Halloween night always brought out the weirdness. 

The porch still smelled faintly of pumpkin guts from the jack-o’-lanterns I’d carved earlier, their flickering faces glowing like little orange watchmen outside the window. The air was cool and crisp, and the last of the trick-or-treaters had long gone home. Inside, the house was dim and quiet—too quiet for Wick’s liking. 

He sat by the kitchen door, the pale moonlight brushing over his sleek black fur like silver dust. The yard was still, except for the occasional rustle of dry leaves skipping across the porch. It was his domain, and he guarded it with the patience of a cat who’d seen thirteen Halloweens come and go. 

Tigra was sprawled across the back of the couch, her gray-and-orange fur glowing warm in the light of the jack-o’-lanterns outside. Her pure white belly rose and fell with slow breaths, one paw twitching in her sleep. Quigley snored softly beside her, dreaming of candy corn—or maybe of stealing one. 

Then came the scrape. 

It was soft, almost too faint to hear, but Wick’s ears perked instantly. His tail twitched once. Twice. The noise came again—scrape, bump, shuffle. 

He rose silently, eyes narrowing. Halloween might’ve been over for the humans, but the night still had tricks to play. 

Tigra stirred, blinking blearily. “What’s going on?” she whispered, hopping down to follow. Her fur fluffed slightly with curiosity, orange highlights catching the light. 

Wick didn’t answer. He approached the cat door like a detective inspecting a crime scene. The flap shuddered once. Then again. 

And then—thump! 

Tigra gasped. “Is it a ghost?” 

Quigley’s ears shot up. “Ghost?!” He jumped off the couch, tail wagging. “I love ghosts!” 

The flap bulged inward. Two tiny, masked paws appeared, flailing wildly. 

“Oh no,” Tigra muttered. “Not again.” 

The flap popped halfway open, revealing the pudgy, striped face of a raccoon—stuck squarely in the middle, eyes wide and startled. His little ringed tail twitched outside like a stuck feather duster. 

Wick closed his eyes for a long, suffering moment. “Of course.” 

It was the same raccoon from last month’s tuna heist. Clearly, he hadn’t learned his lesson. 

Tigra tilted her head. “Maybe he’s trick-or-treating?” 

Quigley bounced excitedly. “I’ll get him candy!” 

Wick’s tail lashed. “No candy. No help.” 

But Quigley was already gone, scampering toward the kitchen counter where he thought I’d left a candy bowl. Tigra crouched beside Wick, her white belly brushing the cool tile. “He’s really stuck this time.” 

The raccoon wriggled and squeaked, the plastic flap rattling with each panicked movement. Quigley returned with a piece of wrapped chocolate in his mouth, tail wagging like crazy. “Trick or treat!” he barked, dropping it right at the raccoon’s paws. 

The raccoon squeaked in outrage, trying to back out—but instead wedged himself even tighter. 

Wick sat down with regal composure, staring at the scene as though he were a judge presiding over utter foolishness. “Idiots,” he muttered. 

That’s when I appeared, drawn by the commotion. “What in the world—” I flicked on the light. The scene froze like a bizarre Halloween tableau: Wick sitting tall and unimpressed, Tigra crouched and fascinated, Quigley prancing proudly, and one very stuck raccoon looking like he regretted all his life choices. 

“Really?” I sighed. “Again?” 

Wick blinked slowly at me, as if to say, You see why I have gray whiskers? 

It took a broom handle, a little pushing, and a lot of muttering before the raccoon finally popped free with a startled squeal, scampering off into the moonlit yard. Quigley barked after him, convinced he’d made a new friend. Tigra sat by the door, tail twitching. “Do you think he’ll come back next Halloween?” 

“Probably,” Wick said, already heading for his chair. “They never learn.” 

By the time I turned off the lights, the jack-o’-lanterns had burned down to glowing embers, and the house was quiet again. Tigra curled up beside Quigley, her soft white belly rising and falling in sleep. Wick perched by the window one last time, watching the moon before settling in for the night. 

The raccoon might have escaped, but Wick’s reign was secure. Halloween—or not—his kingdom was safe once more.