Halloween in August: My Richest Clients Might Be the Death of Me

When elite party planner Charlotte is hired to create a lavish Halloween-themed 18th birthday, she expects drama, not danger. But as the night unfolds inside a fog-filled maze, something far darker slips between the costumes, and refuses to leave.

The espresso machine hissed in the corner of my office, sounding like it had an opinion about my life choices.

Steam curled into the air as I poured oat milk into my latte, watching it swirl into the dark coffee before I stirred it with a gold-handled spoon I'd bought in Italy. It was one of those purchases that you justify as a "business expense" when you're too tired to argue with yourself.

My desk was already drowning in velvet swatches. Midnight purple, sour-apple green, and shades of black so deep they looked like they'd swallow light.

The radio on the shelf behind me buzzed to life, breaking the quiet rhythm of my morning. I kept it on for background noise, usually tuned to a soft jazz station that didn't make me feel like I was aging in double time.

This morning, it wasn't music. It was a creepy update on the town's latest headline.

"Authorities are continuing the search for a suspect involved in three armed robberies this week," the announcer's voice said, clipped and matter-of-fact. "Police say the man is targeting upscale neighborhoods. Residents are warned to remain alert. If you see—"

I reached over and clicked it off, the silence rushing back in. It was too early for crime, and too early to start picturing some stranger in a ski mask lurking between appointments on my calendar.

I had a meeting in less than an hour, and deadlines stacked like a crooked tower.

There was no room for fear today, not when gender reveals and engagement parties were already stacked like dominoes, waiting to fall.

My gaze drifted to the color swatches already scattered across my desk, the proof of just how far I'd let the Carters push me. Halloween in August, I still couldn't decide if it was marketing genius or pure madness.

The phone rang and the caller ID flashed Carter.

"Great," I mumbled. "The Halloween fanatics."

"Charlotte's Events," I answered, pulling my voice into the same tone I used when the florist insisted that beige was a "statement color."

"Hi, Charlotte," the Carters' assistant, Dana, said. "The family would like to schedule a meeting today, urgently. It's about Mason's birthday."

My client's son, Mason, was turning 18, and the family had decided that the milestone required fake cobwebs, imported décor, and elaborate costumes that would make Disneyland blush.

"We finalized the plan last week, Dana," I sighed, leaning back in my chair. "Is there a problem?"

"Not a problem exactly," Dana said, her voice dropping like she was sharing a state secret. "They've had new ideas. A whole new concept they want to run past you."

I eyed the swatches again, imagining Mason's mother, Lila, in a silk dress. I imagined her husband, Gregory, talking about "authentic Scottish-inspired fog."

"New as in additions, or new as in scrap everything, Dana?" I asked, trying not to sound mad at her.

"They didn't say, Charlotte. But they're excited... and insistent."

"Alright," I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. "I'll be there at one. I have two other meetings first."

"See you then," she said.

When I hung up, I took a long sip of coffee, letting the warmth steady me. If there was one thing I'd learned in this business, it was that rich clients could always find a way to make a simple idea more complicated.

And I was about to find out how.

The Carter estate was all long driveways and quiet intimidation. Gravel crunched under my tires as the mansion came into view. They even had a fountain shaped like a rearing horse frozen mid-charge, water spilling down its flanks in delicate streams.

They were waiting in the salon, a room where the couches looked like they'd file a complaint if you sat on them. Everything gleamed, the marble floors, the crystal vases, and even the air felt expensive.

Lila swept forward in a deep blue silk dress, looking like she was midway through a fashion editorial. Gregory wore a pale linen suit despite the August heat. And Mason was sprawled across the couch, his long legs dangling off one armrest. He was scrolling through his phone like attending this meeting was an act of benevolence.

"Charlotte, darling," Lila cooed, brushing the air near my cheeks in a gesture that might have been a kiss if she'd come within a foot of me.

"We have the most divine vision for Mason's party," she added.

"A haunted maze," Gregory said, spreading his arms as though unveiling a Broadway premiere. "And not one of those plywood contraptions you see at county fairs. No! We want immersion. Think of fog from a Scottish moor, and bats imported from wherever they need to be imported from!"

"Animatronic bats, I assume?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Of course," Lila said, flicking her fingers. "Real bats are disgusting, darling, and rabid."

"Can we have a pumpkin patch?" Mason glanced up briefly. "That's a cool aesthetic."

"It's August," I reminded him. "That will be difficult to do..."

"Fly them in, Charlotte," Gregory said smoothly. "New England pumpkins. None of those pale supermarket rejects. We want a proper, authentic experience."

I wrote it all down: fog, bats, pumpkins. It was the kind of list that made you wonder if there was a cocktail strong enough to get through the next few weeks of this fresh hell.

Back in my office, I set my to-do list on one side of my desk, and my coffee on the other, like I was about to referee a boxing match. I spent the next hour calling vendors, floral designers, and a man who swore he could build a life-size animatronic werewolf.

Between calls, the radio kept humming with updates about the robber.

"Witnesses now claim the suspect was spotted late last night near Fairview Park," the announcer said. "A teenage girl told police she saw him holding a knife as her driver pulled away. The suspect remains at large."

I stared at my locked office door.

"It's a coincidence, Lottie," I told my reflection in the mirror. "Just because the park is two roads away..."

But I was already sliding the second bolt on my office door into place.

When construction day arrived, I was dressed for the battlefield. I was in my black fitted trousers, a matching fitted T-shirt, and scuffed combat boots, the kind of outfit that told people I was here to work, not to be photographed.

My hair was pulled back in a sleek knot, my clipboard already packed with the day's checklist, and Lila was already eyeing my staff as they moved around her estate.

Mason's party was less than 48 hours away, and if even one animatronic spider malfunctioned, it would be my head on the platter, right next to the catered sushi.

By the time I reached the estate, the air shimmered with heat, the kind that pressed against your skin like a hand that lingered too long.

The lawn had already begun its transformation into a sprawling haunted labyrinth. The black tarp walls twisted between flickering lanterns, and we'd created false dead ends designed to disorient even the sober.

I moved through with my clipboard, stopping to tug a sagging strand of cobweb into place, and to reposition a ghoul whose grin was disturbingly friendly.

"The zombies are too cute," I told the makeup artist without looking up. "Less prom queen, more grave rot. You understand?"

"Got it," she said, grabbing a sponge and a palette of mottled greens.

Lila had insisted, no, demanded, that everyone be in full gear for her inspection today. She wanted to see the entire maze "breathing," as she put it, before a single guest arrived.

That meant full makeup, costumes, props, and all the special effects running as if it were the real night. I didn't have to like it, but I had to make it happen.

One of the actors jogged up, his ghostly white makeup making his wide eyes seem even wider.

"Uh, Charlotte? Did you move the skeleton from the maze? Corridor six?"

"No, why?" I asked. "I haven't done a final look yet."

"It's been moved to corridor nine," he said. "It's all been completely dismantled. Like... pulled apart and broken."

"Kids?" I frowned.

"There are no kids here," he said, his voice low. His gaze flicked toward the tree line.

Before I could follow it, my walkie-talkie crackled to life, spewing static, followed by the faint, unmistakable sound of breathing.

It was slow and measured.

I clicked it off, scanning the edge of the property. That was when I saw it, movement in the shadows beneath the trees. A figure, still as stone, dressed in black from head to toe.

By the time I turned fully toward it, they were gone.

And just like that, the maze felt less like a game and more like something that might swallow you whole.

Party night was a chandelier of chaos about to swing loose.

The estate glowed under spotlights. And the driveway was lined with flickering jack-o'-lanterns that had been flown in from three states away.

Guests stepped out of black cars and polished limousines in costumes worth more than my car. There were witches swathed in silk, vampires wearing antique brooches heavy enough to anchor them to the earth, and a couture werewolf whose fur smelled faintly of expensive perfume and bad decisions.

Inside the maze, the first guests were already shrieking.

The sound bounced off the black tarp walls and came back doubled, so it was hard to tell who was laughing and who was screaming for real. I had no time to stand and watch.

I was already juggling disasters. A bloody drink tower had toppled, sending crystal shattering across the patio, staining the tiles in red, sparkling liquid. And the catering team reported an entire tray of lobster sliders missing, most likely consumed by someone's overexcited teenager in a closet somewhere.

One of the zombie actors limped toward me, clutching his ankle.

"I can't go back in, boss," he said, grimacing. "I tripped over one of the fake graves."

"Sit down and get some ice on that ankle," I told him, waving for another actor to fill the gap. "We'll get someone to cover you. Rest and recover, don't worry."

I was just turning back toward the maze when two teenage girls burst out, clutching each other's arms like they'd been running for their lives. Their faces were flushed, their eyes wide, and one girl's makeup was smeared across her cheek.

"One of the actors has a real knife," she gasped. "You can't tell me that it was fake. No plastic knives look like that!"

"Where?" I froze. "Which part?"

"In the part with the hanging bodies, ma'am," the other girl said quickly. "He didn't say anything. He just... stared at us."

My stomach tightened. The air felt heavier somehow. My actors were instructed to make noise, only the mimes leading into the maze were allowed silence.

"Go and get something to drink," I said encouragingly. "Enjoy the food!"

I stepped into the maze, the sound swallowing me whole. The fog was thicker than I'd anticipated, curling around my ankles and clinging to my hair. The strobe lights fractured the path ahead into jerky fragments, making the actors' movements more grotesque.

A skeleton lurched forward, its foam jaw snapping. A ghost in flowing white rags screamed in my face, then winked when the actor recognized me. A chainsaw clown roared behind a screen of fog, the blade rattling harmlessly, but my pulse still jumped.

I pushed deeper in, keeping my ears open. My heels slipped on damp grass as I rounded a corner into the hanging-bodies corridor. That was when I saw him.

He wasn't in costume, not really. But he wore black clothes and a black mask. The blade in his hand caught the light from a flickering lantern in a quick flash of silver.

"Hey!" my voice came out sharper than I'd intended.

His head snapped toward me, and for a second, we locked eyes, though all I could see was the dark slit where his gaze would be.

Then he turned and bolted.

"Stop!" I called, my clipboard swinging uselessly at my side as I chased him. My breath was too loud in my own ears, mixing with the heartbeat that seemed to rise into my throat.

The path twisted, each turn throwing another prop or actor in my way. A mummy stumbled across my path, breaking character to step aside.

I rounded the bend where he'd gone, but there was nothing, just more fog, more flickering light, and the low hum of the generators powering the maze.

A voice in my walkie-talkie, one of the security staff, crackled through.

"We've got reports of someone running through the far end of the maze. Checking now."

"Lock the gates," I told the rest of the staff, my voice sounding odd through the static of the walkie-talkie. "No one leaves until we know who that was, and not a word to the family."

Minutes later, the police arrived quietly. Security had called them the moment I radioed in, and they'd already been patrolling nearby because of the robber reports.

Now, they moved in pairs, checking every corridor and every hiding spot. I trailed behind them, my heart still pounding.

They searched for nearly half an hour before the chief shook his head at me.

"Nothing. Whoever it was, they're gone. But honestly, ma'am, it was probably one of these kids trying to rouse up the others. They do that. They don't really care about the consequences of their actions, not when mommy and daddy can throw around some money and make it all go away."

"Thanks for coming anyway," I nodded, forcing my voice to stay even. "I just got nervous because all the staff were specifically instructed not to carry real knives. And the constant armed robber-talk doesn't help the nerves."

The maze was still alive with shrieks and laughter, the party rolling on as though nothing had happened. But I couldn't shake the feeling that whoever he was, he hadn't left because the party was over.

And the more I thought about it, the more every odd thing from the past week began to blur together... the skeleton, the breathing on the radio, the girls' fear.

None of it fit neatly but it all felt connected.

The party wound down in a blur of sequins, broken glass, and confetti that would haunt the cleaning staff for months.

The last of the guests lingered over champagne while Mason stood at the center of the ballroom, knife in hand, grinning for photos as he cut into a three-tiered cake shaped like a haunted house.

I hovered nearby, smiling when Lila waved me over.

"Charlotte," she said warmly, one hand on my arm. "This has been beyond anything we could have dreamed. It's been absolutely perfect!"

"A masterpiece," Gregory nodded in agreement, raising his glass.

"It was my pleasure to work on such a fun event," I said, forcing myself to keep my voice steady.

I hoped they couldn't hear the slight tremor in my tone. My heart still hadn't entirely recovered from the maze and the figure in black.

But what good would it do to tell them?

The truth was, I'd wanted to leave the moment I stepped out of that maze, but walking out early would only have raised questions. So I stayed, smiling through the speeches and clinking glasses, every nerve in my body still on edge.

The police chief had been right, it was probably just a rich kid trying to scare his friends. Sharing it now would chip away at my reputation.

They moved on to toast Mason and I slipped quietly out into the night.

The drive home was dark and hushed, the fog from the maze still clinging to my hair and clothes. The radio clicked on automatically, the announcer's voice steady but grim.

"Police continue to search for the armed suspect who has eluded capture for over a week. Last night, he was reportedly spotted near the Westwood neighborhood, though details remain unconfirmed. Residents are urged to remain cautious."

I turned the volume down, my thoughts already drifting toward the comfort of a bubble bath and a steaming mug of cocoa. By the time I pulled into my driveway, exhaustion had wrapped itself around me like a heavy blanket.

I went straight to bed.

The next morning, I sat in my office with receipts fanned across my desk, the radio murmuring in the background that the robber was still at large.

And there, right in the middle of my invoices, sat a black mask I had never seen before.

It wasn't the cheap kind you find in a costume store. The fabric was heavy, and when I turned it over, the faintest trace of dried mud flaked onto my desk.

"What the—"

I didn't know if it belonged to the man in the maze, the so-called robber, or someone I hadn't even met yet... and that uncertainty was worse than knowing...

If you've enjoyed this story, here's another one for you: When soft-spoken artist Sienna rents out her guesthouse, she expects polite guests and quiet weekends. But when one woman overstays her welcome, the line between hospitality and haunting begins to blur. Set in a sleepy garden full of secrets, this is a story about memory, mystery, and the spaces between who we are and who we were meant to be.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.