The Masked Misfits LOREThe Masked Misfits are Halloween’s personal spawn—eternal servants tasked with upholding the sacred laws of Halloween.
Break one of those laws, and your punishment is absolute: you become a Misfit for all eternity. Forever bound to roam the streets each Halloween night, shackled to your costume and stripped of your former life. The last costume you wear becomes your everlasting identity.
Some are dragged screaming into their fate.
Others embrace it.
But none ever return.
Waylon Crisp was an average student and a devoted athlete. Beneath his respectable reputation, however, he shared a love of mischief with his brothers, Earl and Marvin.
Every Halloween, the trio would steal jack-o'-lanterns from around the neighborhood and carve them into makeshift masks. Wearing their pumpkin disguises, they roamed the streets launching fireworks, throwing toilet paper, and causing chaos wherever they went.
The neighborhood knew them only as The Pumpkin Punks.
One Halloween night, Waylon found himself trailing behind his brothers.
As he walked, a whisper echoed from between two dilapidated houses.
"Waylon..."
The boy stopped.
Who could possibly know his name? The brothers had sworn never to reveal their identities. Their reputation had become legendary among local residents, and secrecy was everything.
Shrugging it off, Waylon continued walking.
Then the voice returned.
Deeper.
Louder.
"Waylon..."
This time he froze.
He searched the darkness but found nothing.
Just as he prepared to continue, a piercing shriek rang through his mind and a cloud of damp green smoke rushed toward him.
"Waylon the Pumpkin Punk!" the voice thundered. "You have broken a Law of Halloween. How do you plead?"
Terrified, Waylon bolted toward his brothers.
A tendril of smoke wrapped around his ankle.
"How do you plead?!"
Waylon fought with every ounce of strength he possessed. He clawed at the pavement and pulled himself forward, but the Spirit of Halloween was far stronger. It toyed with him, offering moments of false hope before dragging him deeper into the swirling fog.
Waylon screamed for help.
His brothers, only feet away, turned around.
But they saw nothing except a faint trace of green mist disappearing into the night.
"Wayl?" Earl called nervously.
"WAYL?"
Marvin rolled his eyes.
"He's just messin' with us. Let's go."
"Typical Waylon."
Deep within the darkness, the voice spoke one final judgment.
"Waylon Crisp, you have broken a cardinal Law of Halloween. I find you guilty. Your penance shall be to roam the streets for eternity—every Halloween night—a crusader of chaos. A Pumpkin Punk forever."
Waylon Crisp was never seen again.
Yet every Halloween night, witnesses report sightings of a boy in tattered clothing with a burning jack-o'-lantern for a head.
In 1943, America was obsessed with soda pop, and no drink was more popular than Crem Cola.
Its mascot was a mischievous pink bunny named Crem, a lovable troublemaker who would do absolutely anything to get his paws on a bottle of the delicious soda.
As Crem Cola's popularity grew, so did the fame of its mascot.
By Halloween of 1946, the Crem Bunny costume had become one of the most sought-after costumes in the country.
Little is known about the child who became Crem the Mascot.
Unlike most Misfits, he did not cry.
He did not run.
He did not fight.
When the Spirit of Halloween appeared before him and opened its vast smoky void, the child simply smiled and skipped willingly into the darkness.
He was never seen again.
Over the decades, Crem became far more than a Masked Misfit.
He became the Spirit of Halloween's herald.
A collector of souls.
A recruiter of chaos.
It was Crem himself who later recommended Waylon Crisp for Misfit status, convincing the Spirit that the young troublemaker's talents would prove useful.
And so, Waylon became one of the Masked Misfits.
"Get your ass down here right now, mister!"
The voice came from downstairs in a rundown house.
"I don't want to!" Clyde Giffman shouted back.
"Clyde Giffman, get down here and show me your costume!"
Reluctantly, Clyde descended the staircase.
His creature costume was oversized and awkward. The mask slipped down his face and his candy sack dragged behind him.
"I hate this. I wanted to be Frankenstein."
His mother sat in a lounge chair, cigarette in hand.
"That costume was too expensive. I got a deal on this one. So, deal with it."
The room was thick with smoke. The yellow walls were stained so badly that no one could tell whether the color came from paint or decades of cigarette smoke.
Clyde and his mother were all each other had.
"Come on, let me get a picture of my scary creature boy!"
She pushed him in front of the fireplace and snapped a Polaroid.
"Oh my God, you are adorable!"
"Mom..."
"I'm going to a party. I'll be home by midnight. Don't stay out too late, and don't eat any candy until I check it. Got it?"
"Can I come with you?"
"No, Clyde. Go make some friends. Everyone loves the Creature. You'll be the hit of the neighborhood. Clyde, please try and make some friends."
The front door slammed behind her.
Clyde watched from the window as a roaring red muscle car screeched to a stop outside.
His mother climbed inside and kissed the stranger behind the wheel.
As fast as he arrived, they were gone.
"I hate Halloween."
The words had barely left his mouth before green fog erupted from the fireplace.
Smoke filled the room.
Clyde coughed and wheezed, desperately searching for his inhaler.
"Looking for this, child?"
A gaunt man emerged from the smoke, holding the inhaler.
"I—I need that!"
"Not so fast. Why do you hate me?"
"I don't know who you are!" Clyde cried. "I--I don't hate you; I hate Halloween! I hate this costume! I hate this house! I want my mom!"
The boy broke down in tears.
The stranger tossed him the inhaler.
"Dear child," the man said. "If you hate Halloween... then you hate..."
His face twisted and melted, distorting into something garish.
"ME!"
Clyde screamed.
His cries echoed throughout the house.
Throughout the neighborhood.
And then...
They stopped.
Clyde Giffman was never seen again.
Erma was only eight years old, but she already had an opinion about everything.
Quick-witted, fiery, and endlessly argumentative, she seemed destined to become a lawyer someday.
Halloween was her favorite night of the year.
Her grandmother had sewn her a vintage-inspired witch costume, complete with a pointed hat. Her grandfather had carved her a broom from wood and hay.
Standing before her vanity mirror, Erma adjusted her hat and practiced her most wicked witch laugh.
"Hee-hee-hee..."
When she entered the living room, her grandparents smiled.
"What do you think?" she asked proudly.
"Oh my, you're precious," her grandmother replied.
"No! I'm wicked!"
"Can you at least be a good witch?"
"No. I'm a wicked witch drowned in beauty."
Her grandparents burst into laughter.
"Oh, you're something, alright." Laughed her grandfather.
"Wicked!" Erma shouted, emitting a devilish grin, that turned into laughter.
Later that evening, they headed to a Halloween celebration at the local park.
Hours passed.
Children ran through the decorations while families enjoyed games and festivities beneath a full moon.
Erma spent much of the evening chasing boys around the playground, threatening to turn them into toads.
Eventually, she cornered them.
"Ha! Got you!"
But no one was there.
The sounds of the celebration had faded behind her.
"Brad? Lucas?"
Silence.
"This isn't funny anymore."
She turned to head back toward the crowd.
A hand landed on her shoulder.
"AHH!"
She spun around.
"Brad! Lucas! You scared me!"
Then she noticed something was terribly wrong.
The boys' eyes were completely black.
Thick black liquid dripped from them like tears.
"Erma..." they whispered.
"Join us."
Terrified, Erma ran.
The boys hurled her broom, tripping her.
She crashed to the ground.
"Join us, Erma..."
As she struggled to stand, one of the boys brushed his hand across her face.
Everything changed.
The colors of the park became brighter yet somehow muted. The lanterns glowed with an eerie green haze. Time itself seemed distorted.
When Erma rubbed her eyes, black residue coated her fingers.
"Boys! Well done."
A voice emerged from the shadows.
"Boys! You did good." A voice emerged from the shadows. "Time to sleep my agents."
Lucas and Brad both fell to the floor.
"Erma, my child, how art thou?" the voice continued. "Who--who are you? How do you know my name? I am not supposed to talk to strangers." replied the confused girl.
"I heard you were a big fan of mine, and I am a bigger fan of you, child." The girl continuously rubbing her eyes, as the black goo persistently stays,
"What's--what's wrong with my eyes?" She begins to cry.
"Nothing to fear, child, it's all about your transformation." The man began to kneel down, towards Erma.
"What does that mean?" she asked.
"Like a butterfly, do you know where butterflies come from?" the dark voice asked.
"From caterpillars." Erma replied.
"Exactly, Erma, exactly. "Think of this phase as if you were a caterpillar turning into a majestic butterfly."
"I want to go home."
"Do you like Halloween, Erma?" The man grinned.
"Yes."
"Do you love Halloween?"
"Yes."
The voice chuckled.
"Excellent."
The stranger stretched his arms wide, like a crow's wings.
The park lights flared brighter than ever.
Smoke swirled.
Music echoed through the darkness.
Suddenly, a magnificent Halloween carnival appeared before her eyes.
Clowns.
Tents.
Lanterns.
Costumes.
Endless celebration.
"Erma, it can be Halloween every day if you wish," the voice said. "Candy. Costumes. Scares. Jack-o'-lanterns. Bobbing for apples. Everything you love."
The girl stared in amazement.
"Really?"
"And we have plenty of children who love Halloween just as much as you do."
The stranger motioned toward the crowd.
A small boy stepped forward.
He wore an old pink bunny costume.
"Erma, this is my dear friend... Crem the Bunny."
The boy smiled and extended his hand.
"Would you like to explore Halloween Town with him?"
"Yes, please."
Crem helped the young witch to her feet.
Hand in hand, the two disappeared into the carnival lights.
As they walked deeper into the celebration, the illusion slowly faded.
The music grew silent.
The lights dimmed.
The carnival vanished.
Leaving behind only a trail of green smoke.
And another child who would never be seen again.
The Masked Misfits continue to roam every Halloween night, carrying out the will of the Spirit of Halloween. Some spread mischief. Some recruit new souls. Some simply wander the darkness. But all are bound by the same fate: eternal servitude to Halloween itself.
