Page 9 of Bewitched By the Pumpkin Queen

He shoots me a grin over his shoulder, then disappears down the path toward the corn maze, where the orange twilight is already swallowing him up.

The haunted trail is Jasper’s pride and joy. A half-mile loop through the dense stand of maples and oaks just east of the pumpkin patch, bordered on one side by one side by three rows of glowing scarecrows and on the other by a tangle of brambles that even deer won’t cross. All through October Jasper makes it his mission to keep the path freshly raked, the jump-scares unpredictable, the props in a state of one-upping, and all the scare actors well-caffeinated and ready to scare the pants off of whomever dares to brave the path after dark. The trail's become infamous for delivering at least one pants-wetting scare every year, and Jasper takes his role as scaremeister with a zeal that borders on the religious.

The last three hours seems to fly by like a witch on a broom. Pun intended. At 8:55 p.m., we ring the closing bell and start the process of herding everyone out. There are a few stragglers—teens hiding in the haunted maze, a couple slow-dancing to Monster Mash on the porch—but by nine, the farm is blessedly quiet.

Jasper and I do a final sweep of the patch, collecting abandoned scarves, jackets, and forgotten trash. Whiskers helps by yowling at every squirrel stupid enough to loiter after dark.

After verifying that all the hayride wagons and farm machinery are secure, we finally lock up the barn and head for the house. I collapse onto the porch swing and let Jasper tuck a blanket around my shoulders. He sits next to me, pulling me close, and together we stare out over the moonlit fields. The jack-o'-lantern army glows along the fence line, their crooked grins and triangle eyes watching over the land.

“You think we’ll survive tomorrow?” I ask, already half asleep.

He squeezes my hand. “If we don’t, at least we’ll go out with a bang.”

I snort and nestle into his side, the tension in my bones melting as I listen to the distant hoot of an owl and the gentle rustle of wind in the corn. I can't feel my feet anymore, my brain has turned to sugar fluff, and my eyelids droop with the weight of the day, but here beside Jasper, overlooking our little empire of pumpkins and terror, I find myself believing we'll weather whatever comes. And the bone-deep exhaustion transforms into something I wear proudly, like a medal pinned to my chest rather than an anchor dragging me down.

Whatever’s waiting for us beyond the rise of the morning sun, at least we’ll be in it together.

***

The house is colder than it should be. I wake to a darkness that’s thick and woolly, pressing in through the windows like a damp towel. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 5:12, the green digits burning through the black. I reach for Jasper, out of habit, but the sheets beside me are empty.

His pillow is cold.

His smell is gone.

I yawn, stretching my arms above my head. He probably just got up early, sneaking out to get a jump on the day's festival prep. It’s something he’s done a dozen times before, and with the crowds being what they were yesterday, and the curfew squeezing every hour for what it’s worth, I can't really blame him for wanting to squeeze in a few extra hours.

Still, I miss the snuggles.

Something prickles at the back of my neck, and I sit up, blinking at the weird hush in the house. There are no footsteps overhead, no sounds from the kitchen, no Jasper humming tunelessly as he stokes the stove or loads up a crate of supplies.

The only thing more alarming than an absent Jasper is a silent Jasper.

I swing my legs over the side, feeling for the fuzzy slippers he claims make me look like a discount Ewok. The floorboards are brittle with cold. Every creak is a gunshot in the quiet.

I wrap a robe tight around myself and shuffle down the hall. The air smells off. Not like a bad scent, but one that just feels wrong.

Stale.

Still.

Like all the warmth and cinnamon-sugar happiness from last night’s festival has curdled into something tense and acidic, clinging to the walls. The bathroom door hangs open, revealing an empty space lit only by the nightlight's feeble glow. I push it open all the way. There is no steam on the mirror, no damp towel on the rack, and Jasper’s toothbrush sits dry in its holder.

My stomach drops.

“Jas?” I call out, my voice shattering the hush so completely that I flinch.

Nothing.

I try again, louder this time. “Jasper?”

Still nothing.

Whiskers skids into the hall from where I left him on the bed, eyes wide and red as flares in the half-light. He’s got his hackles up, a stripe of fur like a bad toupee running from his skull to his tail. “Someone has been here.” Whiskers hisses, his voice pitched low and urgent. "I can smell them."

My heart thuds against my chest. "What do you mean, someone's been here?"

"I mean exactly what I said." He's trembling now, his tiny body vibrating with tension.