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The pastry flaked over the paperwork on my desk while I checked the final hour’s staffing notes. The filling was sausage, apple, and sharp cheddar, which meant Laurie had chosen something substantial because she remained convinced that running an event gave me amnesia about food.

She wasn’t entirely wrong.

Outside the cramped workroom, Hollowfield glowed against the darkening fields. Amber bulbs looped above the public walkways. Families carried pumpkins toward the parking area while teenagers clustered around the cider stand with steaming cups tucked between their palms. The chill had deepened enough that every breath showed faintly beneath the flood of warm light near the barns.

For a moment, I let myself enjoy the sight of the place—not the numbers or the schedule or the fact that I still had a final walkthrough ahead of me.

I remembered being eight years old and choosing a pumpkin here with Laurie and Pamela, convinced the largest one in the field was automatically the best. Pamela had made me carry it halfway to the car before I admitted I might have overestimated my commitment.

Back then, Hollowfield had been somewhere my family took me in October.

Now Rick Hollowfield, the farm’s owner, trusted me with one of the farm’s biggest seasonal draws.

That mattered.

My radio crackled against the table.

“Last ticketed group is entering,” one of the front staff reported.

I checked the clock. It was closing time.

“Copy. Keep the spacing normal. Nobody starts breakdown until the final group is confirmed out.”

The answer came back immediately.

I ate most of the hand pie, wiped the crumbs from my fingers, and headed outside.

The final guests disappeared into the corn while the public side of the farm began its nightly transformation. Vendors closed register drawers. A worker rolled an empty cider keg toward storage. Music near the pumpkin stand dropped low enough that I could hear the wind combing through the field beyond the lights.

Inside the attraction, the shift happened more gradually.

The last group screamed in the Harvest Table.

Several minutes later, they emerged laughing into the next corridor.

Farther along, another effect fired, followed by the squeal of someone who had spent the entire evening insisting she was impossible to frighten.

I followed their progress through staff radio calls without hovering over them. When the exit attendant finally confirmed the group had cleared the attraction, I waited for each section lead to report their guests gone.

Only then did I begin my walkthrough.

The quiet afterward always fascinated me.

A haunted attraction without an audience wasn’t frightening in the way guests imagined. It was exposed.

Corn leaves rubbed together along the narrow passages. Wires disappeared beneath protective ramps. Fog clung in low pockets near the entrances to enclosed rooms. Props that had looked menacing beneath show lighting became painted foam, fabric, wood, and latex again.

My work became visible in reverse.

I checked an emergency lane where mud had begun creeping over the edge mat and made a note for morning. One speaker near the Widow’s Cellar had developed a faint buzz. A strand of burlap had pulled loose from a set wall. None of it was serious, which meant I could fix all of it before anyone noticed.

The Harvest Table lantern remained dark, exactly as instructed. Justin had marked the bracket for repair, and the blocking tape inside the room was still firmly in place.

I moved on.

The farther I walked, the less radio chatter I heard. Staff were signing out and leaving through the designated exits while a few final crew members finished closing tasks behind me.

Cold had settled into the ground. It came up through the soles of my boots whenever I stopped moving.