Page 68 of Haunt Me, Maybe

Inside, the building smelled like lemon cleaner and old wood. Rows of folding chairs were set up facing a small, raised platform. The meeting already had that warm, cluttered, small-town hum—chairs scraping, thermoses opening, someone loudly debating whether cinnamon rolls counted as seasonal decor.

Briony and I sat in the last row, which made it easy for Wes to hover right over my shoulder. Up at the front, a banner that read “HARVEST FESTIVAL: 72 YEARS OF TRADITION” hung slightly crooked behind the podium. Only, the two was crossed out, and a giant 3 was painted above it.

I leaned into Briony. “Seventy-three?”

“They’re counting the year it rained sideways, and everyone hid in the feed store,” she replied with a snort. “It was a big debate.”

Mayor Pritchard, the owner of said feed store, cleared his throat into the microphone, and everyone quickly found their seats. He tried to speak, but the feedback squealed, making half the room wince. This far back, my ears were spared the worst of it.

“Good evening, everyone!” He finally got the microphone working. “Lovely turnout despite the cold snap. Let’s get started before Earl plugs in that crockpot and blows the fuse again.”

“I heard that!” the man I assumed was Earl shouted.

A begrudging smile tugged at my lips, but then we really dove in. The first and main order of business was the Harvest Festival, and they moved through its agenda with impressive seriousness. They took a vote on whether goats—goats—were allowed in the petting zoo after “The Incident.”

My eyes widened at that, and they continued to grow with each topic.

“I say every year, a second scarecrow in the corn maze is too aggressive!”

“It’s a scarecrow, Bram.”

“And it’s my maze, Thomas. Why don’t we move on and discuss what’s really important, huh?”

Old Bram looked at the mayor, who shrugged and moved on to the next item on his list: the pie-baking contest. Apparently, there was controversy over whether bourbon counted as family-friendly. And…dammit! They voted on it. Did they vote on everything in this town? The answer was yes. Yes, they did.

They opened the floor to proposals next, and someone suggested synchronized carving on the green.

“We tried that in ’09, Carl,” called a voice from the middle. “It got competitive.”

Laughter rippled easily through the room. It felt warm, and for a moment, I let myself forget. I almost sank into it.

But then the mayor cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and said, “Now. Onto the concerns. Some of you have reported…unusual occurrences.”

The word hung there. Unusual. My stomach tightened until I thought I was going to be sick. I already knew. Before anyone said a word, I already knew that it was going to be worse than I thought. The shift in the room was palpable. People straightened. Chairs squeaked. Even the crockpot stopped bubbling.

Mrs. Dixon stood first. “My roses blackened overnight. It was most unnatural.”

“It’s the early frost,” someone offered.

“They were dry as a husk inside,” she snapped back.

A murmur rose in the room. My palms began to sweat, and I wiped them on my leggings. It didn’t help. The hardware twins stood next and spoke over each other.

“The orchard had apples fall before they ripened⁠—”

“—and split open.”

“—like they burst.”

My heart dropped, and Wes went still behind me. We already knew about the orchard, but hearing about it brought back the memories of seeing it. Of what I felt there and the nightmares that followed.

A man cleared his throat and stood, Earl, the local handyman. “The church bells rang at three in the morning. No wind. No one in the tower.”

A quiet ripple passed through those sitting, and I grew cold. Briony’s hand brushed mine unconsciously.

“Probably kids,” someone suggested weakly. They were running out of excuses.

“Kids don’t ring iron that heavy,” Earl said.