...the candy man came whistling.

Not the kind that sells sweets from a truck—not anymore. Late at night, he wandered the darkened streets in a threadbare coat, dragging a little cart behind him. No wheels. Just wood scraping against asphalt. His tune was high-pitched and wrong, like a lullaby played backward.

He never knocked. He didn’t have to.

Children were drawn to the sound, rising from their beds as if pulled by strings. Barefoot and wide-eyed, they stepped into the cold night, trailing after him like sleepwalkers, joining in his tune. The cart was open. Inside were candies unlike anything from a store—shining with unnatural colors, shaped like little hands, eyes, teeth. Still wet. Still warm.

No one who took a piece ever came home.

Their parents would search, screaming into the dark, begging for help. But no one followed the whistle. No one ever did.

And every morning, in front of another door, the same thing was left behind:

A single piece of candy.

Wrapper bloodied.

And a note:

"If you hear my tune, I'll see you soon                                                                                                                                        Take my candy and be served your doom"