THE LAST HARVEST

The crypt door slammed shut behind him, echoing like the closing of a tomb, and Liam’s heart hammered against his ribs. Darkness pressed in from every side, thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint, sickly green glow emanating from Eleanor Kincaid’s eyes. She stood over Chloe, who lay motionless on the cold stone floor, her breathing shallow, her face pale as wax. In Eleanor’s hand, a ritual knife gleamed, as if thirsting for more than blood.

“You’re too late, journalist,” a voice hissed, layered and unnatural, making Liam’s skin crawl. “The transfer is complete. This vessel is claimed.”

Memories of warnings raced through Liam’s mind. Dr. Vance had spoken of anchors, of objects binding spirits to this world, while Callum’s desperate warnings of the Kincaid pact echoed: no one could stop the Harvest once it had chosen. Liam’s eyes darted through the shadows, seeking anything, anything that could turn the tide. That’s when he saw it—the Kincaid family crest carved into the central stone pillar, glowing faintly with the same eerie green light.

“The pact ends tonight, Eleanor,” Liam said, trying to sound braver than he felt. Every step toward the pillar was a risk; every second counted.

A cruel, chilling laugh filled the crypt. “I am not Eleanor,” the voice snarled. “I am the Harvest. And you… you will be my next vessel.”

Liam’s stomach turned as he realized the truth. The woman before him was gone, replaced by something ancient and malevolent. He grabbed a rusted iron rod from a nearby sarcophagus and swung it at the stone crest. Sparks flew in all directions, and Eleanor shrieked—a sound that was both human and impossibly otherworldly.

“The artifacts!” Callum’s voice broke through the chaos, frantic. “The cup, the locket, the knife! They focus the connection!”

Liam’s eyes scanned the crypt. There, arranged in a ritual triangle around Chloe, were the ancient silver cup and a delicate locket. Without hesitation, he smashed the cup, the metal shattering against the stone. Then, with a grimace, he crushed the locket under his boot. Each artifact’s destruction caused the green glow to flicker violently, the shadows writhing as if in pain.

The knife remained in Eleanor’s hand. She lunged at him with unnatural speed. Liam dodged, grasping her wrist and struggling to twist the blade away. The entity inside her fought with a strength no human could possess, yet Liam held firm, forcing the knife toward the central pillar.

“Remember who you are, Eleanor!” Liam shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. “Fight it! For Callum!”

For a fleeting moment, the green light in her eyes dimmed, and her own voice, trembling and fragile, broke through: “The… family Bible… in the chapel… it contains the counter-ritual…”

It was all Liam needed. With every ounce of strength, he drove the ritual knife into the stone crest. The crypt shook violently, a shockwave of energy knocking him backward. Winds howled, walls trembled, and spectral forms erupted from every corner—dozens of lost souls, victims of the Harvest, finally freed.

When the chaos subsided, Eleanor lay unconscious but breathing. Chloe stirred beside her, eyes fluttering open, color slowly returning to her cheeks. The curse, centuries old, had been broken.

---

EPILOGUE

One year later, Johnson stood at the edge of Blackwood Beck’s Halloween festival. This time, there were no secret rituals, no hidden sacrifices—only joy and remembrance. The festival honored the village’s history while teaching its dark truths.

Liam’s investigation had forced accountability. The Kincaid family’s fortune was used to establish a trust for survivors of ritual abuse. Eleanor, fully recovered but forever haunted by her past, had entered a monastery. Callum worked alongside Dr. Vance to document the true history of Blackwood Beck, ensuring that the Harvest would never return.

As fireworks lit the crisp autumn sky, Liam’s phone buzzed with a text from Chloe, now a university student: “First normal Halloween ever. Thank you.”

In the quiet churchyard, a small plaque glimmered in the evening light: “In memory of those lost to darkness. May we never stop seeking the light.”

The Harvest was over. The whispers had fallen silent. The shadows had been banished, and for the first time in generations, Blackwood Beck could sleep peacefully.