THE CHARGE OF THE CRONE... JIM GARRISON

Hear the words of the Dark Goddess who stands within the crossroads, whose torch illuminates the Underworld: I am the Queen of Magic and the dark of the Moon, hidden in the deepest night. I am the mystery of the Otherworld and the fear that coils about your heart in the time of your trials.

BEFORE those cruel Twins, whom at one birth
Incestuous Change bore to her father Time,
Error and Truth, had hunted from the Earth
All those bright natures which adorned its prime,
And left us nothing to believe in, worth
The pains of putting into learnèd rhyme,
A lady-witch there lived on Atlas' mountain
Within a cavern, by a secret fountain.

And, as his strength failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow...

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token...

adapted by yours truly... "Now Jack, it's close you are to meeting your maker," growled the Devil, "And it's closer still you be to spending eternity with me! What say you to that?" and the Devil smiled a most crooked grin.

Double, double toil and trouble, Fire, burn; and, caldron bubble.
From Macbeth, Act IV, Scene I and by the way; it's not the abridged (white washed) portion you usually see around

The smile of the Witch, and the smile of the Cat,
The smile of the Beast, the smile of the Bat,
The smile of the Reaper taking his fee
All cut and glimmer on the Halloween Tree.

An Excerpt From Goethe's Faust
This witch’s quackery disgusts my soul!
Is this your promise then, that I be healed
By crooked counsel in this crazy hole,
By truth in some decrepit dame revealed?
Or will my age be thirty summers less
By watching witches stir their scummy mess?

No; nor is there one
Of equal power in spells and secret rites.
The proudest or most coy of spirit things,
Hide where he will, in wave or wrinkled moon,
Obeys.

What a singular moment is the first one, when you have hardly begun to recollect yourself, after starting from midnight slumber! By unclosing your eyes so suddenly, you seem to have surprised the personages of your dream in full convocation round your bed, and catch one broad glance at them before they can flit into obscurity. Or, to vary the metaphor, you find yourself, for a single instant, wide awake in that realm of illusion, whither sleep has been the passport, and behold its ghostly inhabitants and wondrous scenery, with a perception of their strangeness, such as you never attain while the dream is undisturbed.

And, maddened with despair, so that he laughed loud and long, did Goodman Brown grasp his staff and set forth again, at such a rate that he seemed to fly along the forest path rather than to walk or run. The road grew wilder and drearier and more faintly traced, and vanished at length, leaving him in the heart of the dark wilderness, still rushing onward with the instinct that guides mortal man to evil. The whole forest was peopled with frightful sounds--the creaking of the trees, the howling of wild beasts, and the yell of Indians; while sometimes the wind tolled like a distant church bell, and sometimes gave a broad roar around the traveller, as if all Nature were laughing him to scorn. But he was himself the chief horror of the scene, and shrank not from its other horrors.

Whether the dreams brought on the fever or the fever brought on the dreams Walter Gilman did not know. Behind everything crouched the brooding, festering horror of the ancient town, and of the mouldy, unhallowed garret gable where he wrote and studied and wrestled with figures and formulae when he was not tossing on the meagre iron bed. His ears were growing sensitive to a preternatural and intolerable degree, and he had long ago stopped the cheap mantel clock whose ticking had come to seem like a thunder of artillery. At night the subtle stirring of the black city outside, the sinister scurrying of rats in the wormy partitions, and the creaking of hidden timbers in the centuried house, were enough to give him a sense of strident pandemonium. The darkness always teemed with unexplained sound - and yet he sometimes shook with fear lest the noises he heard should subside and allow him to hear certain other fainter noises which he suspected were lurking behind them.

But after a few hours, by the magic arts of the old witch, he was overpowered by sleep, and the mare and foal escaped and did as they had been told to do. The Prince did not awake till late in the evening; and when he did, he found, to his horror, that the horses had disappeared. Filled with despair, he cursed the moment when he had entered the service of the cruel witch, and already he saw his head sticking up on the sharp spike beside the others.

When midnight came Esben heard the old witch come creeping along. She had a broad-bladed axe in her hand, and went over all the eleven beds. It was so dark that she could not see a hand's breadth before her, but she felt her way, and hacked the heads off all the sleepers who had the men's night-caps on-and these were her own daughters.

Upon that night, when fairies light
On Cassilis Downans dance,
Or owre the, in splendid blaze, [fields]
On sprightly coursers prance;
Or for Colean the route is ta'en,
Beneath the moon's pale beams;
There, up the cove, to stray and rove,
Among the rocks and streams
To sport that night.

While filling her pipe the old woman continued to gaze with almost motherly affection at the figure in the corner. To say the truth, whether it were chance, or skill, or downright witchcraft, there was something wonderfully human in this ridiculous shape, bedizened with its tattered finery; and as for the countenance, it appeared to shrivel its yellow surface into a grin--a funny kind of expression betwixt scorn and merriment, as if it understood itself to be a jest at mankind. The more Mother Rigby looked the better she was pleased "Dickon," cried she sharply, "another coal for my pipe!"

from the Ingoldsby Legends, 1898
or Mirths and Marvels
by Thomas Ingoldsby, Esquire

As they sat in that old and haunted room,
In each one's hand was a huge birch broom,
On each one's head was a steeple-crown'd hat,
On each one's knee was a coal-black cat;
Each had a kirtle of Lincoln green --
It was, I trow, a fearsome scene.

Last night it was Hallowe'en.
Darkest night I've ever seen.

By Max Ehrmann
Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

from Legends of the Old Plantation 1881 -- Uncle Remus Stories
“Papa says there ain’t any witches,” the little boy interrupted.
“Mars John ain’t live long ez I is,” said Uncle Remus, by way of comment. “He ain’t bin broozin’ roun’ all hours er de night en day. I know’d a nigger w’ich his brer wuz a witch, kaze he up’n tole me how he tuck’n kyo’d ’im; en he kyo’d ’im good, mon.”

from Legends of the Old Plantation 1881 -- Uncle Remus Stories
“You ain’t never seed no Jacky-my-lanterns, is you, honey?”
The little boy never had, but he had heard of them, and he wanted to know what they were, and thereupon Uncle Remus proceeded to tell him.

Paraskevidekatriaphobia is a morbid, irrational fear of Friday the Thirteenth. How many people suffer from this phobia? As many as 21 million do in the United States alone. That amounts to something like eight percent of the population.

There was once an enchantress, who had three sons who loved each other as brothers, but the old woman did not trust them, and thought they wanted to steal her power from her.

The Pennsylvania Gazette, October 22, 1730

Saturday last at Mount-Holly, about 8 Miles from this Place, near 300 People were gathered together to see an Experiment or two tried on some Persons accused of Witchcraft.

As he took his timepiece and reattached it to the guard I observed that his hands were unsteady. With a tact upon which I greatly prided myself, I sauntered carelessly to the sideboard and took some brandy and water; then, begging his pardon for my thoughtlessness, asked him to have some and went back to my seat by the fire, leaving him to help himself, as was our custom. He did so and presently joined me at the hearth, as tranquil as ever.

No, not that way. Louise wouldn't suffer. It was very important that this thing have, above all duration. Duration through imagination. How to prolong the suffering? How, first of all, to bring it about? Well.

Son of Nathaniel Hawthorne

Be the rights of that matter what they may, it was soon remarked that Ken was no longer the careless and merry fellow he used to be; on the contrary, he appeared grave, moody, averse from general society, and habitually taciturn and undemonstrative even in the company of his most intimate friends. Evidently something had happened to him, or he had done something. What? Had he committed a murder? or joined the Nihilists? or was his unsuccessful love affair at the bottom of it? Some declared that the cloud was only temporary, and would soon pass away. Nevertheless, up to the period of which I am writing, it had not passed away, but had rather gathered additional gloom, and threatened to become permanent.

"Magic!" said the shopman, with a careless wave of the hand, and behold! sparks of coloured fire flew out of his fingers and vanished into the shadows of the shop.

It was well for old Elma Franklin that Cotton Mather had passed to either the heaven or hell in which he believed; it was well that the Salem witchcraft days were over, although not so long ago, or it would have fared ill with her. As it was, she was shunned, and at the same time cringed to. People feared to fear her. Witches were no longer accused in court, and put to torture and death, but human superstitions die hard. The heads thereof may be cut off, but their noxious bodies of fear and suspicions writhe long. People in that little New England village, which was as stiff and unyielding as its own poplar-trees which sentinelled so many of its houses, knew nothing of that making of horns which averts the evil eye.

ALL SAINT'S DAY... Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Today no breath
Of life's allowed
For Autumn spins
Her silken shroud,

HOUSE OF DUST... Conrad Aiken

Over the darkened city, the city of towers,
The city of a thousand gates,
Over the gleaming terraced roofs, the huddled towers,
Over a somnolent whisper of loves and hates,
The slow wind flows, drearily streams and falls,
With a mournful sound down rain-dark walls.
— From The House of Dust

THE OLD HUNTSMAN... Arthur Conan Doyle

There's a keen and grim old huntsman
On a horse as white as snow;
Sometimes he is very swift
And sometimes he is slow.
But he never is at fault,
For he always hunts at view
And he rides without a halt
After you.

A TALE OF THE THIRTEENTH FLOOR... Ogden Nash

The hands of the clock were reaching high
In an old midtown hotel;
I name no name, but its sordid fame
Is table talk in hell.
I name no name, but hell's own flame
Illumes the lobby garish,
A gilded snare just off Times Square
For the maidens of the parish.

The Ghost, the Gallant, the Gael,
and the Goblin... W.S. Gilbert

O'er unreclaimed suburban clays
Some years ago were hobblin'
An elderly ghost of easy ways,
And an influential goblin.
The ghost was a sombre spectral shape,
A fine old five-act fogy,
The goblin imp, a lithe young ape,
A fine low-comedy bogy.

THE GHOSTS' HIGH NOON... W.S. Gilbert

When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls,
and the bat in the moonlight flies,
And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds,
sail over the midnight skies -
When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail,
and black dogs bay the moon,
Then is the spectres' holiday -
then is the ghosts' high noon!

A LOOM OF YEARS... Alfred Noyes

In the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling sea,
In the weary cry of the wind and the whisper of flower and tree,
Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears,
I hear the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.

THE VAMPYRE... John Stagg

Why looks my lord so deadly pale?
Why fades the crimson from his cheek?
What can my dearest husband ail?
Thy heartfelt cares, O Herman, speak!

THE GHOST... Richard Harris Barham

'Twas now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards groan, and graves give up their dead,
And many a mischievous enfranchised Sprite
Had long since burst his bonds of stone or lead,
And hurried off, with schoolboy-like delight,
To play his pranks near some poor wretch's bed,
Sleeping perhaps serenely as a porpoise,
Nor dreaming of this fiendish Habeas Corpus.

THE MESSENGER... John Stagg

"Rise from your couch, fair Lady Jane,
And drive the slumbers from your ee',
Rise from your couch, fair Lady Jane,
For I have tidings brought for thee."

ULALUME... Edgar Allan Poe

The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere -
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year:

...there are in Italy great numbers of strege, fortune-tellers or witches, who divine by cards, perform strange eremonies in which spirits are supposed to be invoked, make and sell amulets, and, in fact, comport themselves generally as heir reputed kind are wont to do, be they Black Voodoos in America or sorceresses anywhere.

THIS book is intended to give the reader an account of the origin and history of Hallowe'en, how it absorbed some customs belonging to other days in the year,--such as May Day, Midsummer, and Christmas. The context is illustrated by selections from ancient and modern poetry and prose, related to Hallowe'en ideas.

An ever-growing collection of POETRY, PROSE, CHANTS, CHARMS & SPELLS, RHYMES, QUOTES about Witches and Hags... Halloween, Haunted Houses, Ghosts... both classical and whimsical... a growing selection of neo-pagan... for all ages... including Keats, Shelley, Yeats, Hood, Jong, Valiente, Poe, Shakespeare, Nursery rhymes, Ten pages and more to come...

A growing collection of Halloween, Witchy and Ghostly stories...

A HALLOWEEN PERSPECTIVE RANT #1

What Halloween is, can be conversely, compared to the same phenomena that explains what we call the kabillion $$ dollar industry masquerading as religion these days in America. It is simply a product of our vast and very diverse, multi-cultural, melting pot population whose roots spring from a rich and varied compilation of European belief systems, folklore, backwoods b.s. and homespun, hand-me-down heritage.

HALLOWEEN PERSPECTIVE RANT #2

So! There's kindling for your fire Witch hunters... Halloween did indeed lead me astray... led my wicked little soul straight down the garden path to the Pumpkin Patch that I call Home Sweet Home...

HALLOWEEN PERSPECTIVE RANT #3

We, of the -- collective Witch mind -- can take a little comfort in being the proverbial thorn in their back sides... though, can't we? As long as they're thumpin' them Bibles...
We know that They know that We are not going away.

HALLOWEEN PERSPECTIVE RANT #4

Just for the record: I have not written a rant for Halloween 2001... read on to learn why...

HALLOWEEN PERSPECTIVE RANT #5

Witchery to some the word conjures images of mystery and power; others simply embrace it in the beautiful yet ordinary trappings of daily life.

HALLOWEEN PERSPECTIVE RANT #6

One aspect of this day called Halloween is a time of joy for me. Samhain, the other aspect of the day is a time of spiritual reflection. I also consider it a time of healing... a time of reflection.

HALLOWEEN PERSPECTIVE RANT #7

A pale moon of a face appears in one of the windows... it hovers there in spectral fashion, seemingly without a body. Beside the head in the window an aged and gnarly hand appears to wave or beckon. The door opens a crack with a resounding and creepy creeeeeekkkk and then slowly, slowly the opening grows wider and wider. A Woman with wispy hair the color of the first frost emerges... she totters out on spindly legs, supported by a curved bent-wood cane. She is wearing all black.

HALLOWEEN PERSPECTIVE RANT #8

Nooooo... for those of us who cherish the macabre sense of it -- Hallowe'en is a happening, it is more a season than a night.

HALLOWEEN PERSPECTIVE RANT #9

Probably the most recognizable of the iconic images that pertain to the practice of Hallowe'en is the donning of the mask.

HALLOWEEN PERSPECTIVE RANT #10

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...

Lots of fun on these pages... Story Jokes (most are a bit... well... raunchy), Hey Kids... Riddles and more Riddles (I've lost count), Poetry and Parody (spoofs -- mostly of Poe), List Jokes (yawn!), some of them are actually good. Lots of Eye-Candy sprinkled throughout -- the Witches Kisses are worth sharing. Parental Guidance is Advised.

You know - Post Cards - to your friends and family. It's fun, it's free, it's easy.

Now Open! The Witches Kitchen

Thirteen great seasonal recipes on witchy recipe cards that you can share with your friends via email.

All interesting comments, musings, quotes, announcements and other C.B.S. will be posted to The Wych Board (Web 'n Wychy Worthiness to be determined by yours truly)

I've got those, too... and guess what? ALL the links work! I do not recommend sites that I have not visited myself - you can Trust me... Trust me... Trust me...

For those whose cleverness and artistry have contributed to the creation of this web site