Halloween night, 2018. A cold front swept through Meridian, Ohio, and the streetlights buzzed orange and dead. I was nineteen, walking home from a party where someone had served cider that tasted like copper. I didn't plan to stop at Number 7 Wisteria Lane. But the porch light was on, and the door was cracked, and an old woman was sitting in a rocking chair, knitting something that looked like a child's sweater. She didn't speak. She just smiled and nodded at the empty chair beside her. I sat down because the cold was sinking into my bones, and I thought I'd rest for a minute. She kept knitting, and I watched her needles flicker in the dim light. After a while, I noticed the sweater was made of hair. Human hair. And it was the same color as mine. I stood up to leave, and she said, 'Don't go. It's almost finished.' I looked at my own reflection in the window behind her, and I saw that my hair had been cut. In uneven patches. All over my head. I ran. But the next morning, on my pillow, I found a perfect braid of hair, tied with a black ribbon. And the porch light at Number 7 Wisteria Lane was still on.