‘Tis the October wind that speaks of death lying, waiting behind trees gone chill and bare. Whistling through the limp limbs of despair, the wind sets restless souls loose on the still. We light our campfires to ward our bodies from autumn’s shadow as we have for years gone black. Most nights our primal safeguard of flame keeps demons’ souls at bay. Yet, this night is Hallows Eve, the day of living hell.
This night of deathly solstice calls shades of havoc that would walk amongst the living just as wolves stalk wintry livestock, huddled together to parry the cold. Hades’ gates have now swung open to unleash the hounds of hell on our mortal flesh; they aim to announce their presence to the world as a siren increases humans’ blood to pump harder and sweeter than ever. Hounds of hell prefer hastened heart rates to sweeten our blood and savor. It’s such a pity their ferocious howls often sound as if nothing more than whistling through these hollow forests. Yet, sometimes they manage to raise the hairs on our neck with no explanation for our own minds to grasp.
With our fires lit and our swords at ready, we shall sleep lightly as we may lose a mortal soul on any of the multiple watches meant to remain alert. Oh, that my cloak may ward off the chill; its fabric can’t quite keep my heat contained. Of course, the fabric is meant to protect against Earth’s elements, not the chill of death’s fore coming.
Our days have been numbered to this final dusk of autumn sorrow. The trees offer no safe haven. Alas, oh fortunate souls, that you might read these words of autumns passed. My childhood memories are the leaves of falling grace; my demons are the realities of what has begun and what is to come. ‘Twas wonder once on summer’s meadows; ‘tis now no more than autumn fleeting. The soon wintry chill, with hounds of the kill- tonight the fire wanes dim.