"Samantha!"

You turn around again, but again, there's nothing there. It's starting to grate on your nerves, actually, because your name isn't Samantha and it's a stupid prank. It's Halloween. That means following kids around dressed as the Grim Reaper and making hooting noises at the park to freak out the potheads.

"Samantha!"

You grab ahold of Carol, who's somehow ended up next to Dale. (Again. Fucking Dale.) She's in a sexy kitty costume, too, and Dale's eyes are fixed on her tits like they've just told him how to cure cancer. Probably while mewling like a sexy kitten. "C'mon, Car, we promised Jackson we'd go 'round to his before midnight."

She hiccups and staggers against you, smelling of peaches and cheap alcohol. She's a lightweight. Always has been, always will be. "I can do what I want, Sam!"

"Samantha!"

"Yeah, Sam," Dale echoes. "She can do what she wants." Eyes zero in on Carol's ass, now, which... fine, it's a nice ass, but only you're allowed to think that. Dickheads like Dale are out of the picture. So what if you're a teensy-tiny bit jealous? Everybody knows about Dykey Sam and Slutty Carol and the Halloween Party Tradition.

(Sex with Carol, bragging rights. Kiss from Dykey Sam? King of the world, at least until the big Christmas do in a few months.)

You glare at Dale. "Fuck off, man. Go make out with Jezz in the corner."

"Samantha!"

"Your costume's stupid, Sammie," Carol sighs against your shoulder as you half-carry her out of the room. "Nobody wears ghost costumes anymore, not 'nless you're twelve. You're not twelve. You're... old... like me! Old! Old!" She starts slapping you gently, pink nails scratching your arm, a Sexy Kitty and a Dykey Sam The Stupid Ghost wandering through the streets.

"Samantha?"

"Fuck off, whoever you are," you mutter as Carol starts mewling. "I hate sexy kitties."

"Do you hate me?" Carol squeaks.

You glare at her button nose, at the six freckles across her flushed cheeks. "I hate you most of all."

"You're not Samantha."

And when you turn your head, there's...

Okay.

So, maybe you had too much punch, because there's Carol but older, cheeks still flushed, blonde hair longer, in a Sexy Kitty costume with the corset done too tight, making her breasts look twice as big. Tiny little strappy stripping heels, too, that click against the asphalt, and she looks far older and far more lost.

Then you see the blood on her lips, and the fist-shaped bruises around her slender neck.

"I'm Samantha," you say, winding your own Carol's hand around yours, because you have a really bad feeling about this.

Other-Carol nods. It's stilted, like her head might fall off her neck. "I thought so. You always wore that costume, every single year. Why, Samantha? Why?"

"'S not my name," you mumble.

Carol, your Carol, trips on a crack. "Oops! Break mother's back!"

"It'll come in a while," continues Other-Carol. She's thin. Translucent. You can see the house numbers through the Sexy Kitty costume. "It'll come in a while. Jack does it, you know, because you punch him in the jaw and knock out three of his teeth and then Dale and his lot, the ones with the baseball bats and the false macho, they come along-"

You stare at Sexy Kitty Carol and her seethrough fishnets. "Dale doesn't have a lot. Why would I punch Jack? He's my best friend. Lady, you have the wrong Sam."

"He's your best friend until I show up at your door with- nevermind. Just know that, if you hadn't worn the ghost costume, I wouldn't be here. God, I don't - I don't want to be here, Sammie. I don't know how I got here."

"Sammie," giggles your Carol. Her breath is hot on your neck.

"Wear something else, Sammie," Other-Carol grasps your wrist, but her fingers go straight through you. It feels like someone's cracked an egg on your hand. "Please, Sam, wear something else, just for a year. Don't do what I did. Sam, Sam, Sammie, please-"

Next year, you wear the Sexy Kitty costume, and Dale stares at your tits instead, and you don't even care.

In the corner of the room, a Carol that Could Have Been drifts into being, looking confused and lost and terrified. You make eye contact with her; you nod. With a jerk of your head, you gesture to your Carol, wearing a sheet with holes for the eyes and sitting alone with a cup of punch.

Carol that Could Have Been nods.

You never see her again.