Tag: halloween

The Day After Halloween

lazaruscarpenterauthor

The morning after Halloween arrived with a soft, pale light that belonged to no season and all seasons at once. The town lay in a curious hush, as if the world itself was letting out a sigh after a long, wild party. There were candy wrappers like fallen confetti strewn along the sidewalks, and a faint scent of cinnamon and rain lingered in the air. Beyond the old clock tower, where the town’s gears creaked and sighed, a seam of pale frost appeared along the cobblestones. It wasn’t ice but the beginning of a doorway, thin and shimmering, like a heat mirage that had learned to whisper. The creatures of the night, who had danced under the streetlamps and stirred the shadows with laughter that tasted of danger and delight, began to drift toward it.
The goblins, still wearing their impish grins and pockets full of trinkets, counted the last of their glittering loot and tucked it away. Their hands, stained with chalky dust and moonlight, moved with surprising tenderness as they tied small knots in their little satchels, ensuring nothing spilled into the waking world. Werewolves, who had sung to the moon in a chorus of howls that could shake windows, paused at the threshold of the mist. Their fur still carried the scent of the night, earth, rain, and pine yet their eyes held something softer now, a lineage of loyalty to a world that no longer needed guardians in a hunt. They offered a wary nod to the town, as if to say: we leave the hunt to the dark and return to the dark’s house. Spirits drifted with a measured ease, their forms wavering like candle smoke. They carried with them the memory of laughter that tasted like autumn sugar and the ache of goodbyes spoken in a language older than stone. They glided past alleyways and gardens, leaving behind a delicate frost that sparkled with tiny, unspoken promises. Some wore expressions of mischief that would have frightened a mortal, but the day’s calm offered them a moment of pause rather than a boast.

Ghouls and shadows, silk-wrapped phantoms and lantern-eyed wraiths all moved toward the seam with a surprising uniformity. It was as if a tide of night had been receded, leaving behind an ocean of memory and the soft thump of real-world feet resuming their everyday rhythms: a dog’s eager bark, a kettle singing to itself, a bicycle bell that rang in the distance.
In the center of town, Mrs Alderney, who ran the little bakery that baked more dreams than bread, stood on the last step of her shop, watching the pale seam. Her chalk white apron fluttered in the dawn breeze, dusted with flour and something like starlight. She had spent the night listening to the stories of the day after, the stories told by those creatures who had wrapped the night in their own form of poetry and menace.

“Until next year,” she whispered, as if addressing both the town and the departing travellers. Her voice carried not fear but a gentle familiarity, the way an old grandmother’s voice carries a soft warning and a warm joke in the same breath.

The goblins paused, counting their steps back toward the seam, and the werewolves tilted their heads in a rare gesture of gratitude. The spirits, who often forgot to speak in anything but sighs and chimes, paused to tilt their translucent faces toward the bakery’s warm light. It was as if a single, unspoken agreement passed between them: we visit, we feast, and we fade until the next turning of the calendar when the door will open again. When the last of the wanderers stepped through the seam, the frost dissolved into dew that clung to leaves and ribbon spun spider webs. The town woke in a careful way, as if waking from a dream in which you were sure you’d forgotten something important, and then remembered you’d forgotten all the wrong things. Children who had chased their shadows the night before woke to find their costumes still clinging to the corners of their rooms like friendly ghosts who had not quite finished telling their stories. They traded their masks for crayons and notebooks, their pockets for clean hands, and their mouths for the first sincere “please” and “thank you” of the day. The mayor, who always kept a pocket watch for emergencies, found himself with a moment of unusual clarity. The city might forget the exact shape of a goblin or the echo of a howl, but it would not forget the lesson etched into its heart by their brief presence: difference is a kind of magic, and magic loves a world brave enough to let it pass in and out like breath.

As the sun climbed higher, painting the town in gold and the soft green of early fall, something in the air carried a note of promise. Not a vow of fear, but a vow of wonder: that the world is large enough to hold both the ordinary and the extraordinary, and that, come next Halloween, the door might open again, not for chaos, but for a shared moment of awe.
And so, with the day after Halloween spreading calm like a quilt over the town, the spirits, ghosts, werewolves, goblins, and creatures of the dark world returned to their own realm, content that they had kept a delicate balance between mischief and mercy. Peace settled into the streets, like a lullaby hummed at dusk, until the next year when the music would play again and the seam would glow once more with the soft light of a world that believes in magic even for just one night a year.

The Lanterns of Dan-yr-Ogof on Halloween

lazaruscarpenterauthor

On Halloween night, when the world wore a cloak of mist and the caverns of Dan y Ogof whispered with ancient secrets, a goblin named Gril, a dwarf named Thoren, and a dragon named Emberth awoke from their long, stony slumber. Dan y Ogof, the Ogof Caves, stretched underground like a sleeping beast. Torch-lit passages curled into black mouths, and the air smelled of coal, damp earth, and something sweeter that no map could name. It was here, in a deep amphitheatre carved by rivers of time, which the trio found themselves drawn to a rumour carried by the echoes: a pot of imaginary gold.

Gril the goblin scampered first, quick as a spark among wet stones. His eyes, pale and mischievous, watched the walls for pockets of air where the cave might hum a tune only goblins could hear. He wore a hat pitched too far back on his head, a patchwork coat that never kept out the chill, and a grin that suggested a clever plan for any situation so long as that situation involved mischief. Thoren the dwarf followed, his beard braided with tiny bells that tinkled with each careful step. He carried a pickaxe that glittered with runes and a lantern that burned with a blue flame, steady as a heartbeat. Thoren was a keeper of things: maps, stones, stories, and the stubborn certainty that every problem has a creatable solution, even one as slippery as a ghost’s whisper.

Emberth the dragon did not fly here for gold or glory. Dragons in this region learned not to crave the glitter of coins but the quiet of ancient places where silence was a treasure too heavy to carry. Emberth’s scales sang soft emeralds and coal, and his breath smelled faintly of pine sap and old parchment. He had come to listen, to hear the cave tell its story, as dragons often did when their kind wandered far from the roar of mountains.
As they descended, the cave opened like a mouth that remembered names. Stalactites hung from above, each a slender reminder of a long-forgotten calving of rock. Stalagmites rose like patient guardians, and the floor bore a river’s memory, a dry bed that kept the scent of the water that once carved the world.

“A pot of imaginary gold,” Gril announced with a bow that nearly toppled him, “is the finest sort of treasure to chase on a night like this. If you catch it, you own nothing and everything at once.”

Thoren grunted, a sound half amusement, half caution.

“Imaginary or not, we must be clever enough to find the place first, and stubborn enough to leave before the cave decides we are not welcome.” He tapped the pick on his boots, a rhythm that felt like a heartbeat inside the earth.

Emberth lifted his head, listening. The cave, old as stars and patient as a dragon’s memory, offered a slow, rolling murmur, like distant thunder wrapped in velvet. “If the gold exists here,” the dragon said, “it will reveal itself as a story rather than a coin. We must learn the cave’s tale to claim our prize.”

They pressed deeper, following a corridor that breathed in a wave-like pattern, as if the rock itself exhaled and inhaled with a step. The air grew cool, and the walls glowed faintly with mineral sheen, as though the cave wore a lullaby in its minerals. At the heart of the cavern, the trio arrived at a vast chamber, a theatre of stone. In the center stood a pedestal, and upon it rested a pot, not of metal or clay, but of glassy darkness that reflected the three travellers more clearly than any mirror could. Inside the pot shimmered nothingness, a void that hummed with potential, the imaginary gold that Gril had described, a gold that could become any worth you imagined, yet would vanish the moment you held it too tightly.

Gril leaned in, eyes glittering. “The pot is a trap for want,” he whispered. “It feeds on the hunger for more, turning desire into a loop.”

Thoren scanned the chamber, tapping the floor with his pick. “If we are meant to claim it, the cave will test us with a riddle or a challenge that reveals our true intent.”

Emberth circled the pot, wings folding with a soft sigh. “To hold it is to acknowledge that you can never own what you cannot truly see. Imaginary gold is a moral more than a treasure.”

They stood before the pot, the moment stretching, a thread pulled tight between old legends and the present. The cave seemed to lean closer, listening as if the walls themselves had opinions about goblins, dwarves, and dragons who walked in search of something that was not a thing but a choice.

Gril spoke first, his voice a spark flickering to life. “We came for something that doesn’t rust or rot, something that can be shared in stories and kept in memory. If we take it, we must be careful not to let it turn us into what we fear most: those who forget the world outside their desires.”

Thoren added, “Sometimes the best treasure is the wisdom to know when to leave well enough alone. If the pot contains imaginary gold, perhaps the real treasure is the companionship we’ve found along the way.”

Emberth nodded, scales gleaming. “Then our choice is not to possess but to protect: this cave, this moment, and the promise to tell its tale.”

The pot trembled as if a heartbeat passed through it, then settled, losing a shade of darkness. A voice, soft and ancient, drifted from the stone itself: “The true gold is the light you carry when you walk back into the world. Take your memory, not your want, and return with gratitude.”

The three friends exchanged glances, a pact formed in quiet understanding. They stepped back, letting the pot’s glow halo the chamber with a gentle warmth. Gril bowed low, Thoren touched the walls with reverence, and Emberth exhaled a thread of smoke that spiralled into the air like a blessing. When they finally turned to leave, the cave seemed to exhale in relief, as though it had held its breath for centuries and released it in a sigh of gratitude. The lantern’s blue flame flickered in approval, and the echo of their footsteps became a musical note, guiding them back toward the world above. As they emerged from the cave’s mouth, Halloween night stretched out like a black velvet curtain dotted with distant stars. The goblin grinned with the satisfaction of a plan well played, the dwarf’s shoulders settled in newfound ease, and the dragon’s eyes reflected a sky that promised stories enough to fill many lifetimes. They carried with them no pot, no coins, no chests of gold, only a memory of a chamber where desire was tempered by wisdom, and a choice that would outlast any treasure. And in the quiet between heartbeats, the tale of Gril, Thoren, and Emberth drifted into the wind, a legend that would be told again whenever the Halloween moon rose over Dan y Ogof. 

The Bench Beneath the Moon – A Story for Halloween

lazaruscarpenterauthor

The Park, a sprawling mouth of shadows, swallowed the last yawns of daylight as a chill crept along the grass. Leaves skittered like frightened promises across the benches, and a solitary streetlamp flickered with the stubborn glow of a tired lighthouse in fog. It was Halloween, all the way from the first orange of dusk to the final graveyard hush of midnight, but tonight the park wore its spookiness with a slow, almost reverent patience. In the oldest corner, where trees bent like old storytellers, stood a park bench weathered by more conversations than the town library cared to admit. Its wood bore the quilted marks of a hundred seasons, and two iron arms were etched with the names of picnics that had never forgotten the taste of summer. It looked as ordinary as a seat can look when it has learned to listen.

From the creak of those iron joints rose a sigh, a breath of something long unspent. The bench shuddered, not with fear but with memory, and then like a page turning in a book left out in the rain something began to unthread itself from the wood beneath the seat. It wasn’t a ghost in the blustering, streaking sense; it was more precise, more patient: a skeleton, radiant in a pale, glimmering fear, stepping from the bench as if the bench itself was a cocoon. The bones wore a suit of dust and old dusk, a cloak of autumn’s last sighs. The skull tilted, the jaw creaked, and a rough, cheerful voice once bright, now hollow whistled from it. The skeleton glanced around, ears long since retired in the flesh, listening for sound remembered from a century ago: the soft chime of a bell on a bicycle, faraway laughter of a child, clink of a glass toasting the night.

“Do you hear it?” it questioned, though no one stood near to hear except the rustle of leaves and the shy tremor of a distant crow. The skeleton’s eye sockets glowed with pale blue light, not anger but insistence, a beacon in the half-light. It stood upon the bench’s edge as if on a tightrope between two lives, between then and now. It wasn’t hunting fear or chasing a haunting. It was seeking something gentler: a memory to finish, a farewell to grant, a name that could finally be spoken aloud without tremor. For years, decades perhaps, connections had frayed around the town’s Halloween festival. The living would come with lanterns and laughter, and the dead would drift with the wind, collecting the crumbs of the day’s happiness.

But this particular night, a thread tugged the skeleton toward the living world: a letter, long misplaced, written by a girl who had grown up and learned to forget the names she used to call her neighbours. The letter, tucked in a desk drawer of a house long since gone quiet, spoke of a promise to return, to tell a story that would bind the living and the dead in a single breath. The skeleton found the bench because it was the last place the girl, now a grown woman, sat with her grandmother on the night of her tenth birthday. The grandmother whispered a ritual in her ear, one that promised that on Halloween, the veil between the worlds would open just enough for a small truth to cross.

So the skeleton waited, patient as a librarian who knows every overdue book by heart. It listened for the creak of a distant gate, the soft sigh of a bicycle tyre, the whisper of a name spoken in the dark. And when the woman finally arrived, lantern in hand and pockets full of memories, the corridor between then and now widened. The skeleton stepped forward, not to frighten but to answer.

“Is it you?” the woman asked, voice tremulous yet steady.

“I am you, once,” the skeleton replied, its voice a wind through dry leaves. “And you, perhaps, are me, once more, if we tell the story true.”

It spoke the name they had promised to remember together, and with that, the park exhaled a quiet sigh of relief. The bench, no longer merely wood and iron, settled back into its old, patient seat, and the night hummed with the soft glow of restored promises.

Why now? Because Halloween is the hour when endings learn to breathe again, and beginnings, too, are given a chance to stand in the light and be remembered.

Guy Fawkes

lazaruscarpenterauthor

Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot are infamous events in British history that took place in 1605. The Gunpowder Plot was a plan by a group of English Catholics led by Robert Catesby to blow up the Houses of Parliament in London, the seat of the British government. The plot was an attempt to assassinate King James I of England, a Protestant, and his government to restore Catholic rule in England.

Guy Fawkes, also known as Guido Fawkes, was one of the conspirators involved in the Gunpowder Plot. He was a soldier who was put in charge of guarding the gunpowder that was to be used to blow up the Parliament buildings. However, the plot was discovered on November 4-5, 1605, when authorities found Guy Fawkes in a cellar beneath the House of Lords with barrels of gunpowder.

Fawkes was arrested, tortured, and eventually confessed to his role in the plot. He and his co-conspirators were tried for treason, found guilty, and sentenced to death. Fawkes was executed by hanging on January 31, 1606. To this day, Guy Fawkes Night, also known as Bonfire Night, is celebrated in the United Kingdom on November 5th each year with fireworks and bonfires to commemorate the failure of the Gunpowder Plot. Guy Fawkes has become an iconic

Image by AI

A Tale for Halloween – Legend of Whitaker House

lazaruscarpenterauthor

In the quaint town of Willow Creek, the legend of the Whitaker House had woven itself into the fabric of local folklore. On a moonless Halloween night, the wind howled through the barren trees, carrying the tales of the past. The mansion stood at the edge of the woods, its silhouetted form looming ominously against the dark sky. The townspeople avoided it, their imaginations haunted by stories of Eliza Whitaker, the young girl who vanished one fateful Halloween night decades ago. Despite the warnings, five adventurous teenagers, Jack, Lily, Sam, Emma, and Tom, decided to test their courage by entering the infamous house. Armed with flashlights, they approached the mansion; its grandeur faded, the windows boarded up, and ivy crawled over its stone facade.

As they stepped inside, the air turned frigid, and the scent of decay filled their nostrils. The door creaked ominously behind them, closing with a resounding thud. The group exchanged nervous glances but pressed on, their footsteps echoing through the dusty corridors. They split up to explore, each taking a different path through the labyrinthine interior. Jack and Lily entered the parlour, where cobwebs draped over antique furniture. A grand piano stood in one corner, its keys yellowed and silent. A haunting melody filled the air as Lily ran her fingers across the keys, though her hands never moved. Meanwhile, Sam and Tom found themselves in a dimly lit library, its shelves lined with ancient tomes. A heavy book lay open on a table, its pages filled with Eliza’s diary entries. As they read, a chill swept through the room. Eliza had written of hearing voices, whispers calling her to the forest, and a shadowy figure that appeared in her dreams.

Emma, exploring alone, stumbled upon the attic stairs. Curiosity getting the better of her, she ascended into the darkness. The attic was cluttered with forgotten relics and dusty trunks. There, she found a tarnished mirror, its surface cloudy. As she peered into it, the reflection shifted, revealing a young girl in a white gown, her eyes pleading. Suddenly, a loud crash echoed through the house, drawing the group back together. They converged in the hallway, their breaths visible in the freezing air. The house seemed to pulse with a life of its own, the walls groaning as if in pain. Determined to uncover the truth, they followed a trail of cold air leading to a hidden door behind a tattered tapestry. Pushing it open, they descended a narrow staircase into a forgotten basement. The air was damp and heavy, and the flickering light of their flashlights revealed a room filled with old toys and a small bed. A porcelain doll eerily resembling Eliza stood in the corner, its eyes glinting in the darkness. As they approached, the temperature dropped further, and a translucent and sorrowful spectral figure emerged. It was Eliza, her voice a mere whisper.

“You must help me,” she implored. I am trapped between worlds.”

The teens realized that Eliza’s spirit was bound to the house, unable to move on. Determined to help, they formed a circle, holding hands as they recited a passage from her diary, hoping to free her soul. As they chanted, the room filled with a blinding light, the walls trembling as if resisting the ritual. The ground shook violently, and the whispers grew into a deafening roar. Shadows writhed around them, and the dolls in the room seemed to come alive, their faces twisted in anguish. But the teens held firm, their voices rising above the chaos. The light exploded outward with a final, heart-stopping crescendo, and the mansion fell silent. The oppressive cold lifted, and Eliza’s spirit appeared before them, her face serene.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her form dissolving into shimmering light.

The group fled the basement, racing through the now-silent house and into the night. Behind them, the Whitaker House stood still, its aura of menace gone. They vowed to keep Eliza’s story alive, a reminder of the power of compassion and courage. Every Halloween, the townsfolk would gather, sharing the tale of the brave teens who freed Eliza Whitaker’s spirit, ensuring her legend would be told for generations to come. And though the house remained empty, the haunting whispers ceased, leaving only the echoes of a past finally at peace. 

Image by Gill Brooks