Articus-Wolfe

The parade of ghosts reflects the night sky's light. Illuminating but, just barely. Whispering upon the cusps of living and dead. Every All Hallow's Eve, we'd watch them saunter to town, whether it be traveling towards living loved ones or seeking revenge for those who wronged them from when they breathed. Don't look at their face, don't react to their calls and don't speak of them. These rules were only ever broken during the month. “Lan’er, if your eyes keep wandering with the ghosts, your soul’s going to wander with them too,” my mother would call out because I was always the one who stared the longest. “Come help your father make the incense,” again her voice would try to pry my eyes away from them. “Coming,” I’d say but my eyes would still linger on their misty hooves and paws. I remember being barely able to prop my front paws up on the makeshift fence my parents set up during All Hallow’s Eve because the sheep get scared easily by the apparitions. Just as it took all the