Page 13 of Bonepetal
Miles nearly chokes. “You’re gonna get murdered for that opinion.”
“Better than dying of boredom,” I mutter, shoving my phone back in my pocket.
We’re squashed along the split-rail fence with the rest of the hayride crowd, pumpkins leering up at us like drunks, mist crawling in over the fields. The air smells like cider and sugar, sticky-sweet, but the kind that chills your teeth. Kids in Party City masks tear around screaming, scarecrows sag like hung men, and orange lights buzz overhead like dying bees. Cute, the way everyone keeps pretending death is cozy.
My phone stays stubbornly blank.
Me
where are you
line’s moving
don’t make me be social
No reply.
“This is why straight boys shouldn’t be allowed to say ‘brb,’” Miles mutters, scrolling. “It’s never actually ‘brb.’ It’s ‘I saw my reflection and had to admire it for twenty minutes.’”
“Or he lost his phone again,” Jamie says, rolling his eyes. “Which, based on the three hours I’ve known him, feels on brand.”
“Extremely on brand,” I agree, stuffing my hands into my jacket so no one sees how they’re shaking.
Miles bumps my shoulder, grin sharp. “Don’t stress. Worst case we ditch him and offer the scarecrow a human sacrifice. You in?”
“Bold of you to assume the scarecrow’s animatronic,” I shoot back. “Pretty sure he’s just a drunk uncle with hay in his pants.”
Jamie chokes on his cider. “If that thing moves, I’m out. No questions asked.”
“Babe,” Miles says, dead serious. “If it moves, weallrun. You’re on your own with your cider though.”
The tractor grinds to life. The wagon ahead of us rattles, hay bales squealing against the rails. A woman dressed as a banshee shrieks from the shadows, then laughs sheepishly when her radio squawks and ruins the moment. The fog eats both sounds.
“C’mon,” Jamie says, hooking his arm through Miles’s. “Let’s ride. Nathan wouldn’t want you to miss it.”
“Yeah,” Miles adds, waggling his brows. “And if he shows up we’ll send his bitch ass for more cider for making us wait so damn long.”
I almost smile. “Fine,” I sigh, “but I’m picking the corner with the best escape route. If I get ax-murdered by a guy in a Party City mask, I swear I’ll haunt you both. I’m petty as hell. Like, swapping your sugar for salt and making sure you canneverfind the matching sock to your favorite pair.”
Jamie and Miles both gasp so dramatically half the line turns to stare. Jamie clutches his chest like I stabbed him, Miles clutches Jamie like he’s next, and together they look at me like I just admitted to burning Gucci.
“You wouldn’tdare,” Jamie stage-whispers, eyes wide but sparkling.
“Oh my god, she totally would,” Miles says, shaking his head, curls bouncing, already grinning. “She’s evil like that.”
I sip my cider slow, deadpan. “Guess you’ll just have to live in fear.”
Their scandalized shrieking is so over the top it drowns out the hayride tractor, and by the time they’re done, I’m laughing too hard to keep a straight face.
We climb up on to the tractor once it stops. The hay scratches the backs of my thighs through my dress, and the boards under me are cold and rough. Everyone’s breath drifts white in the air, puff after puff, like smoke from a dozen tiny chimneys. The wagon jolts forward, iron wheels clattering on gravel beforesinking into the softer thud of packed dirt. The tractor spits smoke that hangs low around us, wrapping the night in a haze.
Halloween is everywhere. Lanterns swinging from fence posts. Corn shocks tied in bunches. A string of fake bones swaying between maples. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker wheezes out a looped moan from the trees, cheap and more sultry than scary. The crowd obliges anyway, shrieking, and laughing.
I’m not laughing.
The farm presses right up against the forest I grew up in. The real woods, not this staged carnival of props. The old trees crouch beyond the fields, black silhouettes against a darker sky. I know where the earth dips, where it sinks like a trapdoor. I know the taste of the air right before the veil is at its thinnest, andhecrosses over, metallic, like blood in your mouth. I know the difference between the way crows sound when they’re birds, and when they’re something else.
The wagon creaks over the property line, and the air changes. Subtle, but sharp. Like someone leaned in and blew cold air against the back of my neck. My skin prickles down my spine, every hair standing like it’s waiting for a hand that hasn’t touched me yet.
