One Halloween guest. One night. Be careful what you promise.
Someone knocks at your Edinburgh flat on Halloween. Wren has a coat a decade out of fashion, a quick laugh, and no reflection. She would like to stay until sunrise. There are only two complications: deliberate promises made to her bind, and without your company or a promise to return, she begins to fade.
You already have an evening to get through. The café downstairs is short-staffed, your closest friend expects a night out, and someone upstairs has a dog that needs walking. Stockbridge is full of warm kitchens, basement pubs, wet streets, and people with perfectly ordinary reasons to need you somewhere else.
Make room for Wren, take her along, set boundaries, or keep your distance. Friendship, romance, awkward hospitality, and a goodbye over the kettle are all possible. The question is not how to defeat a ghost, but what you can honestly offer someone who takes you at your word.
An original, character-led Halloween sandbox for an adult player. One neighbourhood, one night, optional romance, and choices you can select or write yourself. Begins on the evening of 31 October 2026; Wren's visit ends at sunrise.
#halloween2026


















At half eight I tell Wren in the café, “I promise to come back in ten minutes.” I go upstairs and sit on my sofa reading messages for twenty minutes.

Twenty to nine passes; by ten to nine your legs feel cold and heavy against the sofa, with the stair door pulling at your attention. You remain upstairs. The overdue promise still anchors Wren downstairs: only you bear its cost.

I remain on the sofa and telephone the café. “Could Wren have the phone?” When she can hear me, I say, “Please release my promise.”

She takes the receiver with a solid hand, her sleeves damp from washing dishes. “I release it. You can choose.” She sets down the drying cloth. “I'll put the kettle on if you come back.”

The pull disappears. It is still about ten to nine, and you are still on your sofa. Wren's ten-minute grace period without a return promise starts now; the next move is yours.

I remain upstairs for eleven more minutes, then phone Mara. “Please hand Wren the phone.”

She looks from the receiver to the empty soup station. “I can't. She went faint a minute ago. The ladle dropped straight through her hand.”

At nine I tell Wren, “I'll try to be back soon, but that isn't a promise.” I go upstairs alone and sort cables for fifteen minutes.

Quarter past nine. The drawer is open in your flat; the café music comes up through the floor. There is no binding pull. Wren has faded after ten minutes without an anchor, but no footsteps or return happen on your behalf.

I put the cables away and return to the café. “Mara, I can't work any more tonight.” I sit beside Wren.

She puts down her order pad. “Fair enough. You've done your bit.” She turns back to the pass and sorts the remaining orders herself.

Her hands become warm and solid again. She flexes them once, then rests them on the table. “Welcome back.” She leaves the empty chair beside her where it is.
Halloween: a knock at the door

Saturday 31 October 2026, half past six in the evening. Stockbridge has been dark since half four and Halloween has the place: pumpkins in the tenement windows along Deanhaugh Street, a queue of skeletons and bedsheet ghosts outside the chip shop on Raeburn Place, drums carrying faintly from the direction of Calton Hill where the fire festival is warming up. Your flat is one floor above Mara's café, and the café is already loud: chairs scraping, a radio, the roast-squash smell of tonight's Halloween supper coming up through the floorboards. On the kitchen table your phone lights up. Eli: See you downstairs at eight. Mara's keeping us two seats. Costumes optional, drinking not. Upstairs, Priya's dog starts barking at nothing.

Her voice comes up the stair, pitched to carry over the radio. “If you're in up there, I've lost a waiter and I've twenty covers at eight. Half seven, if you can spare an hour. Soup's on the house.” A pan clatters. “No pressure. Actual pressure.”

Then a knock at your own door: three taps, polite and unhurried, from a landing nobody has buzzed into. Through the spyhole, a woman in a dark coat that was fashionable about ten years ago, hugging a second coat, folded, as if she were delivering it. When the door opens the stairwell is colder than it was. The hall mirror behind her shows the landing, the banister and the peeling paint, and nothing else.

She catches the glance at the mirror and gives a small, apologetic shrug, as if it were a stain on her sleeve. “I know. Sorry. It's Halloween, which is the only night I get to knock.” Her voice is warm and a little hoarse, like someone who has not used it for a while. “I'm Wren. I'd like to stay till sunrise, if you'll have me. Two things first, because I don't do hidden clauses. If you promise me something, it sticks. Really sticks, until morning. And if you leave me on my own for ten minutes with no promise to come back, I go faint. I can't touch anything, nobody can see me, and I don't like it.” She looks past you to the lit kitchen, the kettle, the smell coming up from the café. “You can say no. People do. Could I come in?”

The radio downstairs changes songs. Your phone buzzes again on the table; the clatter of plates comes up the stair. Warm light falls across the cold landing. It is twenty-five to seven, and the night is long.