Pandora's Box

October 30th. The night before Halloween.

I still can't believe my luck. Megan — yes, THAT Megan, the one with the legs and the smile and the apartment downtown — personally handed me an invitation to her legendary Halloween party. The one everyone talks about for months afterward. The one where, according to every story I've ever heard, inhibitions go out the window and costumes come off before midnight.

There's just one catch: it's a costume party. Strict rule. No costume, no entry.

So I hit every store in town. Spirit Halloween — cleaned out. The vintage shop on Fifth — nothing left but a child-sized pumpkin onesie. The thrift store, the party supply warehouse, even the dollar store. Nothing. Nada. Every clerk gave me the same pitying look and the same answer: should have shopped earlier, buddy.

Defeated, I'm trudging back to my apartment through the autumn chill when something catches my eye. Wedged between the laundromat and the closed-down bookshop on Birch Street, there's a storefront I've never seen before. Purple neon buzzes in the window, casting strange light across the sidewalk. The sign reads: PANDORA'S BOX — COSTUMES & MORE.

A pop-up Halloween store. One I somehow missed.

I cross my fingers, push open the door, and step inside. A little bell chimes overhead. The interior is bigger than it looked from outside — racks upon racks of costumes stretching back into dim aisles lit by flickering jack-o'-lanterns. The air smells like cinnamon and something else, something sweet and heavy I can't quite place.

And there, leaning against the front counter with a knowing smile, is the most stunning woman I've ever laid eyes on.

"Welcome to Pandora's Box," she says, her voice like warm honey. "I'm Pan. And you look like someone who needs exactly what I'm selling."