Witching Hours

It's late now, dark, cold, still, and silent. The very witching hour of the night. The night.

I take apart some of my props, the ones that can't stay out overnight. One last bog-light, candle-lit, struggles on, against all odds. All alone now.

The jack o' lanterns wink out one by one, as night-creatures begin to creep over their thin orange flesh. The cold air is redolent, vaguely, of charring pumpkin. A burnt offering.

I can hear things out there, stirring through the darkness. I think, I understand why this holiday came to be. The only things abroad now are night-things, traversing a dark country.

Because, Halloween is not a time of year, it is not a day or date. It's a territory. And for brief spells we get to visit there, like bad tourists, cloaked in the symbols and costume of the local culture.

We breath the same air as the denizens of Halloween, then part with them for another year.