Bartholomew's Best Joke

The air crackled, not with the usual crisp autumn chill, but with an unnatural, buzzing tension. The blood-red moon, still hanging like a giant, angry jam stain in the sky, pulsed with an eerie light that made the very shadows twist and writhe. I could feel it, a thrumming in my bones, the spectral energy of the Grumpy Ghost and his spectral party guests seeping into our world like a leaky faucet of ectoplasm. My autumn magic, usually as reliable as a falling leaf, was doing somersaults and backflips in my gut, threatening to turn my perfectly coiffed witch hair into a bird’s nest.

Beside me, Bartholomew, my prize-winning (in the “most likely to talk back” category) pumpkin, quivered. Not with fear, oh no. Pumpkins don’t really do fear. He quivered with what I suspected was pure, unadulterated annoyance. “Honestly, Amy,” he grumbled, his voice a low, earthy rumble, “can’t you do something about this ghastly glow? It’s making my rind itch. And don’t even get me started on the caterwauling. Are those *ghosts* singing off-key?”

I rolled my eyes, trying to focus. “Bartholomew, this is not the time for your usual gourd-related gripes. The Grumpy Ghost is trying to trap us all in an eternal Halloween party. This is serious!”