In the heart of Indiana, amidst the tangled arms of the forest and beneath the ashen skies, there exists a path—unmarked, save for the cruel etchings of time and shadow. It winds, serpentine and silent, through the labyrinth of ancient oaks and sighing willows. At its end lies a nameless lake, whose waters whisper secrets to the wind. Few have tread that cursed trail and returned whole; fewer still have spoken of the horrors dwelling there.

It is said that within that desolate expanse, where even the crows dare not linger, there resides a peculiar pair—a couple draped in the grotesqueries of harvest lore. They are neither wholly man nor entirely beast, but something in-between—a macabre jest of nature. Their faces, forever hidden behind grinning gourds of amber hue, are the stuff of rural legend. The crude slits carved for eyes bleed shadow in the moon’s cold gaze, and the jagged maw of their jack-o’-lantern visages seem ever poised to laugh, though no mirth escapes.

The locals, those few who whisper of such things, call them the Harvesters.

One October eve, pale and ghostly with the breath of frost, young Evelyn and her beloved James, unburdened by the weight of rumor, ventured into the woods. They sought the thrill of isolation, the quiet romance of undisturbed nature. Evelyn’s laughter, light as a child’s, danced among the brittle leaves as James traced the lines of the trail with the butt of his lantern.

The trees grew denser as they advanced, their gnarled limbs reaching like bony hands toward an indifferent sky. Soon, the air turned sour with damp decay, and the lake revealed itself—a mirror dark and still, reflecting naught but the void.

“I see nothing to fear,” James declared, his voice breaking the silence like a stone cast into the abyss.

Evelyn did not answer. Her gaze, once bright, had dimmed; her lips trembled as though kissed by unseen frost.

“Do you not hear it?” she whispered.

James frowned. “Hear what?”

A hollow laugh answered from the thicket, guttural and low, as though the forest itself mocked their presence. From the shadows emerged two figures, their movements deliberate, their forms monstrous beneath the masks of the gourd. They carried crude scythes, rusted and jagged as if forged in malice, their edges glinting with the moon’s pale mercy.

“Who goes there?” James demanded, his voice faltering.

The figures did not speak. Instead, they tilted their pumpkin heads in unison, a grotesque mimicry of curiosity. Then, without warning, they advanced.

What followed was a symphony of terror. Evelyn’s scream, sharp and fleeting, gave way to gurgling silence as the jagged scythe found her throat. James ran, but the trail betrayed him; its twists and turns led him back, again and again, to the lake’s edge.

The Harvesters dragged their prey, lifeless and limp, to the water. There, they performed their grim ritual, carving the flesh with precision borne of practice. The lake drank deeply of their offering, its still waters rippling for the first time in years.

As dawn broke, the forest stood silent once more, save for the rustling leaves and the whispers of the wind. The trail remained, as it always had, inviting and treacherous.

And in the depths of the unmarked lake, beneath its glassy surface, the faces of Evelyn and James stared back, pale and eternal, their mouths frozen in screams the world would never hear.

It is said, even now, that if you venture too close to the woods in central Indiana, you may hear the hollow laugh of the Harvesters, their scythes dragging against the earth, carving your fate. But heed this warning: if you hear them, it is already too late.