Echoes of the Pact

The blood-red moon, now a softer, more forgiving shade of raspberry jam, hung high in the sky, casting a gentle glow over the forest. It felt like a sigh of relief, a collective exhale from every rustling leaf and hooting owl. My own breath, which I hadn't realized I'd been holding since the whole spectral shindig threatened to go from epic party to eternal slumber party, finally escaped me. The air, which had been thick with the scent of ozone and grumpy ghost, now smelled like damp earth and pine needles, just the way autumn ought to.

"Well, that was a bit of a kerfuffle, wasn't it?" Bartholomew piped up from his spot on my shoulder. His voice, usually a gravelly grumble, sounded almost… mellow. Almost. "Though, I must admit, my joke about the haunted house getting a bad Yelp review *did* land. Apparently, the spirits were not amused."

I rolled my eyes, but a small smile tugged at my lips. "Bartholomew, you told that joke about a dozen times, and each time it got worse. And the ghosts weren't 'not amused,' they were too busy trying to avoid becoming permanent party favors."