The Miller Report 11202025

 Miller's Mysteries Blog

   Greetings and Welcome! 
Hello, and welcome to another sunny day on Miller’s Mysteries Blog! 🌤️ The birds are chirping, the squirrels are plotting world domination, and the neighbor’s goats are giving me that “we see you” look again. 🐦🐿️🐐 

The cats are perched like tiny, judgmental sentinels, silently evaluating my breakfast choices. ☕🥪 I’ve got my calendar ready for shows at Calendar House, a double feature at AMC, and a reconnaissance mission to all the local holiday shops. 🎄 Let’s get out there, Southington, and make this season delightfully mysterious and deliciously fun!

  • Across my Desk!!
  
The trouble with bacon sandwiches there’s way too much bread and never enough bacon.

Dear Black Friday,
We all have TVs.
Put Bacon on sale!

Hickory Dickory Doc, three mice ran up the clock.
The clock struck one.  And, you know...

Top 11 Survival Items at The Dollar Store Worth Buying for a Blackout
Zach Of All Trades
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=80knSC49ZzA

Do you ever get pre-annoyed?
Like you already know, someone is about to piss you off.

If it starts snowing for six minutes and then switches to hail shaped like tiny chickens, we’ll know the weather has gone fully unhinged, too.



  • The Reader
Sean reads best at twilight, when the light outside fades and the lamp on his end table glows warmly. He brings a tall glass of root beer and a small bowl of pretzels. On the couch, notebook balanced against his knee, he opens Mindmyst Tales Blog. 
His pencil moves lazily, recording whatever stands out. A clever phrase makes him snort root beer, nearly tipping the bowl. He cleans the mess with a grin, amused at how words can sneak up on him. As the evening darkens, Sean feels he’s not just reading but hanging out with the stories themselves.  
  
 • Math of the Week

1. The Leaf Raking Challenge

Crisp maple leaves flutter down like red and gold confetti as Michele sweeps them into a tall pile that smells of damp earth and early winter. Bob, wearing a knit hat that still smells faintly of campfire smoke, rakes the opposite side of the yard. Michele finishes one section in 45 minutes, while Bob finishes an equal section in 30 minutes.
If they join forces on a third, equal-sized section together at their combined rate, how long will it take them to finish that section working side-by-side?

2. The Thanksgiving Lights Budget

Bob and Michele string twinkling amber lights across the porch while the scent of fresh cider drifts from the kitchen window. They want to add two strands of lights, each 24 feet long, to frame the doorway. The store sells lights by the foot for $0.85 per foot, plus 7% sales tax.
How much will the total cost be for the two strands, including tax?

3. Ice Cream On a Cold Day

Even though a cold breeze rattles dry leaves down the sidewalk, Bob and Michele celebrate the season with ice cream cones from their favorite November café—the one that smells like cinnamon, waffle sugar, and wood paneling freshly polished for the holidays. Bob orders a triple scoop weighing 210 grams total, while Michele orders a double scoop weighing 140 grams.
If the total cost for 350 grams of ice cream is $9.45, what is the price per gram, and how much did each person’s cone cost?

4. The Great Table-Decor Sale

Inside a bustling craft store filled with faux evergreen, pumpkin-spice candles, and shoppers in warm coats shaking off raindrops, Michele spots Thanksgiving table runners on sale:

Originally $32 each,

Marked 25% off,

And she has a coupon for an additional 10% off the discounted price.
If she buys two runners, what is her final total, assuming no tax?

5. Shopping vs. Staying Home

Michele wants to hang a handmade wreath that smells like orange peel and dried clove, but she needs ribbon. Bob, who would rather stay home and eat leftover pumpkin ice cream, offers a deal: If the round-trip drive to the craft store is 18 miles, and the car averages 27 miles per gallon, with gas costing $3.60 per gallon, how much will the trip cost in gas—and should Bob instead buy the $6 ribbon online and stay warm?

 • Now, This Week's Exciting Story

Vineyard Mystery

At a small vineyard’s harvest festival, Lefty and Chantal tasted mulled wine while snacking on roasted pumpkin seeds and fig crostini. A sudden cheer rose from the grape-stomping contest, and Chantal dared Lefty to join in. He slipped in dramatically, sending juice splashing everywhere. Beneath the laughter, they noticed something glinting at the bottom of the vat—a strange old key.

Lefty froze mid-stomp, the purple grape muck sloshing around his ankles like half-set jelly as he stared at the key glimmering beneath his feet. Chantal leaned over the edge of the vat, the scents of mulled wine and spiced fig filling the cool afternoon air, and whispered, “Lefty… that looks ancient.” The judges were still laughing at his spectacular slip, thinking he was hamming it up for crowd approval, but Chantal saw the focus in his eyes shift from embarrassment to curiosity. She hopped into the vat with surprising grace, her boots sinking with a quiet squelch while her scarf fluttered behind her like a banner. The murmuring of the festival faded beneath the thumping bass of some old folk music as she crouched down beside him, her hair catching little purple flecks of grape skin. Lefty reached into the crush, fingers brushing something cold and metallic, and lifted the key into the fading November sunlight. Even dripping purple, it looked significant.

The festival announcer called the end of the contest, but neither of them budged. Chantal wiped grape juice from her palms onto a borrowed apron and inspected the key more closely. The bow of it was carved in the shape of a grapevine, tiny leaves curling in delicate filigree, and along the shaft tiny symbols had been etched—symbols she didn’t recognize. “That’s not decorative,” she murmured, wonder softening her breath. Lefty looked out across the rows of vines, their leaves golden and rust-colored in the early evening glow. “Someone lost this,” he said—but even saying it, he knew it was wrong. This wasn’t dropped. This was hidden.

They slipped out of the vat before the crowd could involve them in another toast and made their way behind the barn where crates of harvested grapes were stacked high. Chantal spread a festival pamphlet in her palm and began sketching the symbols with a pencil she kept tucked in her planner. The autumn breeze smelled of cider, hay, and crushed fruit as she scribbled, trying to make sense of it. Lefty tipped back a cup of mulled wine, warming his throat and nerves. The excitement of discovery was beginning to replace the shock of finding anything at all. “It’s like something out of a treasure tale,” he said quietly. Chantal didn’t disagree.

She traced the vines with her thumb, thinking. “These symbols look like coordinates… or maybe a date.” The idea set a thrill in Lefty’s spine, like a violin string plucked dead-on pitch. He glanced toward the small stone cellar built into the hill beside the vineyard—one of those buildings that looked older than the country itself. Workers passed by with crates and carts, but none paid attention to the two conspirators huddled near the shadows. The cellar door was locked with a heavy padlock, its metal browned by decades of weather. Lefty gulped. It looked like a place where a key—this key—might belong. “You think…?” he began. Chantal nodded.

By now the lanterns strung between trellises had begun to flicker on, bathing the vineyard in amber and gold. Laughter and music drifted from the barn as the grape-stomp finalists basked in attention. Lefty and Chantal, however, were moving slowly toward the cellar, trying not to draw a single pair of eyes. The festival had become nothing more than texture and background—the real story lay waiting beneath the hill. Lefty held the key tight, wiping away the last of the purple stains. Chantal reached the cellar door and gently touched the old lock. “Only one way to find out.”

Lefty slid the key into the lock, and for a breath the world held still. A soft click, then a sigh of shifting metal—like something waking up after decades of sleep. The padlock fell open into his hand. They exchanged a look that was half excitement, half fear. Chantal pushed open the door, and cool, stone-scented air drifted up from below. Lantern light glinted off old barrels stacked deep into the darkness. “After you,” Chantal whispered. But Lefty wasn’t sure she was serious.

Still, he stepped inside.

And the darkness swallowed them both—along with the laughter, the grapes, and the November festival—leaving only the distant echo of a lock shifting gently back into place behind them.


Lefty took the first few steps cautiously, his shoes squelching with faint, sticky grape residue as the cellar swallowed up the last of the festival sounds. Chantal followed closely, her phone flashlight switched on, its soft beam catching dust motes dancing in the cold subterranean air. The stone walls were rough and old, far older than the vineyard’s founding date of 1874 printed on the festival banners. Wooden barrels lined the narrow corridor like silent guards, their metal bands tarnished and their surfaces warped with age. The further they walked, the more the earthy scent of wine and damp stone intensified, thick enough to taste. Lefty ran a hand along a wall and felt something carved into the stone—faint, deliberate, curved. “There’s something here,” he whispered, heart tightening.

Chantal focused her light. At first glance, it was simple carving—decorative perhaps—but then the patterns became familiar. Vine leaves. Grapes. And beneath them, the same strange symbols etched into the key. Her breath caught. This wasn’t a cellar—this was a vault. She opened her planner and began sketching again, hurriedly copying the shapes before the dust softened them. “Someone hid something,” she murmured. “And they didn’t want it easily found.”

They rounded a bend and found the corridor opening into a wider chamber, its ceiling arching overhead like the ribs of a cathedral. In the center lay a heavy table or altar of stone, its surface thick with dust except for a recent patch—as if someone had touched it, or opened something upon it. Lefty looked behind them, suddenly aware of how quiet the cellar was—too quiet. Even the festival above had gone silent, as if the earth had swallowed the sound. Chantal brushed dust aside and revealed a metal panel inset into the stone. It bore a lock that matched the key exactly. “Oh wow,” she breathed.

Lefty set the grape-stained key against it, but hesitated. “Once we open this,” he said, “we’re past the point of just stumbling around.” Chantal gave him a grin that was equal parts daring and delight. “Lefty, we climbed into a grape vat in front of a hundred people. We haven’t been cautious all day.” She placed her hand over his, steady but trembling with anticipation. “Turn it.” The metal was cold and ancient, and the key slid in with a low scrape.

A click echoed through the chamber, louder than it should have been, bouncing off stone and wood. Dust shook loose from the ceiling, drifting in thin, ghostly veils. The metal panel lifted on its own with a slow groan, revealing a compartment beneath the stone tabletop. Both leaned forward, expecting treasure, documents, something dazzling. But instead, wrapped in faded oilcloth, lay a journal—its leather binding cracked and its pages swollen with age. Lefty picked it up as if it might crumble apart in his hands. The cover bore a name: T. R. Allerton.

Chantal swallowed hard. “Allerton… isn’t that the name on the vineyard’s founding plaque?” Lefty nodded slowly. “The owner… from the 1800s.” The journal smelled of old ink and cellar dust and time. Chantal unwrapped the first page with care, and elegant handwriting spilled across the parchment—sharp, deliberate strokes done with a fountain pen. But something about the script felt frantic, as if written in haste. Lefty held his breath as she read aloud: “November 14, 1875. If anyone finds this, know the key was never meant to be discovered.”

A chill—not from the cellar air—ran down their spines. Chantal flipped to the next page, reading faster now. The journal spoke of strange noises beneath the vines, shadows moving between the rows long after midnight, and workers who swore they saw figures walking toward the cellar and never returning. Allerton had locked something down here. Or tried to. Lefty’s gaze drifted back into the dark corners of the chamber, where the light didn’t reach. “He wasn’t hiding treasure,” he said quietly. “He was sealing something in.”

Chantal closed the book and looked at him with wide eyes. “So… is it still here?” Lefty didn’t answer. From somewhere deeper in the cellar, a soft, dragging sound echoed—just a single scrape, like stone on stone, faint but unmistakable. Both froze. The lantern light flickered. And in the darkness beyond, something moved.



The dragging sound grew louder, closer, echoing through the vaulted stone ceiling. Lefty’s grape-stained boots squeaked as he stepped back, his hand gripping the journal as though it were a shield. Chantal held her flashlight steady, its beam trembling slightly, illuminating cobwebs and the rough edges of the old barrels. The chamber seemed to breathe, the shadows stretching and twisting, alive with the whisper of movement. A cold draft swirled through the room, carrying with it the faint, musky scent of mildew and something else—metallic, like old chains.

Lefty’s whisper barely escaped his lips. “Did… did someone else come down here?” Chantal shook her head slowly, but her eyes didn’t leave the dark corner beyond the panel. The noise shifted, almost as if whatever it was was circling the table, pausing just out of sight. “Maybe it’s an animal,” she suggested, though even she sounded unsure. Their combined breaths fogged the flashlight beam as suspense coiled tighter around them.

A faint shimmer caught Chantal’s eye—a glint of metal between the barrels, reflecting the dim lantern light like a second key. Her pulse hammered as she pointed. Lefty squinted. “That… wasn’t there before,” he murmured, stepping closer with caution. The journal felt heavier in his hands, weighty with history and secrets. Every instinct screamed at him to bolt, but curiosity rooted him to the stone floor.

The shimmer pulsed, then a soft, deliberate knock echoed—three short raps against stone. Chantal swallowed hard. “It’s… communicating?” Lefty’s jaw tightened. “Or warning.” They exchanged a glance, the kind that said: whatever comes next, they were in it together. The cellar seemed to contract, walls pressing closer, shadows folding in on themselves.

Chantal reached for Lefty’s sleeve. “We should open it.” Lefty’s grip tightened on the journal. “We don’t even know what it is.” The metal panel on the table quivered as if sensing their hesitation. Then, a low sigh—a sound like wind over water—drifted from the far corner. The shadows lengthened, slithering closer, and for a moment, the cellar held its breath.

Summoning every ounce of courage, Lefty laid the journal down on the floor and stepped toward the panel. Chantal followed, flashlight cutting a narrow path through the darkness. The drag behind them had stopped, replaced by an almost expectant silence. Lefty’s hand hovered over the cold metal latch. He glanced at Chantal. She nodded, tight-lipped, ready.

The latch clicked, soft but resonant, like a heartbeat in stone. The panel slid open just enough to reveal a small cavity inside, lined with dust and cobwebs. Inside, resting atop an old velvet cloth, was a small, ornate box—its surface covered in the same strange etchings as the key. A faint hum seemed to emanate from it, low and vibrating through the stone beneath their feet. Chantal swallowed and whispered, “I think this is what Allerton wanted hidden… and alive.”

Lefty exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of centuries pressing down. “Should we… open it?” he asked, voice trembling. Chantal’s hand moved toward the box, but before her fingers touched it, the faint hum became a low, melodic tone—a sound almost like a voice, speaking in a language neither of them recognized. The air thickened, and the shadows shifted, revealing shapes that were just beyond comprehension. One thing was certain: whatever they had found in this cellar was far older, far stranger, and far more dangerous than a vineyard festival key could ever have suggested.


The box vibrated under Chantal’s fingertips, a hum that now pulsed like a heartbeat through the stone floor. The symbols etched along its surface glowed faintly, a warm amber that contrasted sharply with the cold grey of the cellar walls. Lefty swallowed, gripping the journal like a talisman, while the shadows behind the barrels began to twist, coiling around each other like living smoke. The air smelled of wet grapes, dust, and something metallic, sharp, and ancient.

A sudden crack echoed as the lid lifted itself slightly, forcing Chantal and Lefty back a step. A burst of golden light shot upward, blinding them for a heartbeat, and when their eyes adjusted, a shape had emerged from the glow—tall, shimmering, humanoid, yet clearly not human. It moved gracefully, almost gliding, and the symbols on its chest mirrored the etchings on the key and the box. Its gaze swept over them, and a voice like wind through hollow wood whispered inside their heads, “Who dares disturb what was sealed?”

Lefty stepped forward, trembling but resolute. “We… we didn’t know,” he stammered. The figure’s light dimmed slightly, as if acknowledging his honesty. Chantal, her heart racing, reached toward the box. “We found the key. We want to… understand,” she said. The figure’s glow pulsed rhythmically, like it was thinking, testing them.

Then, the cellar floor quaked violently, dust and debris raining down, barrels toppling over with heavy thuds. The golden figure raised one hand, and the light coalesced into a swirling vortex over the box, lifting it gently into the air. A low, resonant tone filled the chamber, vibrating through their bones. Chantal grabbed Lefty’s arm. “Hold on!”

The vortex flared, brighter and hotter, the air crackling around them. Grapes, leaves, and dust spun in a whirlwind of energy. For a moment, it felt like the vineyard itself had awakened, its centuries of secrets surging through this single stone cellar. Lefty and Chantal clung together, bracing for whatever would come next.

Then—suddenly—it was silent. The golden figure had vanished, leaving the box hovering just above the stone table, glowing softly but peacefully. The shadows retreated, and the cellar felt empty, almost normal. Chantal slowly reached out, her fingers brushing the warm velvet lid. Inside, the journal’s pages had rearranged themselves, now filled with writings neither of them had seen before—diagrams, maps, and instructions that promised answers to mysteries older than the vineyard itself.

Lefty exhaled, the tension leaving his shoulders in one long shuddering breath. “We… survived it,” he whispered. Chantal smiled, though her hands were still trembling. “And now we know… there’s more. So much more.” Outside, the festival lights twinkled in the evening dark, oblivious to the centuries-old secret that had just stirred—and waited.



The next morning, the vineyard was quiet except for the low hum of the harvest equipment winding down. Lefty and Chantal sat at a small wooden table on the edge of the tasting room, steam curling from their mugs of rich, dark coffee. Outside, the late November sun sparkled across the dew-speckled vines, golden leaves drifting lazily to the ground. Chantal stirred cream into her cup, absently tracing the swirling patterns with her finger. The journal and the glowing box sat between them, now silent, as if taking a long-needed rest after the previous night’s chaos.

Lefty sipped his coffee and let the warmth spread through his chest, grounding him after the adrenaline of the cellar. “I still can’t believe it,” he muttered, eyes flicking to the box, now cool and quiet. Chantal smiled, brushing a stray grape-splattered strand of hair from her face. “I know,” she said softly. “It’s like… the vineyard itself was alive last night, testing us, daring us to see beyond the ordinary.”

A faint curl of steam rose from her cup, carrying the scent of roasted beans and cinnamon sugar from the café pastries they’d brought in. Lefty laughed, a low, relieved sound. “Well, if the vineyard is alive, I think it likes us,” he said. Chantal clinked her mug against his in a quiet toast, eyes sparkling. “To adventure, secrets, and coffee,” she said. And for the first time in hours, the world outside the cellar felt safe, familiar, and endlessly full of possibility.




===========SHADOW
The sky above Southington burned green for seven seconds.
When the light faded, everyone standing on the bridge felt a sharp itch beneath their skin.
By morning, their reflection in the mirror whispered secrets they didn’t know.
The UFOs weren’t in the sky—they were in them.
SHADOW by Joseph Miller
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B4Z36PS3
Get your hands on a copy now and read for yourself the amazing testimonies entrusted to us for the record!


============SPACE TALES 2
Captain Vornax thought humans were primitive — until he saw our drive-thru tacos at 2 a.m. 🌮🚀
Space Tales 2 by Joseph Miller
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FKHGKSL3
Buy a copy now. Begin your next great reading adventure.


============Special Dark 
An ancient emerald, a vanished ship, and a sky teeming with strange lights — Special Dark proves the truth is never far from home.
SPECIAL DARK by Joseph Miller
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FX9LTS74
Grab a copy now. Begin your next great reading adventure.
 

Visit and enjoy my Author Page 🍂📜 ♣️❤️♠️♦️
https://warlockpublishing.com/author-joseph-miller.html
📚📖📘📙📗📕📔📒📓📔📒📓📚 ✨🌙💥👣️👽️🛸🚀☁️ 🕵️‍♀️  Warlock




============ sponsor

KelDel Creations
https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100090364412851

Kelly’s craft fair booth is a celebration of artistry and imagination. Each item is handmade with care, bringing warmth and joy to anyone who discovers it. From whimsical trinkets to elegant décor, there’s a perfect find for every visitor. Kelly loves connecting with people, sharing her process, and answering questions. Enjoy the textures, colors, and details that make her work one-of-a-kind. Whether you’re shopping or just browsing, it’s a feast for the senses. Make sure to stop by Kelly’s booth—you’ll be glad you did!
 Gnomes
Dec 6 -- Oakville, Union Congregational Church
Dec 7 -- Kinsmen Brewery
Go support our local makers and community! Put this on your calendar!  We look forward to seeing you again!!  

============

 • Thank you for stopping by! 

As the days lean deeper into November, the roads grow quiet, and the coffee somehow tastes stronger. I’m glad you paused here beside the fire to swap a few thoughts and smiles. Thanks for visiting — may your nights stay warm and your soup always be hearty.
 Nyx

 • Please do write a comment.  You could, if you dare, ask me a question. If I like it, I'll publish it right here in Miller's Mysteries Blog!
[send to mindmyst@yahoo.com]

Until next Thursday,    
Happy November!!! 

Joe Miller 🍻🎃️🦃 

 • Quick question
 If you woke up one day and every inanimate object could talk, what kind of ridiculous conversations would you overhear? I can just imagine a spoon arguing with the fork about whose turn it is to be used at dinner! I’d have to break up those cutlery debates!
 
 
 • weather forecast
 A cold front sweeps in from the north, escorted by a herd of disgruntled Canada geese holding protest signs about daylight savings.
The temperature will drop faster than your enthusiasm for raking leaves.
Avoid eye contact with migrating birds — they remember last year.


 • Questions from readers:
 
 “When you said ‘I’ll just check Amazon real quick,’ was that before or after the three-hour shopping spree?”
Joe: “Research, my friend. Purely academic.”

“Joe, do you ever sleep, or do you just recharge through sarcasm and caffeine?”
Joe: “Sleep’s for mortals — sarcasm’s my superpower.”


 Joe