially since I was living in a state that didn’t get snow.

I went to the local Walmart and recognized the cashier who was supervising the self-checkout. I figured I’d save myself a trip around the store, accompanied by picking up items I didn’t need and shouldn’t be buying along the way, and just ask her to point me in the right direction.

“Hey there,” I began awkwardly. “I’m wondering if you carry any ski masks here?”

She regarded me with contorted features, as if I’d just asked for an ax, duct tape, and the ingredients to make chloroform.

“No,” I chuckled. “That probably sounded weird. I got invited to a Halloween party, and they want everyone to wear masks. It’s too late in the season to find a werewolf one. I’m shit at art, so I can’t make myself a skeleton or zombie. This was kinda my last option.”

Her face softened in recognition, a smile playing with the corners of her lips. She told me she thought there may be some in the sports section. Then stopped to ask me if the party was at the abandoned warehouse.

I nodded, albeit hesitantly.

She told me that she had also been invited, which prompted me to ask about the BYOBP abbreviation.

It stood for ‘Bring Your Own Body Parts.’ Something akin to the childhood game of blindfolds in the dark, feeling specimens that were meant to be body parts (or at least associated with their decay). Peeled grapes for eyes, spaghetti for worms, raw corn kernels for teeth, etc. I remember thinking that it was an adorable idea, made all the more fun by alcohol and other party implements.

Fresh, sweet corn was on sale. I guess it was the season for it up north, so the stores were packed with it. Anyway, it made me think, so I decided to go one step further and strip the flax of the corn to represent the hair of a human corpse. I grabbed seven stalks on my way to the sports section, knowing it was far too much for me to eat in one sitting, but perfect for this party.

With my costume complete and my party addition ready, all that was left was to wait three days for the party to arrive. I spent that time trying not to get too excited about a gathering that I basically knew nothing about.

The day finally came, and I was almost impressed at how not-together my look was, precisely what I was going for. It really did look like I swapped clothes with some rando off the street in a fit of desperation.

There were about a dozen other vehicles there when I arrived, some of which I recognized from previous drive-bys. I took a deep breath as I parked, promising myself to leave my anxiety behind the wheel and just have a good time.

I’d expected some sort of aroma when I walked through the door– fresh fruit, cooked noodles, maybe even some cigarette smoke and with a touch of sourness from spilled beer. That’s not what I smelled, though. The scent of what seemed to be fart spray, weeks-old garbage with a dead skunk on top as the cherry to the shit sundae was what greeted me instead. It should have put me off immediately. But this was a rundown and abandoned building. It would have made total sense for a sick animal or two to crawl in here during harsh conditions and die. Who the hell was I to judge? Long, white card tables were placed end to end in the center of the room, creating a makeshift dinner table. A plate with a blindfold placed vertically down the center sat before each chair.

A crude outline of a body was marked off in what appeared to be red duct tape, with a sign instructing us to place our offerings in the designated areas. The few stragglers who had arrived at the same time as me put down their dishes, while I struggled to find out which side of this corpse outline was supposed to be the head. Once everything was ready, we took our seats. The Walmart checkout girl took her seat across the table from me, and I admit that the recognition of a somewhat familiar face did wonders in settling my unease.

We had settled into our chairs for only a few moments before placing the blindfold across my eyes. I attempted to tie it behind my head, but failed. Surprise overtook me as foreign hands interrupted my fumbling fingers and fastened it for me, uncomfortably tight. It seemed to form an instant suction across my face, blocking out all light completely.

A chill settled into the air, creating an unspoken tension that was only interrupted by the sounds of shuffling by the other members. “Tonight’s tale is about the death of Dalloway,” a voice announced, almost echoing through the silence of the room.

My blindfold was still almost agonizingly tight. But the sooner we went through all of the ‘parts’, the sooner I’d be able to take it off. I pushed the thought to the back of my mind, determined to enjoy this experience. I mean, yeah, I was nervous. So I reminded myself that I was here to make memories —ones that didn’t take place between the walls and ceiling of my house.

“The first introduction to the experience that is tonight’s guest of honor– are some of the worms who have fed on her flesh.”

The container arrived sooner than anticipated, and before long, I was wrist-deep in a slurry of wriggling, cylindrical ‘creatures’ – likely long-grain rice and cooked ramen noodles.

Next came the woman’s ‘brain’, feeling an awful lot like molded pastry dough with a Jell-O coating.

“These are her teeth, removed to conceal her dental records for identification.”

Clinks of metal dispersed like sonar pings as we collectively shook pieces of her ‘teeth’ in our hands like casino dice before throwing them back into the bowl.

I remember thinking that the statement was sinisterly specific. Like… what the fuck?!

The swarling sound of objects that sounded like rubber balls in their metal bowls as it was passed around for all to admire. I held the two objects separately, giving them each a gentle squeeze before placing one back inside. I still held the other, morbid curiosity leading my hesitation. Everyone else was blindfolded, I thought. Why not? These didn’t feel like grapes, and upon further inspection, they didn’t smell like them either. I leaned in close to the table, giving one quick swipe across the tip of my tongue before returning it and passing the bowl along. It tasted like milk and rubbing alcohol.

There were more sensory experiences: her heart, ears, and, of course, the hair, my personal favorite. I listened with pride as the bowl of corn silk was passed around, but was shocked when I actually touched it. The strands, like almost everything else we had touched so far, were housed in a thick, liquid coating. A coating, mind you, that I know I didn’t put on there myself. Also, it felt way longer than any of the strands I’d pulled off the cobs. Others around me seemed to enjoy it, so I tried not to pay it too much mind.

The thrill of innocent fear can be infectious, and I was certainly feeling it by the time the game was over. Fellow guests gasped as they noticed their fingers stained with the same gooey coating I’d felt throughout the game. Our host spoke to us through a pig mask, saying that it was only a corn syrup and dye mixture, and that water buckets were placed out in the back and front for clean up. It made sense considering there was no water in the building. I’m not even sure how in the hell they got power to run out there.

I’ll say one thing, though: whatever the hell that stuff was definitely didn’t smell like corn syrup.

I rubbed my hands over the back of my pants legs on the way to a water bucket and noticed that others also had red marks on their clothing. I hope to God this shit washed out, I remember thinking, so innocently.

It turns out, the Walmart cashier’s name was Gemma. I grabbed some punch, snuck outside for a cigarette, and there she was. I was thankful that she approached me, seeing as she was the only person I recognized. Even that was just barely, and because of her unmistakable blue hair.

Things were going well. I had just told a joke, and she had laughed harder than necessary. But then the sky tilted and her face began to droop. The name punch was far too accurate for what I’d imbibed. After merely two glasses, I felt like I had been knocked on my ass mentally. I made an excuse about working early the next day, and began to excuse myself when she insisted on driving behind me to make sure I made it home okay.

What took place during the next twenty-four hours isn’t important. I’ll tell you that I invited her inside since she was kind enough to go out of her way for my safety, and leave it at that.

However, I will tell you that I was shocked as shit to find the police at my front door three days later. They asked me to confirm my name and said they had some questions for me about a party I had attended a few evenings prior. So, I foolishly agreed to come in for a formal statement and to help in any way that I could.

I was led to a cold, bright, and nearly empty room, where I seemed to sit for hours before anyone came in to address me. An officer came in without greeting, plopping a folder in front of me as he sat down. I refused to open it until they explained why I was brought in. There was no way I was going to do a cold open of crime scene pictures, not without some preparation. Another officer soon walked in, ignoring the seat next to his partner and opting to stand instead.

For a while, no one said anything. Then the second officer opened the folder and presented me with a picture I’d never seen before. A silver bowl sat in the frame, with crimson-soaked waves of hair and matted gore inside. He pointed an accusing finger at me, saying that they knew that I was the one who brought it to the party.

I could only tell them what I’m telling you now. Yes, that certainly was my bowl. But all I’d placed inside was strands of cornsilk. That was it- plain and raw silk from strands of corn. I told them that I still had my receipt and that they could check the Walmart cameras to see me buying the corn.

A second photo was then thrust into my face. It held a smiling woman who seemed to be in her mid-20s, at the most. The first officer told me her name was Corinne Dalloway and asked me if I recognized her. The name clicked instantly as the one mentioned in the story narrative that accompanied the game. But that’s not what they asked me.

So, I did my best to assure them, promised them even, that I’d never seen her before in my life– and that was true. I told them so many words in my defense, and it ashamedly took me far too long to settle on the right one, the only one needed: lawyer.

They left me alone, strategically, with nothing but the woman’s picture on the table. I stared at it until I was numb, her features blurring from a lack of blinking. It wasn’t until one of the officers opened the door that I looked away.

We were all subjected to endless questioning, with the police narrative guiding the questions that made the answers seem sinister, even when they weren’t. Hundreds of innocent people have been convicted of crimes just like this. A combative attitude wasn’t going to help me here. I was ultimately allowed to go home, but not before it was made clear that they had their eye on me and I’d be back in before I knew it, most likely without the option to leave.

I’m well aware that talking about an open case, especially one that I’m a suspect in, will count against me. I’m not sure if we’ll go to jail. Maybe that despite the physical evidence against us, logical heads would prevail, and it would be decided that a group of us couldn’t have possibly murdered that girl to play with her body parts. Stranger verdicts have been rendered, and it only takes one enthusiastic juror or judge to lean the odds.

What I am sure of is that ultimately, it doesn’t matter either way. I keep catching a figure with Corinne’s face just out of the corner of my eye. It’s been happening for days now, and she’s getting closer with every sighting.

Whether we meant to or not, we did indulge in the use of her body parts for a juvenile Halloween game. We squeezed her eyes, juggled her teeth like dice in our hands, we fondled the worms that were eating her body, thinking they were pieces of spaghetti noodle cut short for effect. We all went home and washed the last blood that would ever leave her body off our hands and out of our clothes without a second thought, indirectly aiding in the disposal of evidence of her death.

Corinne Dalloway saw all of this. She knew what was happening. Or at least, she thought she did. As far as she was concerned, we were all complicit by association. I’m not the only one of us who has seen her, and the first person to admit to doing so was pronounced dead weeks later. So like I said, in the end, our fates don’t really matter. If the system doesn’t get us, she will. Corinne is still with us, and she is pissed.