Cara walked home alone, past darkened windows and grinning pumpkins. Behind her, Creekmaw breathed—just for Halloween.
She turned. The figure wore no costume. It wore Cara’s own face—paler, older, with hollows where joy used to live.
“You came,” whispered a voice like wind through bones. Cara in Creekmaw -Halloween 2024- By Ariaspoaa
From its pocket came a small mirror, rimed with frost. In its glass, Cara saw Creekmaw as it truly was: drowned church steeples, lanterns floating on black water, children waving from beneath the soil.
The fog rolled into Creekmaw just after sunset, thick as old linen and twice as cold. Cara pulled her cloak tighter, boots squelching on the rain-softened path. Lanterns flickered from crooked porch posts—carved pumpkins grinning with secrets rather than light. Cara walked home alone, past darkened windows and
She didn’t scream. She never did.
Instead, she took the mirror, shattered it against the sycamore, and whispered the town’s oldest prayer: “Let the dead walk one night, but let the living leave by dawn.” The figure wore no costume
This Halloween felt different. Heavier.