Harvest Maze
The air in Blackwood Valley didn't just carry the scent of autumn; it carried the stench of rot and cheap molasses, the obligatory perfumes of a failing season. Tonight was Halloween, and Elias Thorne, cynical and clad in a costume that was too expensive to be funny, was determined to hate every second of it. He and his three friends—who had long since become annoyingly enthusiastic about fake frights—had paid the exorbitant fee for Blackwood’s Harvest Maze, a vast, twisted labyrinth cut into thirty acres of dying hybrid corn. "They say this maze is built on ancient grounds," whispered Maeve, clutching Elias's arm, her voice tight with performative fear. "Where they used to hold the original, uh, harvest." Elias snorted, brushing off a stray piece of dry husk. "It's built on a tax write-off, Maeve. Look, there's a teenage ghoul holding a blinking plastic jack-o'-lantern." They plunged deeper. The first half hour was exactly as Elias ex...