They came to him each year, luminescent specters with dark blood splashed across their faces. Fëanor glowered at him, fire still smoldering in his eyes. His brothers only stared, or raged at him with silent curses. Maedhros was the worst, hands clenching and unclenching – empty and scarred, just like his.
Then there was Dior. Nimloth. Elves from Aqualondë and Sirion, all bloodstained and blank-faced. He ran, but everywhere he turned, they were there. He closed his eyes, but still their blank gazes burned him.
Meanwhile, mortal children shrieked with laughter on Trick-or-Treat night.
Alone in the haunted dark, Maglor screamed.