Pumpkin Spice, Knotty Nights (Whispering Grove #3)

Chapter 1

CINDY

H alloween in Whispering Grove is like watching your grandmother get a tattoo…

unexpected, slightly disturbing, and impossible to look away from.

Our sweet Christmas-obsessed town transforms into something unrecognizable every October, trading the music on the overhead outdoor speakers from “Silent Night” to “Thriller” and replacing the year-round twinkle lights with fake cobwebs that will absolutely still be there come December.

“If I die in there, I want it on record that I knew it was a death trap.” I cross my arms, glaring at the House of Horrors squatting at the edge of the festival like it personally offended me.

It leans slightly to the left, draped in fake cobwebs and flickering red lights that scream tetanus and poor life choices.

The plywood facade is painted to look like rotting bricks, but it mostly looks like someone lost a bet and went wild with a staple gun and two dollars’ worth of spirit store clearance items. Somewhere inside, a chainsaw revs.

I flinch. “See? It’s already claiming victims.”

Harper bounces beside me, practically vibrating with Halloween enthusiasm.

She’s gone all out tonight with purple-tipped black hair styled in elaborate victory rolls, dramatic winged eyeliner that could cut glass, and a vintage horror movie T-shirt tucked into a tulle skirt that shouldn’t work but absolutely does on her.

The combat boots with spiderweb laces are just the cherry on top of her spooky sundae.

“Don’t be dramatic,” she says, which is rich coming from someone wearing earrings shaped like tiny chainsaws.

“I’m not. That haunted house looks like it was designed by someone whose therapist gave up.”

“My therapist thinks I’m making excellent progress, thank you very much.” Harper grabs my arm, her collection of silver rings cold against my skin. “Besides, you promised. No take-backsies now.”

“I promised to attend the festival. I said nothing about voluntarily entering buildings specifically designed to trigger fight-or-flight responses.”

Harper bellows out a laugh, still tugging me closer to the entrance.

The Whispering Grove Halloween Festival sprawls around us in chaos with people everywhere.

Harper loves all of this with an intensity that borders on religious.

She grew up here, but her Mexican grandmother always celebrated Día de los Muertos , teaching her that October wasn’t about fear but about honoring what came before, dancing with death instead of running from it.

When her abuela passed five years ago, Halloween became Harper’s way of keeping that connection alive.

She throws herself into it with the same passion her grandmother brought to her ofrendas , just with more fake blood.

“Come on,” Harper wheedles, pulling me past a booth selling candy apples. “We need to get our adrenaline up before the Harvest Dance. That’s where all the hotties are going to be.”

“According to what source?”

“Jeff told me.”

“Jeff being the guy who disappears for days without responding to messages?”

Harper’s grin turns defensive. “He lives three hours away in Wild Falls. He can’t always?—”

“He can’t text from Wild Falls? Did they not get cell towers yet?”

“He’s busy with work?—”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Investment banking.”

I stop walking. “In the town whose main exports are disappointment and that weird cheese that tastes like feet?”

“Don’t be a cheese snob.” Harper tugs me forward. “Besides, when he is here…” She fans herself dramatically. “That man knows exactly how to make me smile.”

“And we’re entering the murder house now!” I announce loudly as a family with small children passes.

The bored teenager at the entrance doesn’t look up from his phone as we pay. His zombie makeup is already smearing, and it’s only eight o’clock.

“Welcome to your doom,” he drones. “Don’t touch the actors. They won’t touch you unless you sign the waiver for the extreme experience.”

“There’s an extreme experience?” My voice climbs an octave.

Harper’s eyes light up like someone just offered her a puppy made of nightmares. “Should we?—”

“Absolutely not.”

We push through hanging chains that immediately tangle in my hair, and the temperature drops like we’ve entered a meat locker. The festival sounds fade, replaced by speakers playing what I can only describe as ambient suffering.

“This is fun!” Harper shouts, then immediately shrieks as something brushes her shoulder.

“Super fun,” I mutter, grabbing her arm. “I’m having so much fun I might actually die.”

We shuffle forward through strobing lights that make everything look like a horror movie directed by someone having a seizure.

The corridor opens into a maze of mirrors, each one reflecting distorted versions of ourselves.

Harper makes faces at her stretched reflection while I try not to think about how accurate the funhouse effect feels—warped, wrong, like I’m still that girl from two years ago who didn’t know who she was.

“So, Jeff’s coming to the dance tonight,” Harper admits, apparently immune to the creepy dolls now surrounding us, their heads turning to follow our movement.

“How nice for Jeff.”

“He’s bringing friends.”

“How nice for Jeff’s friends,” I say sarcastically and stick my tongue out at her.

She hip-checks me, nearly sending me into a mannequin dressed as a bloody bride. The white dress makes my stomach clench… too close to memories I’ve buried, to the girl who ran through the woods in torn lace and fear.

“Sorry!” Harper catches me. “I didn’t think?—”

“It’s fine.” The laugh that escapes me is too bright, too sharp. “Just wasn’t expecting the wedding theme in a Halloween house.” I push back the thoughts because it’s been almost two years since I ran away from my family, from the man I was meant to marry, leaving him at the altar.

We round another corner into fake cobwebs that stick to everything. A child’s voice sings off-key from hidden speakers, which is infinitely worse than screaming.

“Jeff’s really sweet,” Harper continues, determined to distract me. “He brought me flowers last time. Roses. They were black roses.”

“Okay, that’s actually pretty good.”

Something lunges from the shadows. We scream, clutching each other like we’re trying to become one person with twice the anxiety. The actor cackles before disappearing back into the darkness.

“I hate this,” I gasp. “I hate this so much.”

“You love it,” Harper insists, though she’s breathing just as hard. “When was the last time you felt this alive?”

She’s not wrong, which is annoying. The adrenaline feels refreshing and nothing like the constant terror I lived with before. This is fear I can walk away from.

We navigate through a medical scene that appears too realistic for comfort, then a tilted room that makes me nauseous.

“Oh, look, angry clown. Revolutionary,” Harper continues.

“Is that supposed to be blood, or did someone spill their fruit punch?”

“That skeleton is wearing Crocs. I refuse to be scared of someone in Crocs.”

I’m actually starting to relax, letting myself lean into the ridiculousness, when we round another corner.

A figure stands at the end of the narrow hallway. Black suit. Tall frame. Blond hair slicked back in a way that speaks of money and control. Backlit by red lights that turn him into a nightmare.

Van. The man I was supposed to marry. The man I ran from in a wedding dress nearly two years ago. The man whose cigarette burn still marks my arm.

Every muscle in my body locks. The scream building in my throat isn’t fun or controlled. It’s the one I’ve been swallowing for two years, the one that tastes like smoke and desperation.

“Cindy?” Harper’s voice sounds like it’s underwater.

The figure starts walking toward us, and I can’t move. My vision tunnels, and suddenly I’m not here?—

I’m in his mansion, his hand around my throat, his voice calm as he explains how I’ll learn to be silent.

I’m at the ceremonial hall, counting seconds until my life ends.

I’m running through woods, branches tearing at white lace ? —

“MOVE!” Someone shoves past us, the group behind us, breaking the spell. The lights flicker brighter, revealing the truth. It’s just an actor, maybe twenty, with theatrical makeup and a cheap suit. Nothing like Van except in my panic-broken brain.

“I thought—” I gasp to Harper, unable to finish. “For a second, I thought that was Van.”

“Shit.” Harper’s face goes pale.

She doesn’t wait for agreement, just drags me through the rest of the house like we’re being chased by actual demons. We burst into the October night, and I immediately bend over, hands on knees, gulping air like I’ve been underwater.

“Breathe,” Harper soothes, rubbing my back. “You’re safe. He’s not here.”

Except I’ve been seeing him everywhere lately.

Two weeks ago on the sidewalk, and I hid in a local bakery cafe, but it turned out to be some tourist. Last week at the gas station, just another tall blond guy.

My paranoia has been in overdrive all month, and I hate it.

I hate that after almost two years, he still has this power over me.

“Come on,” Harper says, steering me toward the food vendors. “Pumpkin spice fixes everything.”

“That’s your solution to all things.”

“And when have I been wrong?”

We find a table near the beer garden, which is just picnic tables with string lights and paper butterflies that look more like mutant moths. Harper returns with two steaming cups and a concerned expression.

“We don’t have to go to the dance,” she offers. “We can go home, watch horror movies, eat our weight in candy?—”

“No.” The word comes out harder than intended. “No, I’m not letting a panic attack ruin tonight. I’m not letting him, even the memory of him, control me anymore.”

Harper studies me for a long moment, then nods. “Okay. But if you change your mind?—”