Becky Bray stood still as the procession moved slowly toward the heart of the swamp, each lantern bobbing like a morbid firefly. She’d been chosen to lead, they said, because of the flowers—a vibrant defiance against the encroaching gloom. But as she looked at the skeletal figurehead guiding the boat, and the silent figures lining the banks, Becky felt a chill deeper than the autumn air. The music had stopped. A single voice echoed across the water, calling her name. It wasn't familiar. And it seemed to be coming from within the skull itself.