We turned into the driveway on a chilly October evening, headlights sweeping across our front yard—and my stomach dropped. The witch lay face down in the mud, one plastic hand torn off. Our cobwebs were shredded and tangled across the grass like wet laundry. Orange pulp smeared the walkway where our pumpkins used to grin. The string lights had been yanked down and scattered, bulbs like little glass teeth glinting in the dark. For a second I thought: teenagers. A prank. Then Emma gasped beside me, and Luke whispered, “Mr. Bones?”—his favorite skeleton—staring at the patch of dirt where only...
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