The Spectral Invitation

The air, usually crisp and smelling of fallen leaves and damp earth, now had a weird, sickly sweet scent, like a candy apple left out too long. And the moon. Oh, the moon. It hung in the sky like a giant, overripe cherry, casting everything in this unsettling, blood-red glow. Bartholomew, my pet pumpkin who, let’s be honest, is more of a sentient, sarcastic gourd, had been complaining about it for days.

“Honestly, Amy,” he’d grumbled, his carved grin looking particularly sour, “this light is doing terrible things to my complexion. I’m starting to look less ‘harvest chic’ and more ‘zombie’s lunchbox.’”

I’d just rolled my eyes, adjusting the ridiculously pointy hat Grandma had left me. “It’s the Crimson Moon, Bartholomew. It happens every so often. It’s supposed to be… dramatic.”