Instead, she took the mirror, shattered it against the sycamore, and whispered the town’s oldest prayer: “Let the dead walk one night, but let the living leave by dawn.”
This Halloween felt different. Heavier.
She turned. The figure wore no costume. It wore Cara’s own face—paler, older, with hollows where joy used to live. Cara in Creekmaw -Halloween 2024- By Ariaspoaa
From its pocket came a small mirror, rimed with frost. In its glass, Cara saw Creekmaw as it truly was: drowned church steeples, lanterns floating on black water, children waving from beneath the soil. Instead, she took the mirror, shattered it against
The fog rolled into Creekmaw just after sunset, thick as old linen and twice as cold. Cara pulled her cloak tighter, boots squelching on the rain-softened path. Lanterns flickered from crooked porch posts—carved pumpkins grinning with secrets rather than light. The figure wore no costume
The fog ate her words. The doppelgänger nodded once and crumbled into dry leaves.
“Every year,” Cara replied. “What do you want this time?”
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