Sinister Squashfire Mantle

The last Sinister Squash of the harvest would not stop burning. Rain hissed off its rind, frost melted around its roots, and each morning its grin had grown a little wider.

A village weaver captured its likeness in a cape, hoping to bind the thing before it consumed the fields. By dawn, the squash was cold and hollow.

The weaver's needle was still warm.

On the darkest nights, the grin turns toward whoever walks behind you