Sarah’s car crept slowly up the winding road toward Eldergrove. A forgotten town, hidden beneath layers of time and overgrown trees. The last stop before the northern wilderness, the kind of place you drove through and immediately forgot about—if you were lucky.

She glanced at the clock on the dashboard: 10:45 PM. It wasn’t late enough for a ghost story, but Sarah had grown accustomed to working the night shift, the long hours that bled into the next day, when her tired eyes would find strange comfort in the darkness.

She pulled into the town square, a place that seemed frozen in the amber glow of old streetlights. Shops were shuttered, and the smell of damp earth hung thick in the air. The festival’s signs were hung with care, showcasing a harvest that seemed to promise more than apples and pumpkins—Eldergrove Harvest Festival, Tonight Only. No other explanation needed. No need for more words. It was a tradition, that much she knew.

She parked, stepping out of the car and inhaling the scent of wet leaves. A chill brushed over her skin, but it wasn’t the kind that made you shiver. It was the kind that made you feel like you were being watched. She shrugged it off. The article she needed to write—about the quaint town’s quirky harvest festival—would be her ticket to a good night’s sleep once it was over.

Sarah had lived her life chasing normalcy, chasing the next big story, chasing the next thing that might keep her from facing the truth she had been avoiding. But tonight wasn’t about her. It was about Eldergrove, and its peculiar charm. That’s what the publisher had called it: “A quaint, offbeat celebration of harvest traditions and rustic life.” Rustic, indeed.

A man appeared from the shadows as she walked toward the festival grounds. He was older, with wiry hair and a face that didn’t quite match his youthful gait.

“Welcome, Miss Lancaster,” he said, offering a crooked smile. “I trust the drive wasn’t too much trouble?”

Sarah nodded, though she had never met the man before. “Not at all. I’m here for the article, right on time.”

He chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling like someone with a secret only they could understand. “Good, good. We’ve been expecting you. The harvest waits for no one, and it’s better if you don’t miss it.” He turned, motioning for her to follow. “The festivities are this way, Miss Lancaster. Don’t let the quiet fool you. There’s much to see tonight.”

They walked through an archway adorned with vine-wrapped pumpkins and dried corn stalks. The square ahead was eerily empty of the usual festival crowds—no children running around, no couples strolling hand in hand. The music, soft and haunting, played from an unseen source. It was unsettling in its stillness.

The man led her to a large tent, and she felt a coldness creep up her spine as the entrance flap was lifted. Inside, the air was thick and heavy, filled with the scent of something earthy, like freshly dug soil. The shadows inside the tent danced in strange patterns, and a long table stood at its center, laden with freshly harvested vegetables.

“Take a seat,” the man gestured. “It’s almost time.”

Sarah hesitated but then sat down at one of the long wooden benches. Her eyes scanned the room—something was wrong here. The space felt too large for the few people seated, their heads down, their faces obscured by the dim lighting. Her hands trembled slightly as she set her notebook on the table, ready to make her observations.

She had only been there for a few minutes when the temperature in the room dropped further, the flickering lights casting shadows that seemed to curl and writhe. A figure emerged from the far side of the tent—a woman, tall and regal, dressed in black with an air of command that cut through the air like a blade. The woman’s eyes locked onto Sarah’s as if she knew exactly who she was.

“Miss Lancaster,” she said in a voice that seemed to ripple through the room. “You’ve come for the harvest. You’ve come to learn about us.”

“I’m here for the article,” Sarah replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

The woman smiled, slow and deliberate. “Yes, the article.” She looked down at the table and gestured for Sarah to follow her gaze. “This is where it all begins, Miss Lancaster. The harvest of the lost.”

Sarah’s heart began to race. Her eyes darted over the table, and she noticed something she hadn’t before—a line of small, intricately carved wooden tokens, each one different, yet each one unmistakably shaped like a soul—a figure locked in eternal rest.

“Each year,” the woman continued, her voice low and melodic, “we harvest the souls that belong to Eldergrove. Souls that wander too far, souls that belong to the land and the rituals long buried beneath the earth. Tonight, you are the harvest.”

The air in the room grew dense, and Sarah felt a sharp ache in her chest, a weight pressing in on her as if the very air was thickening. She struggled to breathe, but no words came from her mouth. Her mind, once clear, was now clouded with panic.

The woman stood taller now, and the other figures in the room slowly raised their heads, their eyes glowing like embers in the dark.

“You thought you were here for the article,” the woman whispered. “But you were always meant to join us. You’ve always been one of us. We’ve waited for you, Sarah. The harvest always comes full circle.”

Sarah’s heart thundered in her chest, but her feet were rooted to the floor. She had to get out. She had to run. But she couldn’t move. She couldn’t think.

The woman’s lips curled into a twisted smile as she reached out and placed one hand gently on Sarah’s forehead.

“You belong to Eldergrove now,” she said. “And we’ll harvest you like the others.”