That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain...
October Country-- Ray Bradbury
Autumn People... I believe they/we exist. Yes, I believe I may be one of them... always thinking Autumn thoughts... Why else should I be sitting in the basement on the eve of Hallowe'en, candle flickering on my desk, Nox Arcana's Shadow of the Raven playing in the background, winds outside howling while ghostly fingered leaves scratch at the screens, Halloween Tree and vintage jacks glowing orange and purple in my peripheral vision? At my elbow is a volume of "forgotten tales and lore", within my reach Poe, Lovecraft, Bradbury, and more... witch tales, vampire tales, ghost stories...
I have spent the last six weeks or so converting my ordinary home into a Gothic abode. Witches line the shelves and mantle, jacks grin from every corner. Outside, the same... and more - enough to frighten the neighbors and delight the children. For a few weeks each Fall I have a home that embraces the Autumn person in me... for a short while I am the Autumn person who quietly shelters within this normal facade the rest of the year...
Even so, the rest of the year... I read the books and stories, I watch the movies, I delight in the crows that come to feed and love the nocturnal visit of the neighborhood fox. I constantly search flea markets and other sales for Hallowe'en items or items that will serve in the creation of Hallowe'en items. I am at my most creative when I make items that reflect this time of year. I do Christmas because well - it's Christmas. I do Hallowe'en because I love it.
For some, autumn comes early, stays late through life where October follows September and November touches October and then instead of December and Christ's birth, there is no Bethlehem Star, no rejoicing, but September comes again and old October and so on down the years, with no winter, spring, or revivifying summer. For these beings, fall is the ever normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond. Where do they come from? The dust. Where do they go? The grave. Does blood stir their veins? No: the night wind. What ticks in their head? The worm. What speaks from their mouth? The toad. What sees from their eye? The snake. What hears from their ear? The abyss between the stars. They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth. In gusts they beetle-scurry, creep, thread, filter, motion, make all moons sullen, and surely cloud all clear-run waters. The spider web hears them, trembles -- breaks. Such are the autumn people. Beware of them. -- Charles Halloway, Something Wicked This Way Comes -- Ray Bradbury
Now... I must go about my autumn business... til next year, then...
