The Ghost's Party Plans

The air itself felt… sticky. Like when you’ve been eating caramel apples for too long and your fingers just refuse to unstick. And the moon, oh, the moon! It was still that alarming shade of cherry-lollipop red, pulsing like a giant, cosmic bruise. Usually, I’m all for a bit of autumn drama, but this was getting ridiculous. Leaves were doing the tango on their own, squirrels were hoarding acorns with the frantic energy of someone who’d just discovered they’d forgotten to pay their spectral taxes, and Bartholomew, my pet pumpkin (who, for the record, is *not* a pet, but a sentient gourd of exquisite breeding), was being particularly insufferable.

“You know,” Bartholomew drawled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the damp earth, “this moon is really bringing out the worst in people. Or, you know, pumpkins.”

I scowled at him, trying to coax a wilting daisy back to life with a gentle wave of my hand. The daisy, instead of perking up, promptly turned a shade of sickly grey and started to… hum? “Bartholomew, can you not? I’m trying to concentrate. This whole ‘super-red moon’ situation is really throwing off my usual leaf-coloring mojo.”