My wife brought home the first taste of autumn to decorate our home: orange and green gourds that we laid in a bed of stone along with a burgundy leaf we plucked from the yard. We’ve a few leaves that have begun to turn, and trees have already begun to shed their green cloaks, the ground littered with crumbling brown corpses at their feet.
It feels more real to me now. The smell is in the air. The wind carries an icy chill, the promise of winter that merely waits for death to have its say that it might reign awhile.
Autumn is most assuredly upon us and with it the goblins come, and the spirits, both foul and mournful, are loosed upon the unsuspecting. In the quiet of your house, when the lights are low, and there is nothing but your shallow breathing for comfort as you pore over some dolent prose… you can hear them in the shadows, those unseen forces, the spirits of the damned. They lie in wait for you…patiently they watch for your diligence to falter, to gain entry and feed on whatever good is left inside you.
The witching season is upon us. The spell is cast. The dark ones gather and Johnny Scarecrow earns his crown.