Halloween Harvest

Warning: content includes references to missing and harmed children

I startle awake and look at the ceiling where the time is projected in red, 03:00. This light, combined with the streetlight coming in through the window, illuminates the room enough to cause some shadows.

But I am no stranger to shadows, and they do not bother me in the slightest. What does bother me is the early hour, and the sounds I hear outside. 

“Did you hear that?” I ask my companion, Beau. But he does not answer me. He is snoring softly while taking up more of the bed than seems possible considering his slight frame.

I slide out of bed and feel for my slippers with my feet. I shiver slightly in the coldness of the night and consider how soon it will be time to turn on the furnace. Or perhaps I will try to heat the house with the wood burning stove and save some money.

Money! Money is a scarce commodity these days. There just is never enough to go around. The small pension does not cover the expenses. It used to be different when I was working at the library. But then, the scandal, the accusations, and what could I do but resign? Well to be honest, I had to retire. Because after that, nobody in the town would hire me. Not one person would give me a chance. But surely, I am too young to retire, aren’t I? And the scandal, well, let’s call that what it really was - a witch hunt.

A witch hunt right here in the twenty-first century. Surely such antiquated atrocities were a thing of the past. From the 1600s if my memory serves me right. 

And so here I am, unable to sleep, awoken by a noise in the early hours of the morning on what threatens to be another unseasonably cold autumn day. I consider wearing my robe, but instead I get dressed and switch my slippers for boots. You never know who or what I might encounter while investigating the noise.

As I go downstairs, it dawns on me that this is the morning of All Hallows Eve, more commonly known as Halloween. Perhaps some neighbourhood youths are up to no good turning over trash cans again, just like they do every year on this day. But never usually at this time of night. I open the front door to look outside. My trash can is standing upright, and there are no signs of people. There is the distant sound of a dog barking, and beyond that the noise of traffic on the main road. Opposite, I see three feral cats that have been hanging out on the corner recently. They have scattered the contents of two trash cans across the sidewalk. So, it was the sound of crashing cans that woke me up. It is just as well that Beau is still sleeping. He does not like how those cats have moved into the neighbourhood. Before closing the front door, I pick up the newspaper that’s lying on the mat.

All seems silent now. I consider going back to bed, joining Beau in a blissful state of sleep. But since I’m downstairs, I might as well warm myself with some soup. The pot is still sitting on the stove, where I left it last night. 

People used to tell me to use the fridge more. But what can I say, I can’t be bothered, and I would not have reached this age if food poisoning was an issue. According to my sisters, who live far away, north, south, and east of these parts, we all have iron stomachs. We never had a fridge growing up and we never got sick. My soup is fine without it. 

The soup is just coming to a boil when I hear more noises. This time it is not the same kind of noisy clatter that had awakened me just thirty minutes ago. It is more like a whirring, something fluttering or whipping around in the wind. 

I look outside again. First through the living room window in the front and then through the kitchen one in the back. Nothing. Only the streetlight in the front, and darkness in the back.

My soup is ready, so I ladle some into my favourite bowl and begin to eat. It is comforting and delicious. It contains ingredients that are most pleasing to the palate, some crunchy and some chewy. I am pleased with this recipe considering that I was missing some of the ingredients, and I have neither the patience nor the desire to search for them around here. Finding the right ingredients has been hard these last few years. This time, I considered adding something new, an ingredient that has just become available in this area. But I restrained myself because I really do not want any more trouble. I must gather my goods from further afield. 

This soup is my fall favourite. I even shared some with my neighbours back in the before times when they were speaking to me, when they considered me their friend. But in the after times, well, they have snubbed me, and I have retreated to my own abode only venturing out, when necessary, to collect ingredients or to perform what might be called other business activities. I like my cozy life with my hobbies. I like to keep the peace and keep a low profile in this town.

I don’t need friends. Beau and I have each other. And that is all we need. I also have my sisters who occasionally come to visit. But we don’t need to be with each other to stay connected. And so, in a way that only siblings like us would know, we are close despite the distance.

The soup is warming me now and I’m feeling wide awake. I decide not to return to bed. Perhaps I will spend these early hours preparing for Halloween, for the tricks and treats that it brings. I won’t be handing out candy. There’s no point in trying, because parents do not allow their children to come close to my house, let alone accept any treats. In fact, the most cautious will cross the street to steer clear, the same as they have for the last few years. 

I reach for the newspaper that I had just brought in. The headline catches my eye: Halloween Safety. Not only does the article outline Halloween safety guidelines for families, but it also references the tragedy of three years back when two children in a neighbouring town had disappeared for a few days on the evening of Halloween. When found, they were missing their fingernails, their toenails, and their hair. And although these body parts grew back, the children were traumatized - so much so that the one had not spoken since, and the other one had no memories of the event.

There was no mention of my name in the article, but this was what had led to the “scandal” that scarred my reputation and destroyed my career. I was cleared of all suspicion but that did not mean that people were no longer suspicious. I should be more bitter. But I don’t have time for that. I have my recipes and my hobbies to keep me busy. I do wish I had not lost my job at the library. Really, it’s not about the money. I have enough to get by, and if I don’t, well I have ways to make sure that I do. It’s being immersed in the community that I miss, and the access to books of all genres. I love books, especially books about history that depict the past accurately; unfortunately, many so-called history books are full of inaccuracies which, although annoying, can be entertaining at times.

The whirring noise, which had either stopped or blended into the background over the last few minutes, is now back and is getting louder. Suddenly, there is a tap, tap, tap at the back door. I am not afraid of the dark or anything that might be hiding in the night. So, I stride across the kitchen and open the door. There is nobody there. I am about to close the door when I see it, a white shape in the black night. It is an owl sitting on the patio, bobbing its head up and down. I know this creature. He is a messenger. from my northern sister, telling me to come.

Briefly, I wonder why this owl is here and why my sister did not call me or use any of our other means of communicating. Then I remember; the next sundown would bring the night of the special Halloween harvest. It had slipped my mind that she had invited me to travel north to get what I needed. I briefly consider how I must, indeed, be getting old if I could so easily forget such exciting, important plans! But there’s no time to dwell on this. I know we must go quickly while the world is still dark. I clap my hands in glee as I realize that, upon my return, I will have the missing ingredients for my soup. I decide to slip the big black pot into the fridge. That cold contraption might be useful, after all, for preserving the goodness of my fall favourite soup.

I grab my cape from the hook in the hall, check that my keys are inside the pocket, and call for Beau. He doesn’t come at first, so I call louder, and he comes running in his silent, stealthy manner. Without any words spoken, he senses my urgency and follows me outside.

With the owl on my shoulder, we run to the garage at the end of my garden, and then out into the back alley. It is cloaked in darkness, no streetlights here. In no time at all, we mount my broomstick and take off into the night. We look down and see that the streets are deserted, except for the three cats still hunting in the neighbourhood. We are almost camouflaged, me in my black cape with a snowy owl upon my shoulder, and behind me just a pair of green eyes. This is how I have travelled at night for hundreds of years. The owl is silent, but Beau lets out a long meow to protest both the abrupt awakening and the feral felines.