Author's Note: I'm doing the Hauntober drabbles this year with the prompt list from Tumblr. For reasons that have nothing to do with my book characters having difficulties. Obviously. Title of the series is from October by Broken Bells.
These will likely all be different but short lengths, from various POVs and spots on the series timeline.
Enjoy!
"Are you sure it's alright—"
"Of course it's alright."
"I don't want to intrude—"
"You brought beer, Dresden. That makes you an honorary family member whether you like it or not. Besides," she said, nodding toward the car-lined street. "There's so many of us, no one will even know we're here."
Karrin and I stepped up onto the porch of a large Tudor-style house; the Murphy ancestral home in Oak Park. We stood amongst planters of fall chrysanthemums and drifts of crispy leaves with the sunshine warm on our backs. I could smell deep-fried turkey wafting from the backyard, accompanied by loud laughter, the sound of a football game.
My stomach growled impatiently. Audibly.
Murph shot me a look.
"What kind of pie did you say that was?" I asked, peering at the unlabeled cardboard boxes she held.
"One's apple." She checked her reflection in the front door glass, tidied her hair, tugged on the hem of her navy blue sweater. She knocked on the door. "One's pumpkin."
"Where'd you get 'em?"
"Um." Murphy hesitated. "The Korean bakery over on Lincoln."
"Oh yeah? They're pretty good."
"Yeah," she agreed.
"So those cinnamon rolls I found in my office, couple weeks ago," I continued, conversationally. It had been the morning of my birthday, the box had been waiting on my desk, and the contents had been, honest to god, one of the best things I had ever eaten. "You got those at the same place, right?"
"Yeah."
"Really? That's weird."
"How so?"
"Because that place closed last year," I grinned. "Please please please tell me you wear a frilly apron while you bake. And you sing like a Disney princess—"
"You tell anyone at SI about this," Murphy narrowed her eyes, plastered on a smile and rapped on the door again. "And you'll have to eat the next batch through a straw—"
The door creaked inward. A girl of eight or so poked her head around, a carbon copy of Murphy, though even smaller, with a smattering more of freckles across her nose. I could hear more kids inside.
The girl blinked at us a few times.
"April! Go get Grandma and tell her I'm here."
"Okay," said the girl, who then slammed the door shut in our faces as we both moved to follow. From the other side I heard a high-pitched, top-of-the-lungs, little-girl yell:
"Gramma! Aunt Karrin's here and she brought some man—"
Murphy winced.
The bottles in the wooden crate I held rattled as I laughed, and I pitched my voice up into a mocking squeak. "They won't even know we're here."
"One more, Dresden, and you're getting upgraded from straw to nasogastric feeding tube."
Next up: Leaves.