The October night was cold, the blood-red moon hanging low over the rural fields, casting an eerie glow across the endless rows of cornstalks. I adjusted the camera strap on my shoulder, my tight flannel shirt clinging to my chest, jeans hugging my thighs as I trudged toward the abandoned barn.
I’d been hired to photograph it for some local ghost-hunting blog, lured by the promise of quick cash and the thrill of a supposedly cursed location. Halloween always brought out the weirdos, but I didn’t expect to be one of them, out here alone in the middle of nowhere, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and decay.
My boots crunched on the gravel path, the barn looming ahead, its weathered wood silhouetted against the crimson sky. The rumors called it haunted, a place where people vanish
