The lantern’s glow barely pierced the swirling mist as Vivian Carr moved forward, the scythe heavy in her hand. The skeletal guide drifted ahead, its form shimmering between the trees. Old carriages, draped in cobwebs, lined the path—silent witnesses to some forgotten procession. She held the lantern higher, searching for any sign of what lay ahead. A sudden gust of wind extinguished the flame, plunging her into near darkness. Vivian felt a cold breath on her neck and heard a faint whisper carried on the breeze: "The harvest awaits."