The scent of burnt wood still clung to the air, lingering in the wake of the fire. Ovidia, however, was focused on the delicate fragrance of coconut and almond wafting from the ornate box Leta Croft held out. “Just a little something to say how terribly sorry I am about… everything,” Leta chirped, her smile a little too wide, a little too bright. Her eyes, usually full of bubbly mischief, darted around the still-sooty cabin, lingering for a fraction too long on the scorch marks where Ovidia’s hammock had almost met its fiery end. “Almond confections,” Ovidia mumbled around a yawn, already eyeing the plush new cushion Mercer had placed on the armchair. “A truly inspired choice. My favorite.” She took the box. Leta’s yellow raincoat, draped over a nearby chair, seemed to glow with an almost unnatural vibrancy in the dim light of the cabin. Ovidia noted the faint, acrid tang that still clung to the fabric, a smell she’d first dismissed at dawn as Leta having spilled something unfortunate on her way over. *Earlier, Ovidia had been attempting to coax her tangled hair into a semblance of order, a truly futile endeavor, when Leta had burst in, clutching a bag of muffins she claimed were from the bakery. Leta smelled faintly of gasoline. Not a strong, obvious smell, but a subtle, almost sweet, chemical undertone that mingled strangely with the scent of yeast and sugar. Ovidia, being Ovidia, had simply thought, 'Oh, Leta probably stood too close to the general store’s petrol pump again. Clumsy dear.' And then she’d promptly forgotten about it, distracted by the structural integrity of a particularly plump blueberry muffin.* Now, as Ovidia placed the pastry box on the small side table, the gasoline smell was undeniable, a subtle thread woven through Leta’s perfume. “Sit, sit,” Ovidia gestured vaguely towards the other armchair, not quite meeting Leta’s gaze. Her brain, usually content to float in a cloud of blissful ignorance, was reluctantly piecing together Mercer’s frantic warning about the yellow raincoat and the pharmacy accelerant. Still, panic was an exhausting emotion, and Ovidia had already expended her daily quota of effort dragging a hammock. No need to overdo it. She picked up a small, vibrant green pastry from the box. “These look absolutely divine. Did you make them yourself, darling?” Leta’s laugh was a little too quick. “Oh, you know me, Ovi. Not a domestic bone in my body! Picked them up from the new patisserie in Westfall. They’re a little out of the way, but so worth it for the quality. These pistachio ones are divine.” She reached for a pale pink biscuit, her fingers poised. Her gaze flickered towards Ovidia’s plate, where the green sweet sat waiting. Ovidia, with a sigh, put the green one back. “You know, I’ve been meaning to ask,” she began, her voice a slow, deliberate drawl, “have you noticed the *enormous* spider living behind the fireplace? It’s truly grotesque. Looks like it’s wearing a tiny top hat.” Leta, startled, snapped her head towards the dark maw of the hearth. “A spider? Oh, Ovi, you know I can’t stand creepy crawlies!” Her attention was fully fixed on the shadowy corners, her body tensing. She even leaned forward, peering intently. Without pausing, Ovidia’s hand moved with a languid, almost imperceptible grace. Her plate, with its tempting green biscuit, slid effortlessly to the exact spot where Leta’s plate had been moments before. Leta’s plate, with its pale pink treat, now rested innocently in front of Ovidia. It was the work of a seasoned slacker, conserving every ounce of energy for maximum effect. “See?” Ovidia pointed with a perfectly manicured nail. “Right there. A true monstrosity. I swear it winked at me earlier.” Leta shivered, still peering. “Ugh, Ovi, you’re making it up! There’s nothing there.” She finally turned back, a slight frown marring her features. Her hand, without missing a beat, reached for the green sweet from *her* plate, now technically Ovidia’s old plate. She popped it into her mouth with a contented sigh. “Mmm, pistachio.” Ovidia smiled, a genuinely serene expression. She picked up the pink sweet from her *new* plate. “Such a relief,” she purred, taking a delicate bite. “I do loathe dealing with large insects.” Meanwhile, miles away, the Willett Creek Pharmacy was a fortress of silent, sleeping secrets. Mercer Hayes, a crowbar clutched in one hand, stood framed by the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the frosted glass. Beside him, Enid Sterling, a determined glint in her eye, held a flashlight steady. The back door, old and weathered, groaned under Mercer’s precise leverage. With a soft thud, the bolt gave way. They slipped inside, the air heavy with the sterile scent of antiseptic and old paper. Mercer moved with the silent efficiency of a shadow, heading directly for a small, unmarked door at the back of the dispensary. Enid kept close behind, her flashlight beam cutting through the gloom. The small room was an office, crammed with dusty files and pharmaceutical equipment. A single, rickety desk dominated the space. “She keeps her personal effects here,” Enid whispered, her voice tight with anticipation. “Leta’s always been… private about her paperwork.” Mercer’s eyes, sharp and unwavering, scanned the room. His gaze landed on a loose floorboard beneath the desk. Without a word, he knelt, his strong fingers prying up the worn wood. Beneath, nestled in the damp earth, was a leather-bound ledger. Not a business ledger. This one was old, its pages stiff with age, and reeked faintly of a thick, sickly-sweet perfume. Enid snatched it up, her fingers trembling. She flipped it open. The first page, written in Leta’s distinctive, looping script, detailed a ‘harvest’ from the year 1970: *‘Widow Grimshaw’s cottage – acquired via ‘spectral infestation’ – 20% commission from the Willett Creek Council. Accelerant used: Mirkwood Dust.’* They devoured the contents, page after horrifying page. The ledger meticulously outlined years of fabricated supernatural occurrences. Each ‘curse’ was a carefully orchestrated scheme, designed to drive down property values, allowing Leta – and unnamed accomplices – to buy up prime real estate for a pittance. The methods were chillingly precise: manufactured ‘poltergeists’ with strategically placed wires, ‘demonic possession’ induced by hallucinogenic spores, ‘cursed’ lands made uninhabitable by chemical irritants. The ‘Mirkwood Dust’ was a common accelerant for these ‘manifestations,’ a local name for the specific chemical Mercer had found. Leta had been framing the supernatural to steal the town blind for a decade. Enid’s face was pale, a mixture of fury and absolute horror. “She’s been doing this… for *years*,” she breathed, the realization a bitter taste in her mouth. “All the townsfolk… all the fear… for greed.” Mercer’s expression was grim, a silent promise of retribution hardening his features. Back at the cabin, Ovidia was stifling another yawn, halfway through her pink biscuit. Leta, across from her, suddenly clutched her stomach. A sharp gasp escaped her lips, quickly followed by a strangled cough. Her face, moments ago bright with false cheer, drained of all color, becoming a sickly green. “Ovi… Ovidia,” Leta choked out, her eyes wide with dawning horror, fixed not on Ovidia, but on the empty macaroon box. Her hand, trembling violently, reached into her large, floral purse. It emerged, not with a handkerchief, but with the cold, gleaming metal of a loaded revolver, pointing directly at Ovidia’s head.

Snacking with the Enemy