by Flora Pendergast, Gazette reporter

What began as a wholesome afternoon of friendly competition at the 32nd Annual Moonridge Bake-Off ended in sugary chaos Saturday when enchanted marshmallows expanded well beyond their intended size, consuming three folding tables, part of the judging stage, and the fire chief.

Witnesses say the mishap started innocently enough. New resident and local spell-caster Coco Montoya unveiled her entry, “Campfire Bliss,” a triple-chocolate brownie layered with homemade marshmallows she had “lightly charmed for fluffiness.”

“They were supposed to puff up just enough to impress the judges,” Montoya explained afterward, still brushing dried sugar from her hair. “Maybe I got distracted. Or maybe I shouldn’t have taste-tested the batter with my more powerful hand.”

The enchanted marshmallows began to grow steadily larger during the judging round, spilling over the plate and toppling into nearby pies. Within minutes, they had fused with several other entries, creating what one onlooker described as “a dessert hydra.”

Panic set in when the hybrid creation rolled off the table and onto the lawn, absorbing anything in its path. This included a pan of lemon bars, three dozen oatmeal cookies, and a decorative birdbath.

The situation escalated when the marshmallow mass rolled toward the crowd. Fire crews and local witches responded quickly, surrounding the goo with a containment circle and dousing it with a steady stream of water. Despite their efforts, the marshmallow reached an estimated ten feet in diameter before finally shrinking back to a manageable (though extremely sticky) size.

Fire Chief Lionel Reece, who spent several harrowing minutes stuck between the sugary side of the creation and the west wall of the library, says the town needs “stricter magical checks” for future events. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate a good brownie, and I understand the value of magic, but the two should not be combined,” he added. “When food tries to eat you, it changes your perspective.”

No one was seriously injured, though several attendees report lingering stickiness in their shoes and hair.

As for Ms. Montoya, she has been temporarily banned from “enhancing” her bake-off entries. She remains undeterred. “Next year,” she said with a grin, “I’m bringing cupcakes. How dangerous could those be?”

Dear Moonridge Neighbors,

I am writing today out of concern for the general safety of our fine town. I have recently learned (through regrettable personal experience) that one should absolutely never feed the shadows in one’s basement.

It started innocently enough. Last Tuesday, while retrieving my knitting bag from storage, I noticed the shadows down there were thicker. They moved when I wasn’t moving. They seemed hungry. Thinking perhaps they were like stray cats, I offered a plate of leftover chicken casserole. The casserole vanished instantly, though I cannot confirm the method by which it was consumed.

Over the next few days, the shadows grew bolder. They began creeping up the stairs at night, lingering in the corners of my living room, and whispering my name in a tone I can only describe as both polite and deeply unsettling. I made the mistake of offering them a slice of lemon pound cake. This, I believe, was the turning point.

By Friday, they had rearranged my pantry alphabetically (thoughtful) but also hidden my shoes (less thoughtful). The final straw came when I found one sitting in my recliner, pretending to read a copy of Sense & Sensibility.

After consulting with Hazel Thornton and La’Tasha Morehouse at the apothecary, I was informed that once fed, shadows can become “attached” and will expect regular meals. Worse, they may start inviting friends.

I have since performed the necessary banishment ritual (thank you, Blue Moon Apothecary, for the salt and onyx stones), but I feel it is my civic duty to warn others: no matter how pitiful they look, do not feed the shadows. They will not leave willingly, and their table manners are atrocious.

Stay safe, Moonridge. Keep your basements well-lit and your leftovers to yourself.

Respectfully,
Geraldine Pike
P.S. If anyone finds a pair of size 7 gardening clogs wandering around, they may be mine.