Cages and Those Who Hold the Keys

1

Make certain that all the tools you’ll need for cutting materials for your patchwork quilt are properly sharpened so as to ensure each edge-cut is as clean as possible.

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There is a certain night when stories of the darkness and that which calls it home are commonplace, accompanied by a host of spirits who wait patiently for their chance to set foot upon soil where unknowing humankind shrugs off its fear with laughter and candy and the celebrating of an ancient ritual. The mouth of this night is the choice hour for the formless, nameless, restless dead as they drift in low-moaning winds, searching for something— an errant wish, an echo of joy or terror, a blind spot in someone’s peripheral vision— anything they can use to give themselves shape and dimension, however briefly. Many of them take joy in frightening the living out of the husk of their hearts; others wait quietly by the sides of those alone, a companion whose only wish is to bring a sense of friendship and comfort; still others are content to drift along, taking great pleasure in simply watching the bustle of humankind. The light that is shadowless, colorless, softer than moonglow shimmering over a snow-laden field, this light against which even the deepest darkness would appear bright as a star in supernova, this light is the place they call home.

The Romans called this night the Feast of Pomona; the Druids named it All Souls’ Day; in Mexico it is known as el Dia de los Muertos.

Most call it Hallowe’en.

The children here have a favorite story they like to tell one another as they pass down dark streets in search of houses whose porch lights bid welcome; it is a story that has been around as long as even many of the adults can remember, all about Grave-Hag and the Monster who lives with her, guarding her house from curiosity-seekers and passers-by until Hallowe’en arrives; then, say the tellers, and only then, do the two of them slip out of the house and into the night, skulking through shadows toward some hideous task....

And so it begins, this tale best told under a full autumn moon when the wind brings with it a chill that dances through the bones and the sounds from beyond the campfire grow ominously semi-human.

A sad and damaged little town.

In its center, an October-lonely cemetery.

A lone figure holding two red roses stands near a pair of graves— one still quite fresh, the other settled, comfortable, long at home— listening to the echoing laughter of children dressed as beasties and hobgoblins. A trace of unease. The smoky scent of dried leaves burning in a distant, unseen yard. A pulsing of blood through the temples. And the unseen presence of regrets both new and old about to become flesh.