Halloween is a fantastic tapestry of traditions from many different cultures and times. Recently, author Neil Gaiman proposed a new tradition be added to the arras: All Hallow’s Read. I love books. I love Halloween. What’s not to love?
According to the oldest traditions, this book-giving is supposed to take place the week of or on Halloween. But like so many others before me, I’m adding my own little spin to the celebration. To mark All Hallow’s Read this year, I’ll be posting a spooky story. It’s a short story (a very short story, actually), in two parts. Part One is below the fold. Part Two will be posted next Monday. The following Monday, one week before Halloween, I’ll post a .pdf of the entire story, neatly formatted in (tiny, tiny) book form. On the day itself, I hope to have photos of how my own “book” version turned out.
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Sometime, thousands of years ago when Night still ruled over half the Day, and fire was our only weapon against the darkness, we evolved language. With language, we began to tell each other stories. With stories, we unleashed imagination, a power both wondrous and terrible…
“Mommy, what’s a bog-wart?”
Elspeth blurted it out just as Mother was leaving. Mother paused, one hand on the latch and one on the candle. Her back was to us, but I saw her shoulders sag a little.
“Donal says it’s a great, huge thing with five eyes and a hundred claws.”
Mother turned to look at Elspeth. She was smiling, but it was a weary smile, and you could hear it in her voice, too.
“Now, you don’t really believe that, do you sweetie?”
“Donal said you told him so. He said you said it would carry him off if he didn’t finish his chores, or clean his plate, or keep quiet in church on Sunday.”
I kept my eyes shut and didn’t make a sound. I really hoped she’d think I was sleeping.
Mother just looked hard at Elspeth, with the smile sort of slipping a little, and finally she went over and patted her on the head and said in her most reassuring voice—though I could hear a little tremor in it—
“Well, a good little girl like you needn’t be scared of bog-warts.”
And she turned and picked up the candle and left.
It was quiet in the pitch-darkness. Elspeth lay still as a baby rabbit that’s caught wind of a fox. She was scarcely even breathing. I was almost asleep for real when I thought I heard her say, in a voice so tiny I could hardly be sure,
“Mommy, I’m scared.”
A Month of Sundries 
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