
The monster approaches the edge of the forest.
He is of sturdy build, covered in moss and lichen.
He is the keeper of these woods
and he is curious.
He looks out
at the town nestled in the valley below.
Smoke rises from red-brick chimneys
as the October sky fades to black.
The townsfolk carry out their strange rituals year after year
when the leaves turn red and the wind sharp.
They emerge from their homes with faces of bone,
Some with horns, others in long black robes
wearing green faces laced with scars.
They walk the streets in packs
begging for sweets, threatening tricks.
This year, he will get to the bottom of it all.
The monster descends the hill
leaving the protection of his forest.
The vines entwining his arms and legs
stretch back towards the woods,
but the creature plods on,
his curiosity drawing him down.
The houses are dark,
the sun having passed its duties
to the crescent moon.
A flickering ember catches his eye,
like the odd lights in the peat-bogs deep in his woods.
He turns and sees a face staring down at him
A leering smile with
thick, sharp teeth and yellow eyes.
Glowing faces stare down at him from
windows, rocking chairs and porch-ledges.
They grin with their fire-faces, perched on the edges of homes,
will-o’-the-wisps a-plenty.
He hears the notes of a song, carried softly on the wind.
The lanterns sing to him of grave-robbers,
Skeletons with winged feet,
Ghouls riding the night sky on black horses,
of tiny creatures in faraway hills
that whisper to the stars.
The monster, hearing their song
dances in the street,
singing the slaughtered pumpkin waltz.
The creature feels the draw of his home, the wooded dark
calling him back before the witching hour.
He moves quietly through the streets and without a sound
is back up his hill
enveloped in the green
laughing at the tales he will tell
when the morning comes.
