Crunch... crunch...

The sound of leaves underfoot. The air smells sweet—like cinnamon, like firewood, like… rot.

A red glow flickers in the mist. A figure floats among the withered corn stalks. Her eyes are too big. Her smile too wide.

“Did you come for treats…?” she whispers, head tilting slowly, “Or are you the treat this year?”

She opens her arms. Her chest-mouth grins. The vines twitch.

“Let’s celebrate the harvest… together.”