Death of Halloween

Previously

…Eleanor’s heart gave a strange little lurch. She’d seen that initial before, not on a locket, but on a small, silver flask her father used to carry, a flask that had belonged to her grandmother. Her grandmother, whose maiden name was Miller. Sarah’s grandmother. She picked up the locket, its cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth of her palm. This wasn't just a prank. This wasn't just a ghost story. This was something far more deliberate, far more personal. And the calm, reassuring presence of Sheriff Brody, the man who claimed to be protecting them, suddenly felt like the most terrifying thing of all. The weaver, indeed. And Eleanor had just found a single, damning thread.