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you couldn't shake the feeling in those autumn months that things were getting worse. you didn't say it out loud, no one would have believed you anyway…anyone who was close to you was already sick of your anxieties and tangents, the things you told them that hit too close to home and all the things nobody wanted to hear. you tried to ignore the crows circling, the wilting flowers that your mother had once taken pride in and a swelling feeling of worry in your stomach — the place was filled with bad omens or maybe that was what your mind was trying to tell you. you were used to it creating false narratives but there were patterns, as if things were dying…rotting at the very core…you distracted yourself with your books, with late night walks and thinking about how close graduation was. you wouldn't be here for much longer.

#mc: accepted

for all wyatt despised what the hunger made of him, for all he feared it, it hadn’t come to him as an enemy. it wrapped around him with familiar hands, patient and warm, until he could no longer remember where it ended and he began. until it was too late to untangle himself. and when it finally left, it left him hollow. like waking up to an empty house, all that once filled it now gone - the old couch, his favorite place at the kitchen table. sometimes he catches himself feeling for the scuff marks in the floorboards, searching for proof that it had been there at all.

#mc: accepted

face splattered with blood, rylan stood before what remained of the dismembered corpses, the charred soil where they had just lain. the thick stench of smoke clung to their hair, and they could feel the faint sensation of fresh wounds mending, flesh slowly stitching itself back together. their shirt had been torn, again; they would need to go shopping soon. in their hand, a bronze pocketwatch. the only remnant of an unlucky man who strayed too far from the cobblestone path. he wasn’t the first innocent ryland had fed from, nor would he be the last. but this one begged, pleaded. they were in rylan’s ear, taunting them — ‘i thought you were better than this’.

#mc: accepted

calla had no intention of raising her child on poisoned land. she may have been unable to spare them from the legacy curse of magic, but she could remove them from a town in which people would fear them. her little one, violette, was raised on the road. one thing as inevitable as a witch's debt is illness, and calla used her skills as a travelling nurse to keep thousands of miles between her young family and the town she was born in. it was the two of them, always, treating each new town as a blank slate and an adventure. still, no matter how mindful she may have been, calla left breadcrumbs that would ultimately lead lettie to magnolia creek. it was in the way her mother would talk about watching a storm roll over the water, the familiarity and warmth with which calla spoke of her sisers and cousins, the blend of tea that mysteriously appeared in the postbox of whichever rental they were in. magnolia creek was a ghost story, equal parts eerie and intriguing.

#mc: accepted

she remembers what her life looked like before the field. before halloween, before she lost everything. smartest one in every room she went into, sharp words and quips for every occasion. “look at thalia,” people would say as she walked through sawtooth, “she’s going to be something.” there were college acceptance letters stacked on the counter, hair fixed in perfect perfection each morning in her bathroom mirror. thalia remembers debate team practices with the only other member on the team, student council meetings where she sat at the head of the table. these days, however, things were different. there was peeling paint on the boat she used to take for sails, lifted-up roof tiles on the house she used to share with her parents. her mother was another casualty to the events on halloween, at least in thalia’s eyes. her mother died a month before the events on the football field, leaving thalia alone with her father, and her dog, cody. they weren’t much, but they were enough.

#mc: accepted

she remembers being eight years old and standing in the church basement while pastor taught a lesson upstairs. the walls had sweated in the summer heat. the lights staticed overhead. somewhere above her, the congregation was singing. she could hear it through the floorboards. she'd found an injured bird outside. a sparrow with one wing bent wrong. she remembers holding it in both hands. remembers how light it felt. how frightened. the frantic pulse fluttering against her palms. "it's going to die," someone had told her. she remembers looking down at it. then saying, very quietly, "then i'll stay with it." she'd sat there for hours. long after the bird stopped fighting. long after it stopped moving at all. when her father finally found her, she'd still been sitting on the concrete floor with the bird curled in her hands. he'd asked why she hadn't come upstairs. she remembered staring at the little body for a moment before answering. "it was alone."

#mc: accepted

there was one voice that was the worst. she didn't speak often and she was less cruel than the others, but when she did come it cut the most. pain so sharp you felt as if you had form. where the others sculpted you into something you knew wasn't what was before, she took pieces of "before" away. you dreaded her voice coming the most and also hoped for it the most. she was your greatest pain and comfort… then she said something you knew was wrong. even in the anger and hatred that'd grown in you, you knew that your twin would never say something like that and mean it in the way the phantom did. your twin. you knew who you were again. what had happened. what was taken from you and how you were abandoned by those closest to you. you remembered you weren't just waiting, but crawling. and somehow, you'd finally crawled you're way out. a feral thing of half remembered things and twisted memories. you were a child of the void now.

#mc: accepted

it comes to her in flashes these days, no longer the endless movie reel that carved sleepless hollows beneath her eyes for those first years after. the sticky smell of beer clogging her nostrils, the glittering streamers. the first scream to break through the chatter. her rattling skull, the smoke that choked her lungs. the panic that rose like bile once they realized everything was going wrong. that very last glimpse of the scythe’s face. and the blood—so much blood. seeping in and dampening the football field, marking torn up bodies that lay motionless and limp. afterwards, she’d scrubbed at her dress for hours until her own knuckles were raw, and the stains of her own doing couldn’t be differentiated from the stains of what had already been done.

#mc: accepted

#mc: accepted

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#mc: accepted