Page 13 of Haunted Spurs

“Easy, buddy, we haven’t lost her yet,” I murmur, scratching my dog’s soft ears, as a slow, knowing smile spreads across my lips.

Well… at least now I know she’s back home. And I know that Elm Hollow is way too small a town for her to ignore me forever.

The hunt is on, Selene Dusk.

4

Ghost Pumpkins, Fried Pickles, and Other Local Delicacies

Ron

“GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”

“We’re just doing our jobs!”

“Fuck you, I don’t want you in front of my diner!”

God, I love Elm Hollow.

There’s nothing better on a crisp autumn morning than witnessing a full-blown screaming match between a furious diner owner, a Cursed Scarecrow, and a Pumpkin Ghost while walking your dog. It’s pure visual poetry. Absolute gold.

I stop on the opposite sidewalk, easing up on Ollie’s leash, and lean against a streetlight to enjoy the show.

Outside Duke’s Diner, Duke himself is flailing his arms. His black apron is stained with grease and coffee, and his face, usually a healthy ruddy color, has reached the shade of a habanero pepper ready to explode.

In front of him, the town’s two official mascots awkwardly back away. They trip over their own bulky costumes while trying to balance their heavy stacks of Haunted Spurs casting flyers.

Across the street, the situation is somehow even more hilarious. Duke’s ex has set up a brightly colored table right in front of her ice cream shop. She’s happily handing out flyers alongside ice cream cones, a dazzling smile on her face. The line of kids, retirees, and excited locals stretches almost all the way to the intersection.

And every time Duke shoots a murderous glare in that direction, his grumbling gets louder, turning into a guttural growl that practically vibrates in the air.

The sheer chaos of this little town gives me a rush.

I love that everyone is so fired up. There’s a vibrant, eccentric, theatrical energy in these streets that gets into your bones. Everyone knows everyone, everyone meddles, and everyone has an unsolicited opinion on absolutely everything. It’s the exact opposite of the deafening silence of the wide-open spaces I was used to before coming here.

“That’s right, go somewhere else, you assholes!” Duke booms, waving a dirty rag at the Scarecrow, who responds by chucking a flyer right at his chest before speed-walking away alongside the Ghost.

Slam.

Duke storms back into the diner, slamming the glass door behind him so hard the window frames rattle. The little autumn wreath hanging in the center of the glass swings wildly for a few seconds, crooked and pathetic. Right beneath the wreath, a sign is proudly displayed, written in angry black Sharpie: The town council forces this bullshit on me every season.

Spectacular. I fucking love this town.

Ollie barks once, wagging his tail at the fleeing mascots, but I give a gentle tug on his harness to bring his attention back to me.

“No, buddy. We’re not hunting giant pumpkins today,” I murmur, running a hand over the back of my neck as I adjust the tilt of my Stetson.

I look up at the sign for Duke’s. All that commotion has suddenly worked up my appetite. Or maybe it’s just an excuse to enjoy the owner’s foul mood up close and personal. Either way, I’ve suddenly got an uncontrollable craving for Duke’s famous fried pickles.

I head for the entrance, pushing open the diner door.

The inside of Duke’s smells like strong coffee, griddled bacon, and frying oil—a holy trinity to a cowboy like me.

“A giant basket of your famous fried pickles, Duke,” I announce, grabbing a seat on one of the faded red vinyl stools at the counter, making sure Ollie stays right by my side.

Duke’s fried pickles have been legendary ever since Julian Heart, the former Lakewood FC coach, bought out his entire stock for his pregnant wife.

Duke jots down the order with a grunt that rumbles deep in his chest. “That stupid pumpkin left glitter on my sidewalk!” he mutters to himself.