“Every year,” Cara replied. “What do you want this time?”
Cara stopped at the crossroads where the old sycamore split toward heaven and underworld both. Someone had left a wreath of dried marigolds and black feathers at its roots. She didn’t touch it. She knew better. Cara in Creekmaw -Halloween 2024- By Ariaspoaa
The fog ate her words. The doppelgänger nodded once and crumbled into dry leaves. “Every year,” Cara replied
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. She didn’t touch it
She turned. The figure wore no costume. It wore Cara’s own face—paler, older, with hollows where joy used to live.
This Halloween felt different. Heavier.
Cara walked home alone, past darkened windows and grinning pumpkins. Behind her, Creekmaw breathed—just for Halloween.