A Witch's Autumn Arsenal

The forest floor was a riot of reds and oranges, but tonight, it felt more like a traffic jam of colors. Usually, my job was to make sure the leaves did their whole autumn spectacular, a little flick of the wrist here, a whisper of wind there, and *poof*, a masterpiece. But with this moon hanging in the sky like a gargantuan, overripe tomato, my usual tricks felt about as effective as trying to shoo away a badger with a feather.

“Honestly, Bartholomew,” I muttered, kicking at a particularly stubborn patch of moss that was currently vibrating with an alarming purple glow. “Couldn’t this have happened, I don’t know, in July? When everything’s already annoyingly bright and cheerful and less likely to be possessed by disco-loving specters?”

Bartholomew, my prize-winning (and currently exceptionally mouthy) pumpkin, gave a rustle from his spot on my shoulder. “Perhaps,” he drawled, his voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement, “the spectral entities simply have a refined palate for autumnal ambiance. You know, the whole ‘dying world, vibrant last hurrah’ aesthetic. Very on-brand for them.”