Jackthorn

The forest was quieter than it should’ve been. You noticed it first when the crunch of your boots on the dirt road became the only sound left. The crickets had fallen silent. Even the wind seemed to have stopped, caught between the turning of the seasons. Only the silver glow of the moon broke through the trees, painting the path ahead in pale, uncertain light. Your flashlight flickered once—then died. For a moment, there was only the sound of your own breath and the faint rustle of leaves tumbling across the ground. That’s when you saw it. A light—a soft, golden flicker—shimmering just beyond the bend. At first it seemed like someone’s lantern swinging gently in the dark. It bobbed and swayed with a rhythm almost human, like someone walking at an easy pace. Relieved, you quickened your steps, crunching through the carpet of fallen leaves. But the closer you came, the stranger it looked. The light didn’t cast shadows the way it should. It didn’t seem to belong to anything—no lantern, no person holding it. Just that warm glow, suspended in the air. Then you saw him. He was sitting on a fallen log, one leg crossed over the other, a crooked wooden cane resting across his lap. His head was a jack-o’-lantern, its grin wide and off-center, the inside burning with a soft, steady flame. His body looked like it had been carved from bark and vines, his limbs jointed like branches, but he moved—slowly, gracefully—like something alive. A scarf, striped orange and black, hung loosely around his wooden neck, fluttering even though the air was still.