The Halloween Mix-Up, Singapore – 33

I should’ve known something was off the moment our group chat exploded with glitter emojis, spooky GIFs, and messages like “omg these are going to be SO cute!” Halloween with Emma, Jess, Rachel, and Mia was always a bit chaotic, but this year, I figured it’d just be fun. Chill. Maybe a party or two.
Spoiler: It was not chill.

The plan was simple: meet at Rachel’s place on Halloween afternoon, get into costume, and head downtown for the street party. The girls had been buzzing for weeks about “matching looks,” but I didn’t pry. I assumed they had a theme, and I'll just throw on something easy, like a skeleton hoodie, a vampire cape, whatever. I didn’t expect to match.
When I showed up, the energy in Rachel’s apartment was electric. Music was blasting, glitter was flying, and someone had already opened the wine. On the coffee table was a big, sealed costume package.
“Perfect timing,” Rachel said, grinning. “Our outfits just came!”

She tore it open with flair. Out tumbled five black-and-orange witch costumes , short dresses with corset-style tops, wide-brimmed hats, striped pantyhose, and a few accessories. I blinked.
“Uh… where’s mine?” I asked.
The room went awkwardly quiet.

Emma glanced at Jess. “Wait — wasn’t Claire still coming when you ordered these?”
Jess paled. “Yes! I thought Mia told me she will come!”
Mia threw up her hands. “I assumed Rachel filled her in!”
Rachel’s eyes widened in slow realization. “Oh my god. We ordered five female costumes… and there’s only five of us.”

They all looked at me. Then at the dresses. Then back at me.
“Nope,” I said immediately, backing up. “Not happening.”

“Come on,” Mia said, grabbing one of the dresses and holding it up to me. “It’s Halloween! No one will even know you’re a guy. We’ll do full makeup, wig — you’ll blend right in.”
Jess clapped excitedly. “And honestly, you’ll look so cute.”
“I’d rather be a ghost,” I said.
Rachel raised an eyebrow. “You do remember you owe me a favor, right?”

I groaned. She had me there. Ever since I accidentally let her ex into her apartment a few weeks ago and he left with half her succulents and her limited-edition vinyls, I’d been waiting for the day she’d cash in.

“This is your favor?” I asked. “Seriously?”
She grinned. “Seriously.”
And that’s how I ended up in a witch costume.

The girls transformed me with disturbing skill. Foundation, eyeliner, eyeshadow, false lashes, contouring — the works. I was given a black wig with long curls, press-on nails, and of course, the striped pantyhose. The dress was snug in all the wrong places, but somehow… it worked. Scarily well, according to the giggles and stunned looks they gave me when I emerged from the bathroom.

“Wow,” Emma said, eyes wide. “You’re hotter than me. I’m scared.”

We took an Uber downtown — five stylish witches strutting down the sidewalk, heels clicking. Nobody looked at me twice. Or if they did, it wasn’t because they could tell I was a guy — it was because I was apparently serving. A couple people even complimented me on the makeup.
We eventually ended up in the plaza where the town’s annual Halloween contest was being held. This year’s theme? “The Witch Hunt.” It all made sense now — hence the witch costumes. Apparently, the girls had known and picked the theme on purpose.

A host with a mic and a big feathered hat walked around the crowd, calling for participants. And then, somehow, he picked me.

“You! You, gorgeous! Get up here, witch!”
The girls shoved me forward, laughing and cheering. “Go on! Represent us!”

I climbed on stage, awkwardly clutching my skirt and hoping the wig stayed in place. There were other contestants — 4 of them. But I made it to Round Two, a “witch showdown” between me and another finalist — a girl in a green Elphaba-style costume with glowing contacts.

The host leaned in dramatically. “Now for the twist…! In the spirit of a true witch hunt, the second-place witch shall be—” he paused for effect, “—bound to the stake!”

Everyone laughed, cheered, clapped. I laughed nervously. “Wait, is that literal or—”
It was literal.
Votes were cast by crowd applause. And of course , I came in second.

The crowd howled as two helpers led me to the side of the stage where they had a full Halloween “witch pole” prop set up, complete with ropes and faux flames. I was gently but firmly tied to it with theatrical rope, arms at my sides, ankles together. Then they added a prop gag — a piece of red cloth tied firmly across my mouth like something out of a cheesy fantasy movie.

The crowd loved it. Phones flashed. People lined up to take photos with me, laughing and joking.
Some posed pretending to throw “firewood” at my feet. One guy knelt like he was begging me to spare him. The girls were doubled over in laughter offstage, recording everything.

I just stood there, helpless, cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and adrenaline, gagged and bound like some Halloween-themed damsel. The makeup, the dress, the wig — it all made it even more ridiculous.

Eventually, they “released” me with a dramatic announcement: “The witch has repented — she may go free!”
I stepped off stage, adjusting my hat, the ropes still loosely draped over one arm.

Rachel handed me a bottle of water. “Well? Favor repaid?”
I gave her the flattest look I could manage through my false lashes.
“Totally,” she said, trying not to laugh.



“The Halloween Mix-Up – Part II: The Witch Hunt Turns Real”
The contest was over, my face hurt from laughing (and being tied up), and the girls couldn’t stop replaying the video of me “burning at the stake.”
Our group, five exhausted witches, made our way through the thinning crowd as the night air grew colder and the street party slowly died down.

Heels clicking against pavement, candy wrappers crunching underfoot, we walked through a quieter side street to avoid the main drag. It was late. We were talking about calling an Uber, but Rachel insisted her place was close enough to walk.

I was still in full costume , makeup surprisely held in place and the rope from the contest still looped loosely around my waist like a belt. It had become part of the joke. The “witch who got caught.”

Then, as we turned a corner, we heard it.
The low rumble of an engine.

A dark van rolled up beside us, slowly at first, almost too slowly. At first I thought it might be someone lost or trying to ask for directions. But the second it stopped and the side door slid open with a mechanical shhhk, I knew something was off.

Three guys jumped out, wearing masks. No costumes. No laughter. Just fast, rough movements.

“Run!” I shouted without even thinking.
The girls screamed and scattered in opposite directions down the street. I turned to block the men’s path, putting myself between them and the direction Emma and Rachel had gone.

“Hey! Back off!” I shouted, throwing my arms up, trying to sound bigger, braver, tougher than I felt, all while still wearing a dress and heels.
I swung my bag at one of them. Hit him square in the face.

The second guy tackled me to the ground.
I struggled. Kicked. Fought back as best I could, trying to buy time, hoping the others had gotten far enough away. But I was already exhausted from the long night, the heels made footing near impossible, and before I knew it, strong hands were grabbing at my arms and legs.

I felt cold metal , from zip ties. Then rope. And a cloth was forced into my mouth. My protests were muffled instantly. My witch hat fell off and was kicked away in the scuffle.
Someone muttered, “This one’ll do,” and I was hoisted, bundled, dragged.

The last thing I saw before the van door slammed shut was the distant blur of Emma looking back from a block away, eyes wide in terror.
Then darkness.

I don’t know how long we drove. Time blurred together. The van rattled and bounced over potholes. I was lying on my side, arms pinned behind me with rough rope, legs tied tightly at the ankles. The gag in my mouth, which was once a Halloween prop, was now cruelly real. My wig itched. My cheeks were streaked with makeup and sweat. I couldn’t move.

I shifted, tested the ropes, nothing. No give. Whoever tied me knew what they were doing.
Somewhere up front, I could hear the men laughing. Talking in low voices. Nothing I could make out clearly.

My heart pounded. Were they targeting us? Just girls walking alone? What was their motive?
The irony wasn’t lost on me.. I just spent hours being tied up on stage as a joke, laughing with friends, pretending to be hunted.
Now I really was.

And this time, I didn’t know if anyone was coming to untie me.