Page 115 of The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium

Dahlia shook off her shock as townspeople took their seats. “It’s okay! It’s okay! Do they have laptops to check out here?”

Numbly, Talula shook her head. “No…but, we can print out the presentation at the library computers.” Hecate bless the cloud.

“Great idea.” Dahlia hopped around on her feet, amping herself up for the crisis. “I’ll do that. You need to show your face here.”

“But my speech…” Talula could actually feel bile in her throat.

Dahlia stilled. Then she let out a big breath. The kind of breath someone lets out right before they’re about to give someone else (Talula) really bad news. She braced her palms on Talula’s shoulders and let her have it. “You’re going to have to improvise.”

Talula’s eyes widened in horror.

“Please take your seats,” the moderator called.

“I’ll tell the moderator about the change of plans.” Dahlia squeezed Talula’s shoulders. “Go sit down where people can see you. Show them you’re not afraid.”

With that, Dahlia darted away. Talula scooped up her things and walked down the aisle. She sat where she’d have a good view of everyone who came to speak at the microphone. She applied her fancy lip balm, hoping for a spark of placebo magic. So far, nothing.

“Can’t you just conjure that thing here?” Simon hissed as he sat down by Talula’s feet.

“Maybe.” Talula reached for her power and tried to focus, but dozens upon dozens of eyes kept flicking over to her, staring at her and whispering. Her concentration shattered, she whispered, “There’s too many people here who might see something. I can’t focus.”

Simon whined stressfully.

“Good evening.” The moderator, a gray-haired woman in her fifties, turned steely eyes on the auditorium. A fraught silence fell over the crowd. “As this is a special town hall regarding a time-sensitive matter, we’d like to open up the floor to our community. We’ll allow up to three minutes for anyone who wants to speak about the matter of the Blue Moon Café’s Samhain festival. After that, council members will vote. Any uncourteous or uncivil behavior will result in immediate ejection from the town hall. That’s why Jeff’s here.”

The moderator gestured to an elderly man in a polo shirt sitting at the edge of the stage. He shook his cane menacingly at the audience. “I was in the Navy!”

The moderator continued, “Please line up at the microphone and wait to be called.”

The tense quiet splintered with the crowd’s murmurs, the air thick with anger unspent. Talula gripped her seat with white knuckles as people lined up at the mic.

In the pro-Samhain group, some voices of reason made Talula want to do grateful cartwheels.

“Samhain brings food, art, and cultural celebrations right to our backyard,” said Talula’s high school English teacher. “It encourages our children, and heck, even our adults, to keep a kind, open mind.”

“I thought that Samhain was evil,” said Josie steadily. Talula hadn’t seen the young woman since that memorable moment at the farmers’ market. “But I decided to learn more about it, and it’s really not. It brings the town together for a beautiful fall celebration. I think we live and let live. Samhain isn’t hurting anybody. I’m sorry I ever thought it did.”

“If you don’t like Samhain, no one is making you go!” said Muriel, Pine Hollow’s white-haired head librarian. “It’s a free event that enriches our community. If we wanted to throw a cheese festival, would the lactose-intolerant have a right to shut the event down? Of course not!”

“Banning Samhain would severely limit growth potential for so many of our wonderful small business owners and even entrepreneurs-to-be, which directly translates into growth for the entire community,” Anna argued ferociously.

“Also.” Emilio leaned over his wife’s shoulder to speak into the mic. “There will be five bounce houses this year.”

In the anti-Samhain group, there were quite a few passionate outcries that turned Talula’s stomach with worry and sent Simon into muttered tirades about “idiocracies.”

“How can the town sanction nonsensical, cultish practices on the taxpayers’ dollar?” snarled one man.

“I’d like to point out that Samhain is not a city-funded event,” the moderator commented. “Taxpayers only pay for maintenance of the grounds, but the space is available for anyone to use so long as they apply and pay for a permit.”

“So we pay for the maintenance of the place where satanists wreak havoc on our town?”

The moderator, grimacing, replied, “I must point out that you also pay for maintenance of the same space that’s used for the antique car show and the Easter egg hunt.”

“That’s fine. That’s the American way,” the man said smugly. Cheers erupted from the anti-Samhain sections of the audience. The moderator opened her mouth, then closed it, a vein in her forehead visibly throbbing.

“Samhain takes up space that would be better suited for a more wholesome cultural experience,” said one woman Talula recognized from the Magic Box protests. “Yes, small businesses benefit from having a special event dedicated to the community, but why does it have to be so wrapped up in a backwards religion? Couldn’t we replace the event with a harvest festival and get the same results?”

And, of course, some comments left even the moderator speechless.