A Halloween Story by Graticle Design
The fog rolled in just before sunset, thick and low like it had been waiting all day for the right cue. I zipped up my jacket, grabbed my flashlight, and looked down Maple Street — a crooked little lane that wound through the oldest part of town. The kind of street where the air smells like wet cedar, and the trees lean a little too far over the road, whispering things if you listen long enough.
It had been years since I’d gone trick-or-treating, but tonight wasn’t about candy. Not really.
I’d spent the week fixing broken websites — ones that looked fine on the surface but were haunted underneath. Slow load times, dead forms, pages that scared customers off like ghosts slamming a door. By Friday night, I needed a break. So I did what any sane person does when they can’t get websites out of their head — I took a walk through a neighborhood that felt exactly like the internet.
The House With No Lights
The first house was huge. Victorian, probably a hundred years old. You could tell the owners used to care — nice paint, big porch — but the lights were off. No pumpkins, no decorations, no hint anyone was home.
I climbed the steps anyway. The boards groaned under my shoes. I knocked once.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
But when I turned to leave, the door creaked open a few inches, just enough to show the dark inside — and a faint flicker of movement deeper in the hallway.
“Hello?” I called.
Silence.
Then a single candle sputtered to life on a table just past the threshold, revealing a sign written in faded marker:
Welcome to our website! Check back soon for updates!
I smiled despite myself. Even the ghosts of the internet have a sense of humor.
That house reminded me of the old business sites that never change. They’re still online, technically, but no one answers when you knock. The owners think “it’s fine,” not realizing that darkness reads as abandonment.
When your homepage doesn’t light up — when it doesn’t greet people, guide them — they turn away and find a porch that does.
I left a small candy bar on the step, because even empty houses deserve a little something, and moved on.
The House of Infinite Signs
The next place was impossible to miss. Strings of blinking lights lined the roof, and hand-painted arrows pointed in every direction.
“Candy →”
“More Candy This Way!”
“Don’t Miss the Big Surprise!”
By the time I reached the gate, I’d passed six signs, three fog machines, and a life-sized skeleton holding a QR code.
A woman in a witch hat opened the door before I could knock. “Well?” she said. “Aren’t you going to subscribe to my newsletter?”
“Uh, I just wanted—”
“Here,” she said, pressing a clipboard into my hands. “You can’t get candy unless you fill that out.”
I stared down at twelve pages of forms — name, email, candy preferences, favorite social platform.
“Maybe I’ll come back,” I said, stepping away.
She shrugged, slamming the door.
As I walked off, a dozen speakers hidden in the yard whispered, Wait! Don’t leave without your offer!
I chuckled. Pop-ups and push notifications — the haunted traps of the web.
There’s a lesson there, of course. You can have the biggest, brightest house on the block, but if the path to the candy’s a chore, visitors vanish before they reach the porch.
Sometimes all people want is a friendly knock, a smile, and one clear door.
The Candy Bowl of Dust
Halfway down the block stood a small Craftsman house with the porch light flickering like a dying star. A single plastic pumpkin sat by the door, filled with what looked like candy from the late ’90s.
I picked one up — a stale Tootsie Roll wrapped in dust.
There was a note tucked under the bowl:
Help yourself! We’ll be back soon!
But the porch boards were warped, the paint peeling. The note had been there a long time.
The wind shifted, carrying the faintest sound of a squeaky door hinge.
Stale websites always feel like that — once full of life, now stuck in a loop. They say “we’ll be back soon,” but no one ever does.
A business with old copy and outdated photos might as well have a bowl of chalky candy sitting in the dark. People still stop by out of habit, but they don’t stay. They move on to something fresh.
I left the Tootsie Roll where it was. Some relics are better left untouched.
The Mirror House
At the corner of the street stood a sleek, modern place — all glass and steel, perfectly symmetrical, glowing from within.
I could see my reflection a dozen times as I walked up the path. When I knocked, the door slid open silently. Inside, the walls shimmered like chrome. Every angle reflected me — my face, my jacket, my flashlight — over and over again.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hello,” my voice answered, but from nowhere.
I walked further in. Screens flickered on, showing phrases like:
“We are innovators.”
“We are passionate.”
“We are the best in the industry.”
But there were no people. Just more mirrors.
That’s when it hit me.
It was a website that only talked about itself.
No mention of who it was for. No sign of empathy, no story, no candy. Just reflections.
I turned to leave. As I did, a line appeared across the glass wall in neat white letters:
“Why are you leaving? Don’t you want to know more about us?”
I didn’t answer. The best designs don’t beg — they invite.
The Factory on Birch Lane
By now, the moon was up, glowing pale through thin clouds. I crossed into the next block and stopped dead in front of a low brick building that buzzed with light and motion.
Someone had transformed the entire garage into a candy factory — conveyor belts rolling, robotic arms sorting M&M’s, flashing LEDs spelling “PROCESSING ORDER.”
A metal chute extended from the front door. A sign read:
Insert Payment for Candy Experience.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed out loud.
No one came to the door, but a robotic voice announced, “Processing error, please refresh your browser,” followed by a shower of candy corn from the chute.
All form, no soul.
That’s what happens when websites automate everything but forget to feel human. The flow might work, but the experience doesn’t.
People buy from people, not systems. They want a “thanks for stopping by,” not a 20-step checkout that feels like a tax return.
I brushed off the candy corn, shaking my head.
The Friendly Porch
The next house looked ordinary, but something about it pulled me in. The walkway was lit just enough to feel safe, not blinding. The pumpkins were carved but not perfect — one tilted slightly, another missing a tooth.
When I knocked, the door opened to warm light and the smell of cinnamon. A family smiled back — a couple and two kids, all in matching flannel pajamas.
“Happy Halloween!” they said in unison.
The dad handed me a Reese’s cup. “We don’t get a lot of adults trick-or-treating,” he said.
“Just doing research,” I joked.
“Well,” he said, “hope we made the list.”
They had.
Their house was balanced. Inviting. Real. No gimmicks.
That’s the thing about good websites — you can feel when they’re made with care. The colors, the hierarchy, the copy — it all quietly says, you’re in the right place.
The best ones don’t shout. They listen.
I thanked them and stepped back into the night, Reese’s in hand, wondering if maybe this was what trust tasted like.
The Ghost House
Farther down, the neighborhood thinned out. Trees grew denser, the fog heavier. One house stood alone — dark, except for a faint blue flicker inside.
The gate hung from one hinge. The path was cracked.
Still, curiosity wins over common sense every time. I went in.
When I reached the porch, I saw it: a glowing laptop sitting in the window, frozen on a loading screen that read “Under Construction.”
I stepped closer. The air turned cold. The loading bar never moved.
Something in that house had died a long time ago.
Websites left “under construction” might as well have tombstones. They’re promises that never materialized — good intentions that aged into ghosts.
The trickiest part? Most owners never even realize they’re haunting their own domain.
A sudden wind slammed the gate behind me. I took that as my cue to leave.
The House With the Full-Size Bars
By now, I was half-ready to call it a night — until I saw the glow at the end of the block.
It wasn’t bright, just warm — steady, like a campfire in the fog. The house looked new, but not sterile. Painted trim. A single carved pumpkin on the porch with a smile too confident to be cute.
When I knocked, the door opened instantly.
A man about my age stood there with a grin. “You made it,” he said, like he’d been expecting me.
“I… think so?”
“Here.” He dropped a full-size candy bar into my bag.
Full-size. Not fun-size. Not off-brand. The real deal.
“Nice setup,” I said, glancing around.
“Thanks,” he said. “We keep it simple. Good lights, clear path, and we don’t run out of candy.”
Something about his tone clicked in my head.
“This your first year doing this?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Nah. We just learned what works. People come back when you treat them right.”
The way he said it — calm, confident, no pitch — reminded me of the best business owners I know. The ones who understand that trust and consistency matter more than flash.
I looked around the porch. Everything had purpose: a chair where kids and parents could rest, a pitcher of lemonade and glasses, music playing just loud enough to make you smile.
The good kind of experience.
That’s when it hit me.
This wasn’t just a house. It was a metaphor for every great website I’d ever seen — the ones that sell without selling, that make visitors feel seen instead of targeted.
Clean design. Clear flow. Genuine care.
The man smiled again, reading the thought on my face. “Not all candy’s the same, huh?”
“Not even close.”
He nodded. “Neither are websites.”
We stood there for a moment, watching fog drift past the porch light. Somewhere down the block, a sensor light blinked on and off in the distance.
I turned to leave.
“Hey,” he said, calling after me. “What do you do, anyway?”
“I build websites,” I said.
He laughed softly. “Figures.”
The Walk Home
By the time I reached my truck, the street behind me looked different — quieter, emptier. The fog swallowed half the houses like they’d never been there.
I looked down at the candy in my bag. Some stale, some neon, one perfect full-size bar.
Every house a reminder of a different kind of business.
Some hide in the dark, waiting for customers who’ll never knock.
Some shout so loud no one hears them.
Some keep old candy in the bowl, wondering why no one comes back.
And then there are the few — the warm lights, the full-size bars — who get it right.
They don’t need tricks. They earn the treat.
Epilogue
When I got home, I wrote one line in my notebook before turning out the light:
“A good website feels like the best porch on the street — clear path, open door, real candy.”
Then I shut the notebook, turned off the lamp, and smiled.
Tomorrow, I’d get back to work — helping more people build houses worth knocking on.
— Graticle Design
Websites that don’t just look good — they welcome you in.
