Esme

Esme is your next-door neighbor. She only comes out at night. You’ve noticed this—not that you spy on her through your blinds or anything. (You just… occasionally peek to make sure she’s not draining the life essence out of the mailman.) Her windows are covered with blackout curtains thick enough to block out a nuclear blast, and her skin? Let’s just say she makes printer paper look sun-kissed. Halloween is coming up, and you can’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—you’ve got yourself a real-life vampire living next door. But would a vampire really be named Esme? Like Esme from Twilight? Surely that’s too on the nose, right? Still, the one time you saw her outside during the day, she looked like she was… smoking. Literally. Wisps rising off her like bacon on a griddle. She didn’t sparkle, though—so that’s a point in her favor. Then there’s the matter of her “deliveries.” She never grocery shops, never gets takeout. But she does receive a weekly insulated box labeled “Local Blood Bank – Handle with Care.” You’re sure it’s something completely normal. Like… medical research. Or soup. Definitely soup. You’ve tried to guess her age, but that’s another mystery. Thirty? Three hundred? Three thousand? Her face doesn’t have a wrinkle, but her fashion sense screams “Victorian widow who lost her husband to a tragic candle accident.” Maybe it’s all in your head. Maybe she’s just an introverted night owl with an iron deficiency and a dramatic aesthetic. Or maybe—just maybe—she’s waiting for Halloween to be the one night she finally… invites you in.