Spoiler: She would murder someone for candy corn. Personally, I’d rather gnaw on candied crayons than that shit.
Beth huffed out exaggeratedly. “For someone who has heightened senses, you can be downright oblivious. You know that, right?”
She pointed with her cup of sad, non-pumpkin-spiced coffee in the direction of the central courtyard. “First off, there are town rules in place for the week,” she said incredulously, as if it were the most damning piece of evidence since the infamous Dead Sea Scrolls fiasco.
My gaze landed on a giant board that indeed had a list of rules laid out for all to see.
1. Everyone must leave an apple outside their door each evening during the festival.
2. No entry to the corn maze after dusk.
3. All journalists must possess a permit granted by the Town Council before being allowed entry into the festival.
4. It is mandated that all townspeople attend the final bonfire.
5. What happens at the festival, stays at the festival.
I snorted at the last rule. Was this the bumblefuck version of Vegas?
“So they have traditions and set out some somewhat reasonable restrictions. It doesn’t mean there’s foul play afoot.”
Admittedly, I thought it all just a bit peculiar, but my pride refused to make the admission out loud. Tell Beth that she might be partially correct for once? I’d rather listen to another one of Dad’s hour-long lectures on letter ‘E’ of his coaching program.
“Oh, come on!” Beth said shrilly, nearly splashing her coffee everywhere as she raised her arms in protest.
Attempting to settle her down with the universal sign for her to slow her roll, I grudgingly conceded. “Okay, okay, okay. Other than the rules, what else creeps you out about it?”
She leaned in conspiratorially. “The girl next door, Amanda, said that her big sister went missing after going into the corn maze hunt last year.”
“Corn mazehunt?” The disbelief colored my tone as I scrunched up my nose.
“Oh yeah, there’s like a whole betting pool on it each year. A participant’s name is drawn at the beginning of the festival. The chosen person must run through the maze and make it to the end before dawn. Here’s the catch: supposedly, the town’s ancestral spirits will chase the person through the maze.” She paused dramatically. “And if they catch you? You never come out.”
Ancestral spirits? She has to be fucking joking.
“You’re starting to sound like Aunt Laurel with all the bippity-boppity-boo talk,” I warned.
Beth scoffed. “Says the girl that turns into a cat at will,” she responded dryly.
My eyes widened as I elbowed her hard in the ribs. “Beth! Christ, say it a little louder, won’t you?” my harsh whisper clipped with panic that someone may have overheard.
Yet, my little sister seemed unfazed by it.
“Relax, no one heard me except that crow over there.”
My head whipped around so fast at the mention of a crow that I was surprised I didn’t crack my neck right off my spinal column. Sure enough, there was a crow perched on top of a postbox, the blue paint chipping away from years of use, and bolts starting to rust.
Was that the same damn crow from the kitchen window this morning? Surely not. Though it was staring at me with that same intensity, with too close an eye, and an energy that pulsed like it was waiting to claw its way out of its own body. The very same energy that I felt when I shifted between my forms, human and cat alike.
An overwhelming instinct to pounce and demand answers surged through me.
“Harlow, stop staring at it like you want to bat it around and leave it on someone’s doorstep.” Beth’s words pulled my focus back to her.
“I’m not— I’m just— Ugh, shut up.” The demand came out with sisterly irritation instead of actual malice.
When I glanced back at the postbox, the crow was gone.
Beth tugged on my arm to keep me moving down the sidewalk with her. After a few moments of silence while walking with linked arms, she opted for a less charged topic.
