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Zombie Girl, Dixon, IL (2026)

08/27/2026

Hazel wasn’t actually a halfwit, but when you spend your afternoons arguing with a stubborn patch of nettles, the townspeople of Oakhaven tend to make assumptions.
She was a green witch through and through, smelling faintly of damp earth and crushed mint. Her look, however, was a study in contradictions: a vivid, oversized purple witch dress that trailed through the dirt, and a cracked glass potion bottle strapped snugly to her leather belt.
Wherever Hazel went, the bottle went. And every few minutes—whether she was weeding a bed of nightshade or haggling for beeswax—she would unstopper it, take a deep, dramatic swig, and wipe her mouth with her sleeve.
"Look at her," whispered Martha the baker, watching from her shop window as Hazel staggered slightly over a tree root. "Drunk on fermented mandrake before noon. Shameful."
The rumor spread like ivy: Hazel Halfwit was a mess, permanently pickled on her own wild brews.
The truth was far more inconvenient. Hazel wasn't drinking liquor; she was drinking a specialized Starlight Aquifer Draught. As a green witch tied directly to the earth's mantle, her internal temperature hovered around a boiling point whenever she cast deep magic. Without a constant stream of cooling potion, her internal energy would literally set her purple dress on fire. The slight wobble in her step wasn't intoxication; it was the dizzying sensation of keeping three square miles of forest flora alive and flourishing.
One dry August, a creeping blight struck the village orchards. The leaves turned black overnight, and the roots withered to ash. Desperate, the mayor marched up to Hazel’s sagging cottage, expecting to find her passed out beside a pile of empty bottles.
Instead, he found Hazel meticulously pouring her potion straight into the soil at the base of the central oak.
"Hazel! You're wasting your drink!" the mayor cried.
Hazel offered a lopsided, exhausted grin. She uncapped the bottle, took one last gulp to cool her blazing veins, and tipped the remaining glowing liquid onto the dying roots. Green light erupted through the dirt, racing outward in veins of shimmering life. Within seconds, the black rot vanished, replaced by lush, emerald leaves and bursting fruit.
Hazel slumped against the trunk, her purple dress dusted in soil, and patted her empty bottle. "It's a tough habit to break," she muttered, "but it keeps the trees breathing."
Available $65

08/27/2026

Felicity was not the kind of green witch who faded into the background of a dark mossy forest. Her skin carried the vibrant tint of fresh spring clover, and her signature outfit—a head-turning, neon-green dress patterned with playful black cats—ensured she was visible from a mile away. Perched on her shoulder or slung casually across her back, her mahogany flying broom, Burl, went everywhere with her. Burl wasn't just transportation; he was a loyal companion who hummed softly whenever a good breeze rolled in.
On a crisp autumn afternoon, the Whispering Woods faced a sudden crisis. A rogue Frost Spite had descended early, threatening to freeze the delicate Moonbell flowers before they could drop their glowing seeds. Without those seeds, the forest's light would fade before winter even set in.
Felicity didn't hesitate. She swung one leg over Burl, the neon fabric of her dress catching the fading sunlight like a beacon.
"Hold on tight, Burl!" she laughed, kicking off the damp earth.
They rocketed through the canopy, a streak of glowing green against the crimson leaf-fall. As they reached the frost-bitten clearing, the cold air snapped at her skin, but Felicity pulled a bundle of dried sun-thyme and crushed marigold from her pockets.
Hovering upside down from her broom—a trick that made the black cats on her dress look like they were vaulting through the air—she scattered the golden powder into the freezing air. Spreading her hands wide, she channeled her plant magic, breathing a wave of gentle, sun-warmed heat across the meadow. The ice melted instantly, releasing a cloud of sweet-smelling steam, and the Moonbells burst open, showering the forest floor in brilliant, twinkling light.
Burl swooped down low, letting Felicity catch a handful of the glowing seeds to store for next season. As they glided back toward her cottage, the glowing seeds illuminating their path, Felicity adjusted her neon dress, patted her faithful broom, and smiled. Another day saved, and not a single smudge on her favorite outfit.
Available $65

08/18/2026

Deep within the Whispering Woods, where the trees hummed ancient tunes and the moonlight turned the leaves silver, lived a young witch named Vespera.
Vespera was far from your ordinary witch. She had skin as brilliantly green as fresh spring moss, and her eyes were captivating—deep, obsidian pools with piercing, glowing green centers that glimmered like trapped starlight. But her absolute pride and joy was her dress. Woven from silk spun by magical midnight spiders, it was a shimmering, shiny purple web gown that caught every gleam of light, making her look as though she were draped in galaxy silk.
Clutched tightly in her hand was her most prized possession: a crystal flask filled with a swirling, iridescent liquid. It was her signature magic potion, a brew made from crushed moonbeams, dew from laughing lilies, and a pinch of stardust.
Tonight was the night of the Celestial Eclipse, the one evening every hundred years when the forest's ancient heart tree needed to be recharged, or the woods would lose their magic forever.
Vespera glided over the forest floor, her shiny purple dress rustling like soft music. As she reached the center of the woods, she found the great Heart Tree drooping, its bark gray and lifeless.
"Time to shine, little potion," Vespera whispered, her bright green eyes glowing with determination.
Carefully, she uncorked the crystal bottle. A sweet, electric scent filled the air. She poured the liquid onto the exposed roots of the tree. At first, nothing happened. Then, a vibrant violet spark traveled up the trunk, bursting into thousands of glowing green blossoms that matched Vespera’s skin. The forest burst into joyous melody, the trees humming a lively, grateful song.
Vespera spun around in delight, her purple web dress catching the radiant green light of the newly awakened forest. She held up her empty flask with a grin—she had a whole century to brew the next batch, but tonight, she was the hero of the Whispering Woods
Available $65

08/10/2026

Wicked Wanda was not wicked in the way the local villagers whispered about over timidly poured teas, nor was she wicked in the way the ancient leather-bound grimoires warned. She was wicked in the way a storm-cracked sky is magnificent—bold, unapologetic, and dazzlingly unpredictable.
Her signature creation was a dress woven entirely from silk harvested by moonlight spiders. Up close, the fabric looked like intricate spiderwebs spun from gossamer thread, but as Wanda moved, the light played tricks on the eyes. In the warm glow of hearth fires, the gown shimmered a deep, velvety amethyst purple; step under the cool silver of the night sky, and it shifted into a brilliant, iridescent emerald green. Completing the ensemble was her towering, obsidian-black witch’s hat, its rim encircled by a plush, extravagant feather boa that caught the mountain breeze with every dramatic turn of her head.
Wanda lived in a sprawling cottage built around the roots of a colossal hollowed-oak tree. Her parlor smelled perpetually of dried lavender, ozone, and rich cacao. While the nearby town of Oakhaven kept a nervous eye on her hilltop spire, they never hesitated to send an emissary when the ordinary world proved too stubborn for ordinary solutions.
On a chilly autumn twilight, as Wanda was admiring the green sheen of her hem against the sunset, a panicked knock rattled her oak door. It was Barnaby, the village mayor, trembling under the weight of an unnatural frost that had crept into the valley three weeks too early, threatening to freeze the entire harvest overnight.
"Wanda!" Barnaby gasped, steam rising from his breath. "The crops—the fields are turning to glass! The winter spirits have wandered down from the high peaks and won't leave!"
Wanda smoothed the dark feathers of her hat with a gloved hand and smiled, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Uninvited guests? How dreadfully rude. Let me retrieve my coat... oh wait, this dress is far too fabulous to hide under a coat."
She swept past the mayor, her web dress shifting from shimmering violet to rich emerald as she stepped from the warm cottage light into the icy evening dusk. With a snap of her fingers, her broomstick swept into her hand, and she soared toward the valley below.
At the edge of the pumpkin patches and wheat fields, three towering frost-wraiths were swirling in a cold, silent dance, coating every leaf in fragile ice.
Wanda descended gracefully, landing right in the middle of the frozen field. The frost-wraiths paused, their icy eyes fixing on her glowing figure.
"Gentlemen," Wanda announced, her voice echoing with a magical resonance that vibrated through the frozen soil. "You’ve ruined the mood, and frankly, your color palette is terribly drab."
She raised her hands, and the silk of her web gown began to catch the magical currents surging through her. As she twirled, the dress flared into a blinding dance of violet and green light, sending waves of raw, radiant heat bursting outward across the fields. The light wasn't just magic—it was living warmth. The gossamer webs of her dress caught the moonlight, magnifying her power until the heat melted the frost instantly, turning ice back into dew and filling the chilly air with the sweet scent of blooming spring flowers.
The frost-wraiths shuddered, realizing they were no match for a witch who commanded both the chill of the night and the warmth of a thousand hearths. With a mournful sigh, they dissolved into harmless mist and retreated back up the mountains.
The villagers, who had watched the light show from their windows, flooded into the fields with cheers, marveling at their saved crops and the unseasonal warmth wrapping around the town.
Barnaby hurried over, catching his breath. "Wanda, that was... incredible! How can Oakhaven ever repay you?"
Wanda tilted her hat, letting the feather boa flutter in the gentle breeze, her gown gleaming a proud, brilliant purple under the starlight.
"Just remember to send up a basket of those sweet autumn apples once you harvest them," she said with a wink, striding back toward her broom. "A witch can't live on charm alone—though it certainly helps."
If you want eyes I can add them, available $65

08/06/2026

Clementine was stitched together out of sunflower-yellow burlap and soft plaid flannel, but her heart was pure wild clover.
While the other scarecrows in the valley were content standing solitary guard over their respective patches of dirt, Clementine found the endless isolation terribly dull. From her wooden perch in the middle of a bustling pumpkin patch, she spent her days watching the world go round. She saw the barn swallows darting in paired synchronized swoops, the field mice nesting two-by-two beneath the tractor shed, and the farmer and his wife holding hands on the porch at sunset.
Clementine decided she had seen enough of solo standing. What she needed was a boyfriend—someone to share the golden autumn light with, someone who understood the silent language of the meadow.
Her search was far from simple. First, she tried winking at the tin woodsman standing by the neighbor’s garden shed. But he was far too rigid, completely unbothered by the crisp autumn breeze, and harbored a severe obsession with his oil can. Next, she cast hopeful glances toward a handsome stone gargoyle perched atop the old stone well. He had magnificent posture, but his conversation was nonexistent and his heart was literally made of granite.
By late October, the morning frost was dusting the pumpkin vines with silver, and Clementine was beginning to think that romance was strictly for the birds.
Then came the afternoon of the Great October Gale.
A mischievous wind howled down from the northern hills, tumbling through the valley like an uninvited guest. It ripped through the pumpkin patch, rattling Clementine’s wooden frame and snapping the top broomstick of her crossbar with a loud crack! Down she went, pitching forward into a soft heap of broad leaves and orange gourds.
When the dust settled and the wind died down to a gentle rustle, Clementine pushed a tuft of dried corn silk out of her eyes and looked up.
Just ten feet away, propped up against a hay bale where the wind had deposited him, was a boy scarecrow. He wore a patched pair of faded blue denim overalls, a straw hat tilted at a rakish angle, and a bright red flannel shirt stuffed full of oat straw. His head was a burlap sack fastened with coarse twine, featuring mismatched horn buttons for eyes—one deep chocolate brown, the other a polished olive.
He was currently tangled in a stray piece of twine, looking thoroughly bewildered but remarkably cheerful.
"Well," Clementine rustled, her voice like wind through dry leaves as she sat up. "You certainly know how to make an entrance."
The boy scarecrow blinked his mismatched button eyes, adjusting his straw hat. "I was aiming for the barley field," he said, his voice soft and low, carrying the quiet warmth of a sun-baked field. "The wind had other travel plans. I'm Barnaby."
"Clementine," she replied, offering a gloved hand stitched from green canvas.
Barnaby reached out with his wooden wrist and helped her untangle herself from the pumpkin vines. As they propped each other up against the sturdy hay bale, Barnaby didn't look back toward the barley field, nor did Clementine care about her broken crossbar.
Instead, Barnaby pointed toward the top of the sugar maple tree, where a small flock of cedar waxwings had just alighted. He began to tell her about their velvety crests, their secret berry-passing rituals, and the precise rhythm of their winter flight paths. Clementine listened, her burlap cheeks glowing in the amber light of the setting sun, realizing that the quietest hearts often had the most wonderful stories to tell.
The farmer found them the next morning, sitting side-by-side against the hay bale, their straw fingers loosely entwined. Rather than splitting them up, he built a double frame right at the edge of the field where the pumpkins met the woods. And there they stayed, watching the birds together, perfectly paired in the autumn sun.
Available $65

08/06/2026

Barnaby had a chest full of dry oat straw and a heart that hummed to the cadence of beating wings.
Unlike the other sentinels of Blackwood Farm, who spent their August afternoons glaring at the soil with drawn-on frowns, Barnaby was propped up on his oak pole facing the canopy of the old sugar maple. He was fashioned from a patched pair of blue denim overalls, a faded red flannel shirt, and a sackcloth head stitched together with coarse twine. His eyes were mismatched horn buttons—one dark brown, one a polished olive—giving him a perpetually curious, wide-eyed gaze.
While the farmer believed Barnaby was stationed at the edge of the barley field to terrorize crows, Barnaby had spent three summers mastering the quiet art of observation. He didn’t care for scaring. He cared for flight.
He learned to distinguish birds not by their size, but by their silhouette against the morning sky and the specific rhythm of their calls. In early spring, he watched the ruby-throated hummingbirds dart like iridescent sparks among the wild columbine, their wings blurring into a high-pitched hum that set his straw stuffing vibrating. By midsummer, the goldfinches arrived in undulating waves of yellow and black, dipping and swooping across the field like bright ribbons caught in the draft. Barnaby tracked their trajectories, noting how they bounced off the wind, dropping low to glean thistle seeds before looping back into the sunlight.
His prized companions, however, were the cedar waxwings. They were sleek, crest-headed creatures with velvety brown plumage and tiny droplets of crimson on their wingtips, looking as though they had been painted by a careful hand. They traveled in tight, synchronized flocks, alighting on the wild cherry branch just three feet from Barnaby’s wooden left shoulder. Barnaby would hold entirely still—a feat made easier by his wooden frame—barely allowing the summer breeze to rustle his straw cuffs, so as not to startle them.
He watched how they passed red berries down a row from beak to beak in a polite, secret ritual. He memorized the precise slate-blue of a blue jay’s primary feathers, the sharp, clipped chirp of a white-throated sparrow, and the low, solemn coo of the mourning dove as twilight settled over the furrows.
One crisp September afternoon, as the air turned thin and smelled of woodsmoke, a bitter northern gale swept down from the ridge. The maple leaves turned to embers of orange and gold, and the sky filled with the Great Gathering. Hundreds of swallows assembled on the telegraph wires, preening and whispering of the long journey south.
A sudden draft tore through the barley field, snapping the dry twine that bound Barnaby’s right arm to his crossbeam. The arm dropped, dangling limply by a few threads of h**p.
Just then, a fledgling orange-crowned warbler—disoriented by the sudden tempest—was blown off course. It tumbled through the sky, its tiny wings flailing against the northern gust, until it slammed softly into Barnaby’s denim chest and slid into the deep front pocket of his overalls.
Barnaby didn't flinch. He remained as anchored as the oak post beneath him. Deep inside his pocket, he could feel the faint, rapid thrumming of the warbler’s tiny heart—a frantic pitter-pitter-pitter against his linen lining.
Slowly, using the weak autumn light and the tilt of his burlap head, Barnaby nudged his gaze downward. The little warbler peered up out of the pocket, its bright black eyes reflecting the twin buttons of Barnaby's face.
For two hours, the storm raged across Blackwood Farm, stripping the trees bare and driving the farm animals into the barn. Barnaby stood as a shield against the gale, blocking the icy northern draft with his broad burlap back, keeping the tiny traveler warm beneath his layers of straw and cotton.
When the wind finally lulled into a quiet evening hush, the skies cleared into a crisp, violet dusk. The warbler shuffled inside the pocket, popped its small head above the denim rim, and stretched its wings one at a time. It hopped onto Barnaby’s wooden wrist, tilted its head to deliver a sharp, cheerful chip!, and launched itself toward the southern horizon to rejoin the migrating flock.
Barnaby watched it go, a tiny speck tracing a path across the darkening canvas of the evening sky. His right arm hung loose, his straw was damp from the storm, and the cold winter was settling in—but as he marked the flight of the tiny warbler heading south, his button eyes held all the warmth of a summer afternoon.
Available $65

07/28/2026

The crisp October air whirled through the ancient oak trees of Shadowbrook Forest. Most creatures were hunkering down for the night, but for Pepper, the evening was just beginning.
Pepper was no ordinary cat. Her sleek, black fur was as dark as a moonless night, and her eyes held the intelligent sparkle of emerald gems. She was a witch, and tonight, she was preparing for a very important journey.
She started with her outfit. Pepper possessed a keen sense of style, and for this crisp autumn evening, she chose her favorite seasonal attire. First came the top, which looked exactly like a giant, soft candy corn—bright stripes of orange, yellow, and white. Over this, she layered her signature dress, a deep black fabric adorned with playful, grinning orange pumpkins. Finally, she placed her tall, pointed black witch’s hat carefully on her head. The hat had one very special feature: nestled comfortably in the very tip, fast asleep, was Bernard, a tiny fruit bat who had decided years ago that Pepper’s hat was the coziest cave in the world.
Pepper’s mission tonight was crucial. The magical Spring of Ever-Glow, which provided light to the entire forest during the darkest winter months, was fading. The Elder Badger had sent a scroll (via a very fast squirrel) begging Pepper for help.
She trotted to her potion shelf and pulled down a small, glass vial stopped with a cork. Inside, a liquid shimmered like liquid starlight, shifting hues from deep indigo to soft magenta. This was her ‘Essence of Lumina,’ her most powerful concoction. She secured the potion to a small leather harness she wore over her dress.
"Alright, Bernard," Pepper murmured, adjusting her hat slightly. "Time to go." Bernard gave a tiny squeak in his sleep but didn't wake up.
Her journey led her through the Whispering Reeds, a marsh that constantly muttered secrets (mostly about who caught the biggest bug). As a cat, she hated getting her paws wet, but as a witch, she knew the reeds were highly susceptible to magic.
She uncorked her potion and placed one tiny paw print of the shining liquid on the muddy bank. Immediately, the mud solidified into a glittering, dry path, glowing softly to guide her way. She skipped across, her pumpkin dress swaying.
Leaving the reeds, she faced her true challenge: the Maze of Brambles. This was a wall of thorny, interlocking vines that moved on their own, designed to keep travelers away from the spring. The thorns looked sharp enough to snag her candy corn top.
Pepper stopped. Fighting the vines with magic would only make them fight harder. She looked at her potion vial. She needed something that wouldn't attack, but distract.
She took a deep breath, and carefully uncorked the potion. Instead of pouring it, she waved her paw over the top, using her own energy to draw the scent of the potion out, mixing it with the cool night air.
The ‘Essence of Lumina’ smelled intensely of the sweetest moon-honey and ripe elderberries. Pepper fanned the fragrance toward the aggressive vines.
The reaction was instant. The thorny brambles, usually so tense and angry, seemed to relax. Their sharp edges softened as they inhaled the sweet, calming aroma. Slowly, they uncoiled, leaning away from the path as if drunk on the scent. They formed a perfect, wide archway for her.
Pepper smiled and trotted through, the vines swaying gently behind her.
At the center of the maze was the Spring of Ever-Glow, which was currently just a weak, gray puddle. Pepper stepped forward and poured the remaining starlight liquid directly into the water.
WHOOSH!
The spring erupted in a fountain of brilliant, pulsing light. It wasn't just white light; it was a swirling mix of sapphire, gold, and violet, illuminating the entire maze and shooting a beacon high into the night sky. The forest was safe for the winter.
Just then, Bernard the bat woke up, hanging upside down from the brim of her hat. He blinked in the sudden brightness. "Squeak?" (Did we miss the party?)
Pepper gave a satisfied purr. "No, Bernard. I think the party just started." She turned, her dress full of pumpkins gleaming in the light, ready for the easy walk back home.
Available 65

07/28/2026

The autumn wind rustled through the fallen leaves of the Spindlewood Forest, but Sable wasn’t worried about a chill. She was far too busy looking magnificent.
Sable was a black cat with fur as deep and velvety as a midnight sky, but she was no ordinary feline—she was a formidable witch. Tonight, she was dressed to impress for her travels. She wore a bright orange dress patterned with cheerful white skulls, the skirt flared just enough to give her a jaunty bounce when she walked. Perched perfectly between her ears was a classic black witch’s hat, complete with a gleaming gold buckle and a slight, stylish tilt. To top it off, a tiny satin bow was tucked neatly behind her ear.
"Pretty, practical, and potent," Sable purred, admiring her reflection in a woodland puddle.
Slung over her shoulder was a custom leather harness holding a crystal vial filled with her signature Witch’s Potion—a bubbling, amber liquid that swirled with gold glitter and smelled like spiced cider and autumn rain. Sable never went on a journey without it; a good witch is always prepared.
Her journey tonight had a destination: the Whispering Ridge, where the ancient Eclipse Oak was said to bloom only once every hundred years. Its golden acorns possessed immense magical power, but reaching them required crossing the treacherous Foggy Glen.
Sable trotted down the trail, her orange skull dress making her look like a bright pumpkin darting through the twilight. As she reached the entrance of the glen, the air grew thick and freezing. A swirling, milky mist blocked the path entirely—a phantom fog designed to trick travelers and make them lose their way forever.
From the shadows of the trees, a tiny woodland mouse peeked out. "You can't go through there, Sable!" the mouse squeaked. "The fog hides the path, and it freezes your whiskers!"
"A minor inconvenience," Sable replied smoothly, tapping her brimmed hat. "Watch and learn, little friend."
Sable unlatched the crystal vial from her harness and pulled out the stopper with her teeth. Taking a small, elegant sip of the amber potion, she felt a wave of warmth rush through her fur, right down to the tips of her paws. She then took a single drop of the sparkling liquid on her claw and flicked it out into the heavy mist.
Fzzzzz!
The moment the potion touched the fog, the liquid's warm, golden magic reacted. The dreary white mist didn't just clear—it transformed. The fog melted into a trail of softly glowing, floating amber lanterns that illuminated a clear, dry path right through the glen. The chill in the air dissolved, replaced by the comforting scent of spiced apples.
"Useful and cozy," Sable remarked, recorking her potion and securing it back in its holster.
With a confident swish of her tail, Sable strode down the illuminated path, her orange dress glowing under the witchy lanterns. She navigated the Glen with ease, reached the Eclipse Oak just as the moon hit its zenith, and collected her golden acorn—all without getting a single speck of dirt on her favorite dress.
As she sat atop the ridge, sipping her potion and watching the stars, Sable smiled. Journeys were always an adventure, but they were infinitely better when you tackled them in style.
Available $65

07/28/2026

The moon hung high like a silver coin over the Whispering Woods, but Midnight wasn't interested in buying anything. She had work to do.
Midnight was not your average black cat. While most felines spent their evenings chasing shadows or sleeping in sunbeams, Midnight spent hers mixing potent enchantments. Tonight, she was dressed for the occasion in her favorite ensemble: a tailored black-and-white skull dress—replete with a flouncy hem that didn't get in the way of her tail—and a towering, pointed black hat that magically stayed pinned to her ears no matter how fast she sprinted.
Slung over her shoulder like a cross-body purse was a small, glowing glass flask. Inside sloshed her prized Witch’s Brew: a shimmering, violet liquid that smelled faintly of cinnamon and starlight.
"Alright," Midnight muttered, her yellow eyes scanning the forest floor. "Just need one last ingredient."
She pounced lightly onto a mossy log, her claws barely making a sound. Her target? A single, glowing moon-dew drop, which only appeared on the midnight fern at—well, midnight.
Just as her paw hovered over the fern, a rustle in the bushes ruined the quiet. Out tumbled Barnaby, a plump barn owl with thick-rimmed spectacles perched precariously on his beak.
"Midnight! Oh, thank goodness!" Barnaby hooted, flustered and out of breath. "The Great Shadow-Moth has returned! It’s eating all the colors out of the Pumpkin Patch! The jack-o'-lanterns are turning gray!"
Midnight sighed, carefully scooping the glowing moon-dew drop into her flask with a tiny silver spoon. She secured the cork with a soft pop and shook the flask. The violet brew swirled, flashing a brilliant neon blue.
"Gray pumpkins? Absolutely not on my watch," Midnight said, adjusting her skull dress. She smoothed down her witch hat, gave her whiskered chin a confident tilt, and looked at the owl. "Lead the way, Barnaby."
They darted through the woods toward the edge of the patch. Sure enough, a moth as large as a raven was hovering over the vines, swooping down and literally vacuuming up the orange hue of the pumpkins, leaving them dull, dusty, and lifeless.
Midnight stepped out into the open, her black fur blending into the night, though the white skulls on her dress caught the pale moonlight.
"Hey! Dust-wings!" Midnight called out, taking the flask of Witch's Brew off her shoulder.
The Shadow-Moth turned, blinking its massive, dark eyes at her. It let out a low, echoing screech and lunged.
Midnight didn't flinch. She leaped into the air, doing a nimble mid-air twist that would make any non-magical cat jealous. As she passed over the moth, she uncorked her flask and flicked a drop of the neon-blue brew right onto the moth's back.
Puff!
A cloud of glittery, rainbow-colored smoke exploded into the air. The brew didn't hurt the creature, but the moment the magical potion touched its wings, the shadow-moth sneezed—a massive, sparkling ACHOO!
With that single sneeze, all the stolen color burst out of the moth like a wave of liquid light. The orange flooded back into the pumpkins, brighter and richer than before. Even better, the moth’s own dull gray wings absorbed the residual magic of the brew, transforming into a vibrant, kaleidoscopic mosaic of blues, purples, and gold.
The moth blinked, looking at its shiny new wings in awe, entirely forgetting about eating color. It let out a happy chirp and fluttered off into the night sky, lighting up the dark like a flying aurora borealis.
Barnaby landed on a fence post, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "You... you didn't just stop it, you made it pretty!"
"Style is everything, Barnaby," Midnight said coolly, re-corking her flask and slinging it back over her shoulder. She adjusted her hat, patted down her skull dress, and let out a satisfied purr. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a warm spot on the hearth calling my name."
Available $65

Zombie Girl

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