Here is a little Halloween story about a wolf called Mark and his encounter with a demon, who seems unusually interested in his feet.



Footsteps In The Fog

The joyful sounds of Halloween night spread through the town of Timbervale. The laughter of children flowed through the streets, and an eerie fog hung in the air as Mark, the wolf, trudged through his front door. He’d just wrapped up a long shift and didn’t care one bit about Halloween—the costumes, the trick-or-treaters, or the endless knocks for candy. Mark was a gray-haired wolf with a burly build from years of construction work, and all he wanted was to sit back and let his sore feet breathe.

With a sigh, he dropped onto the worn couch in his living room, pulling off his heavy work boots and peeling away his thick socks. He stretched his tired, clawed feet, flexing his toes against the cool air. The relief was immediate, and he let out a long exhale, reclining back as he closed his eyes, savoring the quiet.

But then, a loud, impatient knock echoed from his front door.

He grumbled, opening one eye as his ears twitched at the sound. “Great,” he muttered to himself. “Must be kids after some sweets.”

Mark hauled himself up and stomped to the door, his bare feet padding quietly on the floor. He swung it open, prepared to see some costumed kid with a pillowcase. He was fully prepared to tell them to go away in his roughest voice.

But it wasn’t a kid.

Standing in his doorway, swathed in a cloak of darkness that seemed to have an aura of black smoke billowing from it, was a tall, shadowy figure. Its face was hidden deep within a hood, but as Mark’s eyes adjusted, he saw two gleaming white eyes staring back at him, hollow and intense.

“Trick or treat,” the figure rasped, its voice echoing in the night air, “Steal your feet.”

Mark blinked, and a smirk spread across his face as he leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms.

“Really? That’s the best line you’ve got?” he scoffed, casting a bemused glance at the figure’s ragged cloak. “What, did you come from the haunted house party down the street?”

The figure remained silent, its eyes boring into him, and then Mark noticed something unsettling. The figure wasn’t looking at his face—it was staring directly at his bare feet.

“Look, mate. I’m not in the mood for your weird, pervy behavior. Just piss off and leave me alone,” Mark snarled.

The mysterious figure’s lips curled into a sinister smile, and it took a step closer.

“Laugh and insult all you like, wolf,” it murmured, “but those feet... they’re perfect. And they’re mine.”

Mark chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, yeah? You’re gonna steal my feet?” he mocked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Buddy, you’re gonna have to do better than—”

Before he could finish, an intense, cold pressure gripped his ankles, as if iron claws had latched onto him. Mark tried to step back, but his feet felt stuck in place. The cold seeped through his skin and into his bones, making his fur stand on end. He looked down in horror, watching as a dark mist spiraled out from under the figure’s cloak, wrapping itself around his ankles like chains.

“What the—let go!” Mark snarled, trying to pull his legs free, but the mist only tightened, snaking around his feet with a force beyond his strength. The pressure built until his toes felt numb, as though the life was being drained right out of them.

“Wh...who the hell are you?!” Mark yelled with a slight whimper.

“I have no name,” the figure rasped, “I am the demon of your nightmares. I take that which is required.”

The demon’s grin stretched wider, revealing rows of sharp, jagged teeth.

“What the hell does that mean?!” Mark yelped.

“Goodbye, wolf,” the demon whispered, its voice thick with evil.

Suddenly, Mark felt a strong force and, in a blinding flash of pain, his feet wrenched away from his legs. He lost all sensation below his ankles, and with a gasp, he toppled backward as if a carpet had been pulled from under him. He landed hard on the ground with a dull thud that sent pain shooting up his back. His heart raced as he scrambled to sit up, looking down at his legs in shock.

His feet were gone.

All that remained were two bloodless stumps at the ends of his legs.

A strangled cry escaped him as he reached down, touching the ends of his legs, his mind reeling as he struggled to process what had just happened.

“No...no, this can’t...”

“I warned you,” it sneered, holding Mark’s detached feet in its clawed hands. “You mocked me, and now... these precious things are mine.”

The last thing Mark saw before the fog swallowed it was the demon’s gleaming eyes, fading back into the darkness, leaving him alone in his doorway.

He opened his mouth, about to scream for help, but before he could, the chilling echo of the demon’s laughter erupted from the cold, empty air. All Mark could do was weep.

Alone.

And footless.