The next morning they found the masks broken in the fire pit and their car wouldn’t start.
Tucked inside the space below the house was a new thing, trembling, eager to meet them but worried they hadn’t yet made the proper mistakes.
The Food Thing arrived so they hid their hands and tightly closed their robes.
The grove at the center of the island was full of dugout canoes and handmade posters with rousing political slogans. Election day was close.
The rich people killed one another over the summer, inefficiently, fueled by expensive food, social feuds and love affairs. The servants shrugged.
Energy charged into the ancient border wall, the stones blinked in time with the druidic chant.
The instrument was created only for citizens of the village. There were no teachers, no songbooks, and no one knew how to play it.
At the bottom of the ditch all they could see were hundreds of rabbit faces peering from above.
The forecast promised hail the size of kittens, instead there was only carnival, only ever carnival.
They saw it, tall, made of bark and twisted sticks, vines with thorns. It stepped back into the trees.
They leaned back in their chairs at precisely the same moment. They raised and lowered their pipes with the same orchestration.
After the town meeting they turned into werewolves and agreed to grab a beer or two.
There were so many evil things stacked up in the well, the farmer decided he’d need to dig a new one, a deeper one.
The light shined through the delicatessen windows like delicious velvety fat.
Lord Austin displayed his prototype for the commemorative statue with pride, despite the vomiting, seizures, and fits of insanity it caused.