Christmas Eve, 1987. Luna's Aunt Clara lived alone at the end of a dirt lane outside Hemlock Hollow, a town so small it had no stoplight, only a single blinking yellow at the crossroads of St. Lucy's Road and the old county highway. The wreath she hung every year was made of yew and holly, bound with a red ribbon that came from somewhere her grandmother would never talk about. Luna tells the story of the year the ribbon began to move on its own—twisting, tightening, reaching for the door. Of the woman who came knocking at midnight, wearing a dress the color of dried blood, carrying a pair of shears. Of what Aunt Clara did to keep her out, and what she left tied to the gate when she fled. This is not a ghost story. It is a story about what happens when a promise written in wool and dye is called due.

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