Irena Kirk surveyed her harvest. Not of grain or squash, but of bone and shadow. Each skull carefully placed, each pumpkin alight with an unnatural glow. The skeletal figures stood sentinel, their empty sockets reflecting the lunar light. Tonight was the culmination of months of work, a display meant to appease… something. A low hum vibrated through the stalks, growing stronger as she moved further down the path. She paused, hand resting on a crimson rose woven into her hair, and listened. The air thickened with anticipation, a silent promise of what would come when the first seeker dared to step beyond the field's edge. It was time.