The garage fell silent. Somewhere in the distance, a child laughed—the high, thin sound of trick-or-treaters.
The first turn—a sweeping left-hander that should have been packed clay—was now loose shale, the kind that slid under your tires like marbles. Leo drifted wide, saved it by putting a boot down, and felt the ground pulse. Like a heartbeat. Like the mountain was feeling him. moto x halloween
The fog was the first sign that the rules had changed. It wasn't natural—too cold, too deliberate, curling around the oak trees like fingers. The trailhead had been blocked by a fallen log three weeks ago, but the log was gone. In its place was a single orange ribbon tied to a sapling. Race marker. Except the ribbon was faded, frayed, the kind of fabric that had been outside for years. The garage fell silent
Other bikes emerged from the mist—older models, mostly. A '98 YZ250 with cracked number plates. An '05 CRF450R with a seat held together by duct tape and stubbornness. And then, at the front, a bike Leo recognized down to the VIN: a 2022 Husqvarna FC 350. Black plastic. Gold rims. A number 7 on the front plate. Leo drifted wide, saved it by putting a
The rider wore a matte black helmet with a mirrored visor. No logos. No name. Just the reflection of Leo's own terrified face staring back.
"Line up."
Not a ghost.