“Did you get the pumpkins down to Laurie’s so they can get them ready for the celebration?” he asked, his voice trembling ever so slightly as he lowered himself to the dinner table, shadows flickering from the candlelight.

“Yes, I took it down there this morning. I’ll be going back down there to help because Abigail and Laurie had their hands full with the town’s loved ones,” she replied, her eyes darting toward the window where the fog pressed like clawed hands against the glass.

The town of Moon Creek dreads the passing of each year, for it is not merely a celebration that awaits but an ancient obligation. Throughout the year, the townsfolk tend the pumpkin fields with an uneasy devotion. Each pumpkin is planted in silence, for they know these pumpkins are not ordinary—they are vessels, traps for the spirits that refuse to rest.

Every soul born in Moon Creek carries a locket from cradle to grave. Soft curls of baby hair, faded photographs of first cries and last breaths—all imprisoned inside. But when death claims a loved one, a seed is buried in the locket’s cold metal heart. The locket is then hidden within the dark, loamy earth, and as the pumpkin swells and twists, the locket fuses into its flesh—a reminder that the dead are never truly gone. The soil is consecrated, but not just blessed—it is rumored to be mixed with the ashes of the restless, ensuring the harvest pulses with unnatural energy.

When the pumpkins have ripened, they are carried under cloak of night to a hallowed ground, where the moon’s light turns the earth pale and sickly. There, the pumpkins are left to soak in lunar energy for a full cycle—their skins growing cold and slick to the touch, humming with the secrets of the grave.

On the final night, as the clock strikes 10 PM, the people of Moon Creek tremble as they gather in the haunted forest. The ancient stones—etched with symbols no one dares decipher—await among the twisted trees. As the pumpkins are placed upon the stones, the embedded lockets begin to throb with a spectral light. The moon hangs low, and the boundary between the living and the dead snaps.

From each glowing pumpkin, the spirits of the departed erupt in a chilling procession, their whispers filling the air with the secrets of the afterlife and the regrets of those left behind. Their faces are pale masks of longing and malice, and the townsfolk are forced to join hands and dance, lest the spirits take offense and refuse to return to their graves. The celebration is a blend of terror and joy—laughter twisted with the cries of the lost—lasting three endless nights. And when the time comes to say farewell, all are relieved, for they know the peace is only borrowed, and next year, the dead will claw their way back again.