The Pumpkintown Opry House glowed and pulsed with a strange light and a stranger form of life. The trees around it flickered in orange light from orange paper lanterns, made to look like pumpkins. Popcorn kernels, chicken bones, and peanut shells littered the ground, kicking around with the dust to almost (but not quite) obscure the tracks leading in from the north - heavy footprints with skeletal taloned claws, as if a chicken were the size of the Opry itself. Strange creatures with strange costumes milled around and around, in and out, eating the snacks and chattering amongst themselves with glassy eyes and floppy tongues. The smell of small wheat beer rose in clouds from dozens upon dozens of paper cups, almost overpowering the popcorn and chicken at times.
Inside, on a wooden stage lit with more paper lanterns with more powerful light than should be possible, traditional mountain music was sung. This was the Noise of the Opry; its siren call, its bone-chilling howl. Goblin after goblin and creature after creature came on stage, in singles or pairs or small groups, with thumping boxes, twanging stringed drums, hooting bottles, and ear-shattering yodelling howls. They would make their noise for a minute or two, and then move aside for the next, standing in a line around the outside of the listening crowd; creatures who carried "instruments" instead of snacks, and wore the strangest looks and costumes of all.
Bemused, Harriet stood head and shoulders above the crowd, which had shuffled her nearly to the back wall for visibility's sake, leaving only the tail end of the line of performers behind her. To her side, Guffin stood glassy-eyed and giggling, halfway down a third cup of beer, which they had purchased with a handful of rocks when Harriet's shiny coins had been rejected at the booth. Guffin's bag laid between them, bulging even more than usual with the addition of the poorly packed tent and hammock.
Guffin blended in perfectly. The hall seethed with patchwork and plaid and denim; simple-weave fabrics, but with bright yarns and wild patches. Harriet, in her tall and plain black cloak, didn't even blend in with the rough wooden walls and floor, but stood as an obelisk in a tide of motion and color. No one paid her much mind, from the children running through the crowd, to the grizzled folks who seemed to be dancing with anything that would twirl. Even Guffin seemed lost in the beer and the Noise and the chaos, for all they stood next to her and mumbled along with the sounds.
And the night wore on, as the moon descended. The songs slowed, from rollicking dance tunes to longer and longer ballads, and then into lullabies. The line of performers around the crowd shortened, though each one stayed for a little longer. Harriet and Guffin, now fully on the wall, leaned back and blinked slower and slower in time with the crooning.
Four performing groups remained. The taste of the mist was seeping in around the beer and popcorn.
Three. Dawn was still a ways from breaking, but the first hint of sunlight glow could be seen in the sky over the wooden hulk of the Opry.
Two.