Rowan pressed her nose flat against the rearview mirror. Beyond the glass: stone towers, crooked windows, a bruised-purple sky creaking. Creak. Creak. The gym was just a gym. Or was it?
Rowan blinked. The castle blinked back. Candy-sweet. Very, very tall. It leaned closer, patient as a cat at a window.
A kid in a lumpy pumpkin suit yanked the car door open. He pointed at the mirror. "Come in!" His voice went screechy-thin over the lot.
One by one, the trick-or-treaters shuffled toward the glass. The mirror fogged at the edges—soft, wobbly, like wet paper. From deep in the towers: hum. Hum. Low and round.
The blur swallowed the glass. Inside: a tall stone door, wide open. Kids frozen mid-giggle, candy stuck between teeth. Rowan slammed both palms flat. "Nope!"
She pushed her hand through the wobble. Fingers found the doorframe—something small and brass, still warm. She plucked it free. The door swung wide.
Laughter poured out like popcorn. One kid, two kids, a whole crowd tumbling past the stone door, shrieking and shoving, candy wrappers crinkling under their sneakers.
The parking lot. The black car. The gym's neon sign flickering: OPEN. Rowan tucked the brass key in her pocket. Tick. Tick. Tick. Cooling fast. She put the car in drive.