Page 4 of Bewitched By the Pumpkin Queen

Chapter 2

Delia

The town hall perches at the end of Main Street like a crow on a telephone line, its gothic bones tarted up with too-bright banners and pumpkin bunting for the upcoming festival. Fog halos the floodlights over the entryway, giving the place a haunted air, and I half expect to see something lurch from the shadows as we approach. Jasper's arm is warm around my waist as we climb the stone steps, his breath visible in the chill evening air.

Inside, the hall buzzes with nervous energy. Folding chairs are arranged in uneven rows, most already occupied by familiar faces wearing unfamiliar expressions of worry. The Carmicheals huddle near the front, their twin daughters clinging to their mother's skirt. Old Mr. Bertram sits alone in the back corner, his weathered hands gripping a gnarled walking stick, his rheumy eyes darting toward every shadow. Even the Mosiac coven has shown up—a rare sight, given their usual preference for midnight rituals over public gatherings.

Whiskers peeks out from my shoulder bag, his red eyes gleaming in the half-light. “Is it just me, or does the Mayor look like she’s about to pass out?”

He’s right.

The Mayor stands behind a podium on the makeshift stage at the far end of the hall, clutching the microphone with both hands like it might escape if she loosens her grip. Her usual immaculate updo has come partially undone, wisps of blonde hair framing her face like a tattered curtain, and her signature red lipstick has bled into the fine lines around her mouth. Sheriff Dunmire hovers at her side, his normally ruddy face pale beneath his mustache and beard.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats." The Mayor's voice quavers through the microphone, sending a squeal of feedback that makes everyone wince. "We'll begin shortly."

Two empty chairs beckon from the middle of the hall. We claim them, wedging ourselves between Pennington Falls' worried masses—farmers with soil still crusting their boot treads, teenagers in Tik-Tok ready poses, dawning black-painted lips and sneers, document everything on their phones, a few Main Street merchants who've abandoned cash registers mid-afternoon, and bewildered tourists who clearly didn't sign up for a murder mystery when they booked their charming Halloween getaway. Mothers grip their children as if expecting them to be the next victims, while a couple of elderly gentlemen in threadbare sweaters that had seen better decades watch the stage with grim expectation, faces set in stone.

Jasper crosses his arms and sighs, his breath crystallizing in front of him like winter exhaled too early. My elbow finds his ribs with practiced precision. When his eyes meet mine, I dart a meaningful glance toward the windows where the normies huddle, or in other words, regular humans whose exposure to the supernatural begins and ends with Halloween decorations. The last thing we need is some poor soccer mom witnessing actual magic and spending the next decade in a psychiatrist's office.

"Dial it back, Jack Frost," I whisper, my lips barely moving while I maintain a neighborly smile for anyone watching.

Jasper leans in, brushing a strand of my copper hair behind my ear. “Sorry. Force of habit.” He whispers with breath so cold it tickles.

The microphone squeals again, and Mayor Bishop clears her throat. "Thank you all for coming on such short notice." Her voice wavers, but she presses on. "As many of you have heard, we've experienced another tragic loss in our community. These are difficult times, but I want to reassure everyone that we're doing everything possible to find who's responsible for these heinous acts. Nothing matters more to us than keeping you and your families safe.”

A rumble of unease rolls through the room.

Mrs. Patterson shoots to her feet from the third row, her knitting needles still clutched in her fists like tiny weapons. "What exactly are you doing to keep us safe?" she demands, her voice cutting through the tension like hot butter, and I can feel the collective breath-holding of almost every citizen in the room.

“Mrs. Patterson, I understand your concerns—" Mayor Bishop begins, but Mrs. Patterson isn't finished.

"Because three people are dead, Mayor. Three!" She waves one knitting needle for emphasis, and I notice several people flinch away from the pointed tip. "First Thomas, then Heather, now Dan. What's next, hmm? A whole family? A school bus full of children?" Her voice cracks, and I can see the knitting needles trembling in her hands.

Sheriff Dunmire steps forward, adjusting his belt with an authoritative tug. "Ma'am, I assure you we're pursuing every lead, along with increasing patrols throughout the town. No one should be out after dark, especially not in remote areas. Which brings me to the matter of curfew.” His mustache twitches.

A collective gasp ripples through the crowd, followed by angry murmurs.

"Curfew?" someone shouts from the back.

The Sheriff raises his hands placatingly. "Effective immediately, all citizens are to be indoors by ten p.m. every night. No one should be outside between ten p.m. and six a.m. unless it's an absolute emergency."

Someone yells from the back, “And who’s gonna enforce that?” Laughter, brittle and mean, ripples through the room.

Sheriff Dunmire's jaw tightens beneath his mustache. He leans into the microphone, knuckles white against the podium. "If you are out after dark, your excuse better be damn good. Anyone found wandering after hours gets a free tour of our accommodations at the station. Breakfast not included."

The Mayor takes over again. “We’re aware that this curfew will disrupt the Harvest Festival, and believe me, no one is more disappointed than we are. I understand this is our busiest season of the year. The Harvest Festival represents nearly sixty percent of our annual tourism revenue, but public safety must come first. We cannot, in good conscience allow these events to continue without these precautions in place."

The room erupts into protests.

Shop owners leap to their feet, voices overlapping in a cacophony of financial panic.

"Are you suggesting we shut down our stalls?!" That’s Mr. Jacoby, who runs the fudge shop, voice cracking with the raw terror of a man whose mortgage is sweet-cream dependent. “We’ll go under by Christmas without the festival!”

"And what about the tourists?" blurts out the owner of the Thistle & Thorn Apothecary, her face pinched in a beet-red grimace.

Jasper mutters, "Finally, a town meeting that doesn’t put everyone to sleep."

My lips twitch upward before I can stop them. I nudge him with my elbow. "Behave," I whisper, but there's no real heat in it.