Page 1 of Run, Little Doe

Smoke, cider, pumpkin, and sin—that’s what the air smelled like on the night of the Festival of Masks.

The night Sirena Fawn was hunted.

The sickly-sweet scent of pumpkins drifted on the breeze from the trail that wound through Briar Hollow Forest, curling toward the open field where the town gathered in celebration annually. Lanterns swung like low-hanging stars, their glow catching on sequins, feathers, and painted smiles. Masks of every kind—goblins, devils, porcelain dolls, and monsters lifted from horror itself—moved through the haze in a blur of colour, laughter, and shadow. Ghostface. Leatherface. Art the Clown. Michael Myers. The saints and sinners of the season all gathered beneath a full October moon.

The night sky felt alive with laughter and the crackle of the bonfire; it was as if it were something meant to devour the darkness. Children chased each other through billowing smoke and mazes made of hay, lovers slipped away to steal a kiss in the pumpkin patch, and music rose like a spell from speakers somewhere unseen. It was a night for shedding names and faces, a night for becoming something wild and unholy.

Somewhere beyond the firelight, through the drifting cinders, eerie mist, and the heartbeat-thrum of drums, the Wolf waited.

He watched her—his Little Doe—through the veil of flame and shadow, patient and hungry.

The crowd danced, oblivious. The night hummed with joy, and his pulse answered it.

She didn’t see him at first. She only felt it—the prickle at the back of her neck, the faint shift in the air, the way laughter seemed to echo around her. When she lifted her camera, searching the crowd through wisps of smoke and her lens, she caught only glimpses of masks, eyes, and movement. Nothing more.

But something deep in her bones stirred. Not fear—something older, wilder.

Recognition.

Need.

For one breathless moment, she thought she saw him—tall, still, gaze locked on hers from beyond the firelight. Her heart stuttered, her lips parted, and the world seemed to hold its breath.

Then he was gone.

And in the hollow space he left behind, the whisper came—soft and certain, curling through her mind like a promise.

Run, Little Doe.

Sirena

Every autumn since the year I was born, I’ve gone to the Festival of Masks.

There are photos somewhere—buried deep in boxes that still smell like home—of me swaddled in a pumpkin mask, another of me at three years old in smeared face paint and a crooked paper clown grin, another of teenage me with my best friend Carly, faces covered in sequins and sparkles. Back then, it was just another Briar Hollow tradition, all lantern light and laughter, nothing but harmless make-believe.

Now, it’s become something else entirely, and I'm not sure when it changed. Or is it me who's changed?

The festival feels heavier this year. Quieter. My parents are gone, and their absence clings to the air like a storm. An accident. I cringe at the memory. One day, I’m planning my weekly dinner with them, the next, the cops show up at my apartment and tell me in an instant that my parents, the people I loved more than anything in the world, were gone, all thanks to a drunk driver, and now at 28, I was alone.

I told myself I wouldn’t go this year, that I’d finally break the tradition if it couldn't be with them, but grief has a strange way of making you reach for the things that used to hold you steady, to make you feel close to something, to make you feel anything at all. These last eight months have been agony without them.

Every year, for one November Thanksgiving night separate from the annual Halloween Festival, the people of Briar Hollow shed their ordinary everyday selves and step into the dark, unrecognizable beneath their masks. People I’ve known my entire life, ones I’ve seen around town at the hardware store or the café, who come to my photo studio for family portraits, and the people who serve me my drinks at the local pub. That’s not who they will be tonight. It’s a night where you can be anyone — someone dangerous, someone mysterious, someone desired. The air hums with electricity and something else, something that edges between fantasy and something feral.

For twenty-eight years, I went to the Festival of Masks with Mom and Dad. This time, I’ll walk through the lantern-lit trails alone.

If not for Carly, I might’ve stayed home, watching the shadows from my candles move across the walls instead, disassociating with my dark romance novels, being claimed by a masked man in my mind instead of grief. However, she wouldn’t let me. She showed up at the studio yesterday, grinning like she’d won a lottery, holding a gold box tied with black ribbon, a simple white parchment card affixed to the bow with script sayingSirena. It was for me. I’d never seen this packaging around town before. Inside was a mask—deep auburn just like my hair, shaped like a doe’s face, delicate and wild, with silver and gold accents to sparkle in the light of the bonfire, complete with a crimson ribbon to secure it. It was mesmerizing.

It fits perfectly, soft against my skin. The ribbon lay behind my ears and ties just below my hairline. When I look in the mirror, I hardly recognize the girl staring back. Wide-eyed. Uncertain. Almost hunted.

It feels like an omen—and somehow, an offering all in one.

****

I check myself over in the mirror once more before heading out. My auburn hair hangs down my back in soft waves, brown eyes rimmed in gold liner, the red ribbon of the mask tied in a bow at the nape of my neck peaks through my waves. I’m wearing my signature MAC lipstick in a colour called Guessing Game, my cheekbones are perfectly contoured, and I’ve applied the perfect amounts of mascara. I spent hours picking out an outfit that makes me feel my sexiest: my black mini, a black skin-tight tank top, my thigh-high fishnets, and my Doc Marten boots, complete with a black lace set of panties and bra; I feel unstoppable. This outfit shows off all my tattoos and my curves, as well as making me feel like the hottest badass. It’s a win-win. I grab my camera, lock my door, and put the key under the turtle on the porch. Everyone knows it’s there, but no one breaks in anywhere in town; it’s too small, and we know each other too well.

By the time I reach the town square, the sun is beginning to set, and Briar Hollow is almost unrecognizable. The town is cast in the warm glow of golden hour, dotted with pumpkins, hay bales, and all manner of autumn decor.

The air is thick with wood smoke and cider, laughter curling through the night like ribbons of mist, ebbing, and flowing through the alleys and streets. Lanterns swing from every branch, street corner, and porch. Painted faces flicker in and out of the light. Carved pumpkins offer an eerie vibe. Everywhere I look, someone is hiding behind a mask.