Vivian Carr leaned against the wrought iron, watching the procession. Each figure wore the same dark blue hat, their faces obscured by shadow. The stained-glass skull pulsed with an inner light, its colors shifting as it drifted closer. She’d been waiting for this night, for them to arrive. A single pumpkin glowed on the cobblestones below, mirroring the ones strung between the trees. They were coming for her offering, she knew. It was a tradition—a debt owed. The air grew cold, and the scent of autumn leaves mingled with something else…something ancient. She straightened her dress, adjusted the flowers in her hair, and prepared to descend.