Michael Myers stands a darkened pumpkin field under a blood-red sky at twilight, his figure partially obscured by low-hanging mist. Around him, twisted, broken fences and scattered pumpkins lie in disarray, some carved with eerie, grinning faces that seem to watch him pass. Bare, skeletal trees dot the landscape, their limbs reaching toward the sky like twisted fingers. A rusty scarecrow stands nearby, its hat tattered and eyes hollow, adding to the sense of abandonment. The faint glow of distant farmhouse lights shines faintly, barely piercing the dense, foreboding fog. <lora:michaelmyers_simple2-1300:1.0>
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