All Things Must Cease

I've been working on a ghostly novella for quite some time now. It is based on a dream I had a few years ago. The title, of course, is subject to change. Below is a little summary of what I've been working on. Any comments and gentle critiques are needed! Thanks for reading.
                         

               Two grinning carved pumpkins rest peacefully beside the front door of our brick-red porch. Here I am, sitting Indian-legged on the cool steps of our family's brand new home, admiring the flickering orange glow the candles produce. A shiny black crow is frantically pecking at the stale French bread I tossed onto the grass as I take a seat on the cool, hard steps. I am amused by the bird’s expeditious nature of eating and I smile. He is indeed a funny little fellow.

               All is silent for a short while until I hear the popping of the neighbor's burning foliage in their front yard. I watch the flames from across the street make jumpy gestures such as dancing faeries at an elegant ball. The crickets, with their violin legs, are merging with the melody with the wind in the trees. Our neighbors are in a festive mood as their gleeful laughs are audibly traced just next door. Even the grimacing jack-o'-lantern that guards their half opened window does not seem to mind. In his own way, he is also laughing.

               Bewildered by the gradual elevation in volume, I stare at the warm sun setting in the Tennessee horizon, casting shadows across the Smoky Mountains. This is perfection. Soon, that deep orange star will be visiting other parts of the world, and then it will be time for tricks and treats in this city called Sevierville. I stare at the very last ray of light that manages to finally hide itself behind the tallest mountain, miles away from our house. It’s as if I am able to control the setting sun with my mind, making it go slowly down, down, down.

               Fondly smitten of the thought, I stand up and pad my way to the kitchen where my mother is preparing her most delicious confections: Mom's Mountaintop Toffee. That sweet, delectable treat has passed down from mother to mother in our family for decades. Upon arrival, a new scent enters my senses and I am pulled back down to the reality that I never survived that crash.

               I can faintly taste the coppery blood on my lips yet I do not have the strength to lick them clean. The shards of windshield glass is piercing the white of my eyes, forcing them open to look at my bottom jaw which has been nearly ripped apart from my face by a jagged, sharp rock. My chest is torn open, revealing cracked ribs; my emaciated stomach, exposing itself to the smallest amount of pale moonlight that is emitting through the cracks of this deep ravine. Though the coolness of autumn is bearing down on my scattered remains, I am partly warmed by my blood which drips down my throat. Ants and scorpions numb my wounds. With each nibble, they carry tiny pieces of me away to their underground world, never to be seen again.

               I want to scream for help but no one can hear my cries through the gurgling of my torn vocal chords. My once strong voice is as hushed as the dead of the night. It’s so cold down here. My strength to stay alive had already diminished as the light in my mind rotted away long before my horrid realization had set in—I am not at my parent's house on my beloved porch. I am dead.