Cedarton, Nebraska, prided itself on priorities. “Faith, Family, and Football.” That was what the sign said when you entered town. But anyone who lived there knew the order was wrong.
Family came second, if it came at all. Faith came third. Football ruled every schedule, every dinner, every dusk.
By mid-October, the local team were headed to playoffs, and the townsfolk voted without hesitation to move Trick-or-Treat night. Halloween fell on a Friday that year, the same night as the biggest home game in two decades.
“Kids can get their candy during halftime,” the principal joked. “We have a game to win.” Laughter filled the room, though a few parents shifted in their seats.
Those eager to keep a sense of holiday tradition relevant, hosted a “Trunk or Treat” the weekend before. People decorated their cars and handed out candy while a strong autumn wind blew into town. That was good enough, everyone said. The kids would understand.
And so, by the time October 31 arrived, Cedarton did not look much like Halloween at all. Few Halloween decorations were up, no costumed crowds in the streets. Only a slow-creeping fog and the hum of stadium lamps warming over the field.
Almost every yard from Main Street to the grain elevators were cluttered with metal Knight yard signs. Red and gold, all with slogans like “Go Knights Go!” or “Bleed Red!” Some families
even left porch lights shining in team colors, proof of loyalty, pride, and belonging.
The fog pooled around them like breath on cold glass.
Kickoff came at seven sharp.
The crowd roared. The field lights burned like altar flames. The marching band blared the fight song so loud you could hear it across the river.
At halftime, as planned, parents led their costumed children down to the field for “Candy Kickoff.” The boosters had set up folding tables by the bleachers with buckets of sweets. Tiny witches, superheroes, and skeletons weaved between shoulder-padded players and cheerleaders who handed out Snickers bars and fruity-flavored Tootsie Rolls.
It should have been charming. It should have been wholesome.
Then the lights flickered once. Then again.
The fog surged inward from the parking lot, curling between the stands and the field like a living tide. It glowed faintly red in the floodlights.
From the edges of the crowd, a low hum began, like wind whistling through metal. One by one, the lawn signs across town began to vibrate. Their thin aluminum edges trembled as though struck by an unseen tuning fork.
Then, without warning, the first one screamed.
A long, metallic wail tore through the night, bending into a pitch that made glass rattle. The Knights logo twisted, hollow eyes filled wide with pain.
Every sign and banner that bore the team’s colors lit up faintly, blood-red symbols in the fog.
And from each glowing mark, more fog rose.
It was not a creature with teeth or claws.
It was a shadow in the shape of a man, tall, dressed like a coach, with an ornate whistle around its neck.
The ghastly coach walked slowly through the mist, head bowed as if in prayer. Wherever it passed, people swayed as if dizzy.
Those who had signs in their yards began to slump. The booster president in his letterman jacket went first, then the assistant coach’s wife, then the mayor. Their faces went pale, their cheers thinned to silence.
The monster did not devour them. It did not need to. It simply drew from them, siphoning the spark that kept them cheering, organizing, pushing, and hoping. It fed on the exhaustion they had mistaken for pride.
By the time the third quarter began, the stands were full of hollow-eyed parents staring into the fog, mouths moving as though still chanting the fight song.
Children tugged at sleeves, whispering, “Mom? Dad?”
But the adults only stared ahead and whispered back, “Go team… go…”
Pastor Rudy of the Congregational church was the only one who seemed to understand. He had come to the game reluctantly, to show community support, but when he saw the glow over the town, every lawn sign shining like a reversed Passover mark, he remembered the old story.
The lamb blood on the door meant protection.
But here, it marked who the shadow wanted to feed on.
He ran through the fog to the nearest house, grabbed the sign, and bent it in half. A sound like air escaping a balloon hissed from the ground. The glow dimmed.
Others followed his lead, tearing up the signs, kicking them over, tossing them into the street. With each one destroyed, another dazed parent seemed to blink awake, gasping for air as if saved from drowning.
But by the time the field lights finally went dark, half the town had already been drained. Not dead, just emptied.
They went home that night unable to say why they felt so cold. They would keep living, keep working, keep showing up to games. But something vital, the spark of wonder and rest and love freely given, was gone.
The next morning was quiet.
The fog was gone, but the town felt hollow. The scoreboard remained broken, as though the game hadn’t ended.
In the daylight, the metal signs that still stood were gray and pitted, as if rust had devoured them overnight. No one talked about what happened. No one mentioned the fog.
But that Sunday, for the first time in years, every pew in town was full. Parents sat beside children. No one mentioned football. They simply sat in the stillness, trying to feel something again.
And far out on the field, where the fog had first touched down, the wind whispered through the dead grass.
“Go team… Go…”
A voice both proud and pleading.
A reminder.
That sometimes the thing that drains you is not the monster outside your door.
It is the one you invite in and call team spirit.
Peter R. Talley 