The Harvest Gathering

You ever notice how some paths just appear in the fall?

Not hiking trails or park routes, but the kind that seem to show up only when the air turns sharp and the trees start to whisper. The kind that feel like they’re waiting for you to notice them.

It was mid-October when I saw mine. The evening light was golden, and the air smelled of woodsmoke and apples. I was walking home from town, dragging my shoes through piles of leaves along the edge of the woods. That’s when I noticed the pumpkins.

They lined the trail behind my backyard, glowing softly in the dusk. Each one was carved with a different face. Some smiled, others frowned, and a few had patterns that looked more like symbols than anything else. I knew they hadn’t been there before.

At first, I thought maybe someone from down the road had set them up early for Halloween. But the nearest neighbor was half a mile away, and I couldn’t imagine anyone hauling dozens of pumpkins into the woods just for fun.

Curiosity got the better of me. I grabbed a flashlight, told myself I’d only take a quick look, and stepped off the path.

The deeper I went, the brighter the pumpkins glowed. The candlelight inside them seemed to pulse gently, as if it was breathing in time with my own heart. The air grew warmer, wrapping around me like the edge of a bonfire.

That’s when I heard the music. It was faint at first—a fiddle, maybe, or a flute—followed by laughter and the sound of hands clapping in rhythm. The trail curved, and the sound grew clearer.

Then the trees opened up, and I found myself standing before a wide clearing I’d never seen before.

It looked like a harvest painting come to life. Lanterns hung from the branches. Barrels of cider steamed beside tables of food. People danced in a wide ring to the beat of lively music. Children chased each other through piles of hay. Everything glowed in shades of amber and gold.

I stood there, too stunned to move.

Someone brushed past me—a girl about my age, wearing a plaid dress and brown boots. She smiled and handed me a mug of cider.

“You found it,” she said.

“Found what?” I asked.

“The trail. The pumpkins lead to the Harvest Gathering.”

Her voice was soft and lilting, and her eyes caught the firelight like glass. Before I could ask anything else, she laughed and twirled toward the dancers. “Don’t be shy. Everyone dances here.”

I didn’t think I knew how, but my feet seemed to remember the steps. The music wrapped around me, fast and joyful. I laughed, too, feeling lighter than I had in years.

When the song ended, I turned to look for her, but she had vanished.

At the edge of the clearing stood a man in a dark coat, his hair silver in the lantern light. He poured cider into a mug and nodded as I approached.

“First time?” he asked.

“Yeah. What is this place?”

He smiled, slow and knowing. “You’ll figure it out. They always do.”

“They?” I repeated, but he only handed me the mug.

A hush fell across the clearing. The laughter faded, the music slowed, and the candles flickered as if a breeze had passed through. When I blinked, the girl was back beside me. She looked different now—fainter somehow, as though I were seeing her through water.

“You should go before the last light,” she whispered.

“What light?” I asked. But she was already walking away.

The pumpkins along the trail were beginning to dim, their carved faces flickering out one by one. I looked over my shoulder. The clearing had grown smaller, the people more distant. The music sounded warped and far away.

I turned to call my friend, thinking maybe he could see it too. But when I looked back, the clearing was gone. There was nothing but trees and a cold wind moving through the leaves.

I stood alone among the pumpkins, their candles now nothing but smoke curling into the dark.

When I got home, my shoes were muddy and my hands smelled faintly of cinnamon. I told my mom what I’d seen, but she only frowned. “There’s nothing but woods back there,” she said. “Always has been.”

I called my friend to ask if he’d heard any music that night. He laughed and told me I must have been dreaming.

Over the next few days, I searched for the path again. Every pumpkin was gone. Not broken, not rotted—just gone, as if they’d never existed. I walked deeper into the woods than before, hoping for any trace of that warmth or music. Once, I caught a faint scent of cider and woodsmoke, but it disappeared before I could follow it.

Eventually I gave up. Still, every year when October rolls around, I think about that night. Sometimes I’ll catch a familiar scent on the wind, or hear a faint echo of laughter somewhere beyond the trees. And I know it’s back.

A few years later, I stumbled on an old newspaper clipping while researching local folklore for a school project. It told of a “Harvest Gathering” that took place in the late 1800s—a celebration that ended in tragedy when a fire swept through the forest. A dozen people died, and no trace of the festival was ever found again.

Till this day, I don’t know if I believe in ghosts.

But I know what I saw.