Witching Hour

With Halloween quickly approaching, chills are in the air, blustery winds are sweeping up the leaves left on the ground and swirling them around midair, before carrying them off to a place no one knows. Things creep in the bushes at night and a thick fog lays itself on the field behind the old farmhouse up the lane.

The Witching Hour approaches.

First you catch the aroma in the air, the scent of the witch. A rich pumpkin lager mixed with a sultry rum and exotic spices hangs thick in the air as women clad in black hang by the potion shops before seemingly disappearing before your eyes.

The moon is high in the sky as nightfall approaches. It is full and bright. Shadows fly across it and you blink. Was that a broom? No, your eyes must be playing tricks on you. It was a cloud. Moving so quickly? Couldn’t be. Perhaps they were just some bats.

Weren’t they?

It’s probably best to be heading home now. It’s been dark a while, the air is thick with mystery, and the animals are on the prowl. You flip up the collar of your black wool coat to keep the wind out and your boots click down the sidewalk. Thoughts of witches are tossed from your mind with the flick of your head. Nonsense. Waiting for you on the stoop, however, a slinking black cat.

You don’t own a cat.

Happy Hocus Pocus!

Frenchie

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