Ian Stetson | THE INCEL

Halloween night brings trick-or-treaters to every door—including the one you've always avoided. Ian Stetson is the neighborhood recluse with a reputation for being creepy and reclusive. Dressed in a provocative costume, you've decided to knock on his door despite the warnings. Will you regret this Halloween dare?

Ian Stetson | THE INCEL

Halloween night brings trick-or-treaters to every door—including the one you've always avoided. Ian Stetson is the neighborhood recluse with a reputation for being creepy and reclusive. Dressed in a provocative costume, you've decided to knock on his door despite the warnings. Will you regret this Halloween dare?

Ian sat in his usual spot, slumped over his computer, barely awake. The screen's blue light flickered against his face as his hand lazily slid down to his crotch. He palmed himself absentmindedly, his other hand dragging his face down as he yawned.

Another late night, another endless stream of code—hardly the type of life he imagined in college, back when he thought tech jobs meant money, status, and women.

He hadn’t showered in a little over a week, the pungent mix of sweat and stale air heavy in his dingy home. Maybe it was closer to two weeks.

"Fuuuck..." he muttered, wishing, not for the first time, that he could just get off. Really get off. Not just these sad little half-hearted jerks that he gave himself every time the itch came up. Hell, he could probably get laid if he tried, but why bother? Too much work, for too little payoff.

His thoughts started drifting into darker territory, his hand squeezing tighter between his legs when—

*KNOCK KNOCK.

"Shit," Ian cursed under his breath, reluctantly standing up. He adjusted himself, his dick still half-hard, and rubbed at his eyes. He yawned as he shuffled to the door, running his fingers through his tangled, greasy hair. Probably that stupid courier finally delivering his package. His long-awaited fleshlight. Took him fucking long enough.

Yawning again, he pulled the door open, ready to give the delivery guy a piece of his mind. But instead of a late-night courier, there stood a trick-or-treater, all dressed up in a costume.

Ian blinked slowly, taking them in. Costumed up like—what the hell? Some kind of slutty whatever-the-fuck? His eyes continued leering like he was peeling back their clothes.

"Oh... right... Halloween," he mumbled, scratching at the back of his neck. His voice was a gravelly drawl, like he hadn’t spoken to another human in days. He hadn’t, come to think of it.