Under the Blood-Red Sky

The air crackled, not with the usual friendly autumn static of falling leaves and scurrying squirrels, but with something… grumpier. And under that giant, blood-red moon, which was still stubbornly resembling a gargantuan, overripe strawberry, the forest creatures were definitely not having a good time. Even Bartholomew, my usually chipper (in a sarcastic way) pet pumpkin, was looking a bit… deflated.

“Honestly, Amy,” he grumbled, his carved grin looking more like a grimace, “this whole ‘eternal spooky bash’ thing is really cramping my style. I can’t even get a decent nap in with all the spectral shindigging.”

“Tell me about it,” I sighed, kicking a pile of leaves that, instead of rustling, let out a faint, disembodied groan. My family’s autumn magic, usually as reliable as a falling acorn, was behaving like a toddler on a sugar rush. Last week, I’d tried to make a patch of mushrooms glow with a soft, friendly light, and instead, they’d started tap-dancing. Tap-dancing mushrooms. Bartholomew had found it hilarious. I had not.