The quiet path curled through the hedges like a ribbon, soft with the last amber light of the day. Dusk pooled in every shadow, turning the grey gravel to the colour of polished stone. Somewhere far ahead, a single crow cawed — and then silence swallowed the sound whole. The path stretched on, empty and still, waiting for its one small walker to come around the bend.
She rounded the bend and stopped dead. A thing the size of a cottage stood in the middle of the walkway, arms spread wide, blocking every inch of forward ground. Its jaw hung open, slack, and a single strand of grey drool plopped onto the dark gravel below. Sunny's fingers squeezed her bag strap so hard the leather creaked and whined.
The zombie's enormous boot ground into the gravel, one side, then the other, sealing off every way around. Sunny tried to step left. "Move," she said, but the word came out small against all that grey and rot. Her hand found the cold iron hilt of a sword stuck crooked in the old oak trunk. She gripped it tight.
The zombie tilted its head, a slow wet rattle rolling from its open throat. Grrrrrk. The sound was low and round and wrong — it sent a flock of crows spiraling up into the bruised purple sky, their wings sharp and frantic against the fading light. Sunny planted her feet. She pulled the sword back, wide, and swung.
The blade tapped the zombie's arm with a sharp tink, shaving off nothing but a scrap of grey fabric. The scrap tumbled down, landing on the gravel with a soft dry whisper. The zombie lurched forward, its boot scraping a long groan across the stones. The evening wind threw Sunny's hair across her face. She wiped it back, pulled the sword wider, and swung again.
It reared up. The whole sky went dark — not night, not yet, but the last strip of orange swallowed by that huge, hollow chest. Both arms came down like felled trees. Sunny ducked, rolled the sword under its wrist, and drove the point up into the hollow of its ribcage. CRACK. A sound like a branch splitting, magnified a hundred times.
The giant tipped sideways, letting out one long, deflating pssssssss. Under its tattered coat, a cluster of red-and-yellow balloons tumbled free and hit the gravel. They popped — one, two, three — each burst a tiny crack of bright color against the grey. The path was sticky and warm where the rubber had been. The air smelled faintly of sugar.
Sunny set the sword back in the oak trunk, the hilt sinking into the bark. One balloon — the last one — drifted up to her fingers, tugging gently, warm in the last of the dusk. She held its string between thumb and forefinger. The rest of the balloons were gone. Only this one, and the soft pull of it against her skin.
She walked. The balloon bobbed at her side, ticking softly against her knuckle. Tick. Tick. Tick. The path unspooled ahead, the hedges quiet and still, the gravel pale under the first stars. Somewhere far off, the crows had settled. The only sound was the tick, tick, tick of warm rubber against small bones.
Her front door glowed ahead — small, gold, and steady in the dark. The balloon ticked once more against her knuckle, then went still, drifting up to the height of her shoulder like a tiny lantern. She set her free hand on the doorknob. The path behind her was empty and quiet. The dusk was done.