Chapter 3
Delia
The pumpkin patch glows like a sea of embers under the morning sun, each orb ripe and glistening with dew, waiting for its moment to shine—or, more likely, to be hacked apart by a horde of sugar-hyped children.
I stand at the edge of the patch with a steaming travel mug cradled in both hands and watch the line of minivans lurch up our gravel drive, each one bursting with potential customers and at least three sticky-fingered offspring.
The town’s new curfew has forced every tourist in Pennington Falls to cram their entire weeks’ worth of Halloween revelry into one short, frantic afternoon, and it’s my job to make sure none of them leave disappointed.
I spot Jasper in the field, his icy white hair a beacon against the orange.
He hoists a dozen pumpkins into the back of our battered golf cart, barely breaking a sweat as he banters with the local football team, who are here to "volunteer" in exchange for extra credit. If anyone can wrangle a mob of teenage boys with the attention span of goldfish, it’s my husband.
I give him a little salute with my mug and turn back toward the barn.
Our “barn”, by the way, is a grotesque misnomer.
The original was condemned in the 1970s, so what stands now is a monstrous cathedral of pumpkin kitsch, built out of reclaimed wood, corrugated steel, and stubbornness.
It’s two stories tall with a wraparound porch festooned in fake cobwebs, and an interior that could make Martha Stewart weep blood tears.
Every inch is packed with vintage Halloween memorabilia, handmade pumpkin spice everything, caramel and chocolates dipped apples, about two hundred jars of family recipe fruit preserves, a cider bar, and rows and rows of home-grown gourds slouching in rustic crates.
The lower level houses our “festival refugees”—vendors who lost the cutthroat battle for town square real estate and now hawk their wares beneath our rafters instead.
At 9:57 a.m., I unlock the doors and let the crowd pour in. There’s a moment—a perfect sliver of time—when I’m the only thing standing between the waiting masses and chaos, and I imagine myself as some doomed lighthouse keeper bracing for the tidal wave.
I open the doors and step aside.
They surge past me, a blur of flannel shirts and face paint, their squeals ricocheting off the rafters. A little witch in purple tulle trips on the threshold, and I steady her before she goes down. "Careful, spell-slinger. You have to watch that first step," I say, and wink.
She beams at me, gap-toothed, then launches herself at the caramel apple station, trailing glitter like pixie dust.
By 11:05, the barn is at critical mass. Our army of scarecrows that were once cheerful guardians, now look faintly terrified, their stitched faces wide-eyed as children pose for selfies and tourists paw through our bins of lopsided gourds.
The cash registers are shrieking, the air is a heady stew of sugar and pumpkin spice, and the ambient volume is one Taylor Swift song away from a Class A noise violation.
I love every second of it.
I work my way through the crowd, restocking pumpkin scones and dodging a toddler wielding a novelty sickle shouting, “Mommy, I’m the Grim Weeper!”
This is what we trained for all year.
In a typical year, we'd see a steady stream of visitors throughout October.
Tourists wandering in on the weekends, locals coming by after work, teenagers looking for the perfect Instagram backdrop.
But the curfew has compressed a month's worth of revelry into mere daylight hours.
I watch them now, cramming joy into borrowed time, their laughter a touch too loud, their movements slightly manic, as if they're racing the setting sun.
By three, the line at the pie contest snakes out the door and wraps around the porch.
Inside the barn, the caramel apple brigade is in full swing—children and adults alike leaving with faces smeared in sticky gold.
I station myself at the pumpkin carving booth, where the competition is fierce and the knives are, regrettably, real.
A girl with pigtails and a sullen expression glares at her squat, warty pumpkin. "It won’t work," she says, jabbing her carving tool so hard I worry she’ll amputate a finger.
I crouch beside her. "You have to get to know your pumpkin. It’s a partnership. Watch."
I select a smaller gourd from the pile and run my thumb along the surface. "See this spot here? That’s the sweet spot. Press your knife in slowly. Like this." I make a gentle starter cut, then hand it back.
She narrows her eyes at the pumpkin, then at me, before plunging the knife in with all the determination of a tiny executioner.
Five minutes later, she's beaming at her creation of a misshapen face with a crooked grimace and one thick, threatening eyebrow. "It looks mean," she announces, chin lifted with satisfaction.
"Perfect," I say, nodding seriously. "The meaner it looks, the better it keeps the bad spirits away. Not to mention those rowdy football boys out there. Nice work."
She cackles, hoists her pumpkin and races off to find her parents, nearly colliding with two boys with superhero capes and faces sticky from the cider donuts.
The rest of the booth erupts in giggles and competitive trash talk, and I bask in the chaos for a moment before ducking into the small adjoining room behind the checkout registers.
Sally, one of the teenage girls we hired to run the POS system looks up from her phone long enough to shoot me a smile as I brush by. Whiskers is stretched arrogantly across the break table sucking the soul out of a slice of pumpkin roll.
He looks up, a crumb clinging just beneath his chin like a badge of honor, “I know you came for a break, but I think you have a visitor,” he says, twitching his ears toward the chaos I just came from.
I poke my head back out to the sales floor just in time to see Mayor Bishop herself squeeze through the entrance, flanked by two reporters and a man in a blue blazer who looks like he just lost a fight with a bottle of self-tanner.
Damn it.
The Mayor waves at me and I step out to meet them. “Delia Nightshade!” she says, her voice just a notch too high. “You’re a marvel. The Nightshade farm is the talk of the town. Even with the tragedy, you and your husband have managed to keep the spirit alive.”
I smile, because what else can you do when a politician is buttering you up? “Just doing our part to help the community, Mayor. We’re all in this together.”
The reporters waste no time.
Blue Blazer thrusts a mic in my face. “What’s your secret to running such a successful operation?” he asks, grinning in a way that makes me want to dunk his head in the caramel fountain.
I resist the urge and answer with my best mock-serious tone. “Strong coffee, witchcraft, and an amazing staff that isn’t afraid of a little bit of pumpkin guts.”
The Mayor laughs a little too loudly at my mention of witchcraft. “See? I told you. She’s a treasure.”
I pose with the Mayor and the reporters for a round of awkward photos, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.
Every question is the same—how are we coping, what safety measures have we put in place, am I worried for the festival?
I give them my best answers, all positive spin and folksy optimism, avoid mentioning the murder or curfew unless absolutely necessary.
When the press clears out, Mayor Bishop's smile vanishes like a light switched off. She grips my elbow, voice dropping to a murmur. "This curfew is killing us, Delia. Killing the whole damn town."
I nod, keeping my own smile frozen in place. "We're managing. For now."
Her perfectly lined eyes flicker toward the door where the reporters just left, and I catch a glimpse of something raw beneath her professional veneer. "Are we, though?"
“It’s been a challenge.” I admit, “but safety first, right?”
She lets out a little bark of laughter, so brittle I imagine it would cut skin. “Right. Safety before solvency."
“How are things going in town?” I ask.
She runs a hand through her carefully styled hair, disturbing the hairspray barrier. “Not the best, but so far, everyone is surviving the first day of the festival.” she sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly.
I place a gentle hand on her shoulder, feeling the tremor beneath her perfectly pressed blazer. "The town will get through this, Mayor. We’re too stubborn not to."
She gives me a wan smile, the kind that doesn't reach her eyes. “Thank you, Delia. I’d better go check on the other vendors before heading back into town. The parade begins in—” she glances down at the gold watch on her wrist. “Shit. I have to go.” She gives me a desperate little finger wave and whirls away, heels clicking as she wriggles her way back through the crowd.
I step outside on the wraparound porch, where Jasper has finally made it in from the field, his arms dusted with a fine layer of pumpkin residue. He beelines for me and scoops me up in a bear hug, spinning me once before setting me down.
“Missed you,” he murmurs against my neck, a hint of sweat and autumn musk curling beneath the light layer of cologne he spritzed himself with this morning.
“You were gone five minutes,” A giggle erupts from my throat, “but I missed you too.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest where I'm pressed against him. "Five minutes too long." His hands find my waist, thumbs tracing small circles through my sweater.
A gaggle of children passing by makes retching noises, one of them dramatically clutching his throat as another pretends to faint on his friend's shoulder. I roll my eyes, sticking my tongue out at them but don't pull away from Jasper's embrace.
I give Jasper a sideways glance, voice pitched low. "You know those kids are going to start a betting pool about how long until we make out in public."
He smirks. "Let them. Builds character."