Dearest Guest,

On the evening of October 12th, at 7 PM, the winds of autumn shall howl their invitation, calling you to a night like no other—a night where the veil between worlds grows thin, and the flicker of candlelight dances with secrets not of this realm.

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The dining hall, hidden deep within the Vermont woods, glows with a soft, amber light, beckoning you closer. The air is cool, crisp, alive with the scent of fallen leaves and the faint, far-off call of a great owl.

As you step inside, the warmth of the evening wraps around you like a velvet cloak, and you are welcomed by the soft flames of candles.

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Before you lies a feast of both temptation and comfort, a banquet rich with the season’s bounty. The scent of roasted meats, loaves of bread, fresh from the oven, crackle with warmth, their crusts breaking at the slightest touch. Aromas of spiced apples and roasted root vegetables, the sharp and heady bite of cloves and cinnamon drifting through the air.

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Upon the table, pies and tarts glisten —apple pies, their spiced filling bursting with autumn’s last sweetness, pumpkin tarts, delicate crusts, and creamy custard.

The very air hums with the promise of each bite, the scent of caramel and toasted sugar mingling with the earthy richness of the feast.

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And as the night deepens, the fire crackles and pops, soothing you into the scene — one just beyond the circle of light, where the shadows pulse with life through Ghost stories by the fireside. 

Tales of spirits who creep through the night, their presence felt in every flicker of flame, every sigh of the wind. The very walls seem to breathe, alive with the weight of old, forgotten souls, while outside, the great owl calls from the trees, his voice a low, haunting echo.

The feast awaits you, rich and abundant, a world caught between the warmth of the hearth and the whispers of the unknown.

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The table is set. The spirits stir. The night calls.
Will you join us?

October 12th, 7 PM.

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