The fog ate her words. The doppelgänger nodded once and crumbled into dry leaves.
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 rolled into Creekmaw just after sunset, thick as old linen and twice as cold. Cara pulled her cloak tighter, boots squelching on the rain-softened path. Lanterns flickered from crooked porch posts—carved pumpkins grinning with secrets rather than light. The fog ate her words
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. Someone had left a wreath of dried marigolds
The doppelgänger smiled. “Not want. Remember. Someone has to.”