Get Sleepy: Sleep meditation and stories - Cosy Halloween Stories Collection (Bonus)

Episode Date: October 18, 2025

Narrator: Thomas Jones 🇬🇧  Welcome back, friends! Tonight, we'll enjoy a variety of serenely spooky tales, perfect for this time of year. Don't worry, there aren't any frights or jump scares, but some listeners may find these tales a little more eerie than our usual. 😴 🎃  01:25 Night of the Black Crows54:30 The Man Who Knew No Fear2:34:20 A Night at Sleepy Hill Manor3:19:55 A Stormy Night in the Scientist’s Laboratory4:04:10 Day of the Dead in Michoacán4:36:05 The Night Carnival5:07:40 Night of the Full Moon ConnectStay up to date on all podcast news and even vote on upcoming episodes!• Website: https://getsleepy.com/.• Merch (30% off for premium members!):  https://getsleepy.com/store.• Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/getsleepypod/.• Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/getsleepypod/.• Twitter: https://twitter.com/getsleepypod. Get Sleepy FAQsHave a query for us or need help with something? You might find your answer here: Get Sleepy FAQs About Get Sleepy PremiumGet Sleepy Premium is the #1 story-telling podcast designed to help you get a great night’s rest. By combining sleep meditation with a relaxing bedtime story, each episode will guide you gently towards sleep. As a Get Sleepy Premium member, you have access to our entire catalog of bedtime stories and meditations, as well as the exclusive bonus episode every Thursday. And best of all, everything is ad-free. Get your 90-day free trial of Get Sleepy Premium! Only available during October: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠slumberstudios.com/premium⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ Thank You 🙏Thanks so much for being a member of Get Sleepy Premium.  Your support helps us keep the podcast on the air. Together, we can all help the world get a better night's sleep.  Feedback? Let us know your thoughts: https://getsleepy.com/contact-us/.  That’s all for now. Sweet dreams 😴❤️ Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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we relax and we get sleepy. I'm your host, Thomas. Thanks so much for tuning in for this special bonus compilation, a mix of some of our very best Halloween-themed stories, all of which on this occasion are narrated by me. With a subtle backdrop of stormy weather to accompany our stories, I invite you to cozy up in your bed and enjoy the warmth, comfort and safety of the place you're in. Make sure you're as comfortable as can be and allow any thoughts of the day to drift away.

It's time to rest. and our collection of stories will accompany you for several hours tonight. So, without further ado, let's begin. To utter the words once upon a time is to foreshadow a story of me. magic. When we hear that familiar phrase, we know there will be heroic and brave characters, or that we're about to discover an enchanted castle resting under a spell. But beyond the royal matches and courageous quests of those well-known tales, once upon a time,

time, there was an even deeper magic. It thrived quietly, unobserved, in the wild places beyond the castle walls. There it was free to do its work out of the sight of normal people. Some of the unsung heroes in the world of once upon a time were familiarly known as witches, and it's no secret they didn't have a very good reputation. Cast as the villain in more than one story of princes and princesses, these wise women of magic were often regarded with suspicion and mistrust. However, anyone who truly learned the secrets of their arts also knew that witches did a lot of good, even if they rarely received any credit.

While they were solitary figures by nature, these dames of the enchanted world did not do their work without companionship. Although human visitors were scarce, almost every witch eventually adopted some type of animal familiar. Now, we tend to think of witches and cats as being linked, but the truth is that cats are creatures of civilization. They live and thrive near people. In keeping with their taste for privacy, witches prefer animals. who crave the secrecy of the hidden places where a wise woman can best do her work. This brings us to our story. You'll find that it's about one such animal familiar.

This witch's companion happens to be a very intelligent crow. You may have first met this mysterious bird as a small player in another story. But now you will hear the bird's own beautiful dark tale. Let's go back to a new kind of beginning. It starts with the practitioner of good magic. who claimed the crow as her friend. Once upon a time, in a humble part of the world of kings, queens and castles, there was an ordinary village girl.

Her name was Hester. As a child, she was very bright and inquisitive. Her family was not wealthy, and there was no opportunity for her to go to school. However, she applied herself with enthusiasm to any craft or trade that she undertook. household tasks bored her but she could be seen asking questions of the merchants the tradespeople and the wandering travellers who passed through the town Hester was a good girl who tried to be responsible However, once in a while, she was late completing her chores when she lost track of time somewhere.

There was so much to see out in the world that staying in her parents' house or in the small gardens around it felt stifling. that Hester liked best was caring for the family's small flock of geese. She was quite good at it and she seemed to be more successful than anyone at keeping the birds happy and getting them to produce lots of eggs. In general, she had a very soft spot for animals and could often be found lingering with a neighborhood cat, or tossing crumbs to a squirrel. Unfortunately, all the curiosity in the world couldn't get a girl like Hester any big opportunities in the villages of far away and long ago. They were such provincial, isolated places.

As she grew up, it became more and more obvious that her parents would soon expect her to marry. After all, she was a very pleasant young lady, and she would make a respectable housekeeper. Tester wasn't interested in a future as a wife, tending her cottage in the same village where she was born. She had a growing curiosity about the world, and she dreamed of setting off on a dusty road out of town and seeing what lay beyond. Alas, she couldn't imagine how to do that. Everyone she had ever known lived right where they'd been born.

Who among them could tell her how to see the world? It happened that one day, a kindly old woman came to town. She was selling medicinal herbs in the market out of a small push cart. As she always did, Hester lingered inquisitively around the woman, asking about the benefits of one mixture after another. The lady was very obliging, explaining them all. With each herb or remedy explained, Hester's excitement grew. How marvellous, she thought, to so deeply understand the workings of these gifts from nature. Whistfully, she reflected that she would like to learn this important art.

Later, as she was tending to her geese, Hester saw the same old woman walking away from town and taking the small path into the forest. All at once, she was seized with the desire to follow her, and perhaps beg the lady to teach her. Hester knew that her parents would be fine without her help around the house. She would have been getting married and leaving soon anyway. Why settle for a future as a wife when she could be a botanist and a healer? With the impulsiveness of youth, she decided to follow on the heels of the mysterious old woman.

As night fell and her parents went early to bed, Hester quickly packed a little bit of food and a change of clothing in a cloth bag and slipped out the door. Taking a lantern from the front step, she hurried off in the direction of the forest path. She felt sure that, with her youthful speed, she could catch up with the woman on the trail through the woods. Hester walked boldly into the embrace of the forest. the lantern casting a glow to light her way. She'd been down this path many times before, and had played in the woods as a child,

but it was not very long before she'd travelled further than she had ever done before. With the leaves rustling in the darkness, and the moon casting an eerie light through the gnarled tree branches. She began to doubt herself a little bit. She pushed down her worries. At this point, she told herself, she must surely be catching up. Such an elderly woman could not go very fast, she was she reasoned. She was sure that if she kept up her pace, she would come upon the stranger

fairly soon. Hester imagined stumbling upon the lady any minute, perhaps curled up by the smouldering ashes of a cosy campfire. The path became fain. The path became fain. and eventually Hester's lantern burned out. Having come too far to turn back, the girl bravely put one foot in front of the other, using the silvery moonlight and her sense of touch to guess where the cleared path continued. She was now deep in the forest. As the shadows danced around her, playing tricks on her mind, she began to truly regret this adventure. But there was no good place to stop now.

Hester pushed onward, and eventually she was rewarded by the lifting of the lifting of the of the darkness when the grey light of dawn finally relieved the gloom around her. Just when Hester felt she couldn't walk another step, she heard a woman singing. It was a happy little tune and the exhausted girl could tell that it was coming from somewhere nearby, just around the bend. The trail widened ahead of her, and following it, Hester stepped into a clearing. In the centre, a snug little white cottage sat nestled under a shingled roof. Chickens pecked away around the garden. There was a wooden rack standing off to the side, on which bunches of herbs were hung, drying.

Smoke curled from the chimney of the house, suggesting a welcoming fire was a blaze in the half. As she gazed upon the cosy scene, dull and tired, she felt oddly like she was suspended in a dream. Blossoms drifted lightly through the air, borne upon sweet breezes. The very trees seemed to lean closer to one another, as if sheltering a secret. From somewhere in the yard, the delicate sound of wind chimes floated towards her. Hester didn't know how long she stood there, but she was pulled from her reverie by the sight of the old woman she'd been following, who emerged from the cottage. The lady saw her and appeared oddly unsurprised to find Hester in her garden. Gazing thoughtfully, the kindly-looking lady stood drying her hands on an apron that was tied around her waist.

she seemed to be considering the girl carefully Hester didn't say a word examining her as well she took in the woman's long grey hair tied back loosely and her well-worn shoes and simple clothing more than anything she felt her intelligent gaze appraising her from head to toe before Hester could formulate an explanation for her uninvited visit the woman nodded as if satisfied

Then, behaving like it was the obvious course of action, she told Hester to come along inside and have some breakfast. This was the beginning of Hester's new life, for even she hadn't really thought deep down that she was merely following the old woman to make a short visit. A bed was made up for the new arrival, and the girl settled right into life at the cottage. In no time at all, she was sharing the daily chores and learning everything she could about herbs and medicine from her new mentor.

Hester felt very at home, living in the little house in the woods. Each day was an adventure as she slowly came to understand the mysteries of the forest. the habits of the animals, the phases of the moon, and even the sense on the wind. These became important sources of information for her as she learned the ways of the wilderness and how to best harness its bounty. She and the old woman got along quite well, as they had similar temperaments, and the younger woman was able to assist her elder with many tasks that had become more difficult for her as she advanced in age.

As the weeks and months went on, the wise old lady began to impart greater secrets. to her young apprentice. The girl learned that her teacher could interact with nature in such a way that some would call it magic. To her, however, casting a spell was merely understanding the ways of the woods, and how her feminine power tapped into her surroundings. And first and foremost, this the wise woman stressed, she always used her knowledge for good. Alongside her, Hester gradually became a benevolent wise woman as well.

Superstitious gossips might have called both of them witches. But the labels of less insightful people didn't much bother them, and they rarely appeared in town. One of the old ladies' favourite daily habits was to feed the old lady's favourite daily habits was to feed the birds. Most people are suspicious of crows, accusing them of bringing bad luck, or perhaps rightly so, of stealing food. The good witch in the forest, however, was on excellent terms with an entire flock of these intelligent creatures. Each morning she would scatter some stale bread for them, inviting them to linger in the garden. In return, they brought her small gifts of appreciation, shiny things, colourful things.

Sometimes Hester could swear they brought her secrets that they whispered to her as she walked among them. More than once, her mentor had stood amid the crows, with one bird resting on her shoulder and nodded as if she were having a conversation. A single crow in particular separated from its flock and stayed around the cottage all the time. Many people don't realise how sensitive these birds are, but Hester came to understand how satisfying its companionship could be. Listening, helping, or just sitting and observing, the friendly bird seemed to be a part of almost everything the wise woman did there at the little house in the woods. There was a special bond between the majestic dark bird and the good witch. The seasons continued in their unending cycle, and one year blended into another.

Then, one day, the witch told Hester that the time had come when she would leave the cottage in the woods and journey to live with her sisters. She was leaving the cottage to Hester to carry on her work. The younger woman was nervous about the idea of losing her mentor. After all, she protested. She had so much to learn. At this, the grey-haired old lady shook her head kindly. She told Hester that she underestimated herself and that she had learned everything she needed to know in order to take her place as the wise woman of the forest. She urged her student to trust herself and what she had become because she was worthy of this place.

and its precious magic. Hester woke the next morning and the old woman was gone. The new mistress of the hidden cottage took her tea out into the garden and watched the clearing lighten as the sun rose. above the forest. While she stood there, she grappled with the idea that she was now the woman who lived in this cottage, that she was the witch of the woods. In this way, she watched the daylight brighten the land around her. All of a sudden, she was distracted from her thoughts to see the old black crow, which had landed on a nearby branch, cocking its head to the side.

It regarded her. eyes met and somehow she knew that this was the last time the old crow would be there. Just as her mentor had retired to the comfort of family, the crow would do the same. She scattered half of her breakfast to the faithful bird, and the crow took it daintily. Then with a flurry of its raven-coloured wings, it was gone. But if Hester feared being alone, she need not have worried. She didn't realize it, but even as she became mistress of this enchanted hideaway, a new familiar would bind itself to her.

A new partnership would be forged. She would not be solitary for long. You see, what many people fail to realise about Crows is that they live in dedicated family groups. Staying together for generations, they even share the upbringing of baby crows. The older brothers and sisters will help tend the nests when their parents are gone. Crows will flock together, sometimes in the thousands, to sleep at night. These groups of birds are unique to all others, having their own dialect.

What might sound like a plain core or a click or a rattle to a human ear is nonetheless a language of love. On the occasions when crows must join new flocks, they also have to learn a new dialect in order to fit in. As intelligent as they are, and as much as they abound to one another, crows also pass down knowledge from one generation to the next. The lessons of life and the warnings of the elders benefit their children and their children's children. And that is how Hester came to have a trusty new friend. When her mentor bequeathed Hester the cottage, the elder crow returned to its flock for good. However, the retiring crow passed the witching legacy onto one of its children,

One of the most intelligent, the most sensitive, and the most curious of the old crow's offspring was dispatched with the sacred duty of assisting Hester in her work, to help balance the humours of the woodland, to draw upon its bounty for healing. to create wonder and inspiration where there was none. Those were the lifelong pursuits of the good witches and their companions. This mission, the young crow, gladly accepted. It was, after all, an honour So it was that one morning soon after, when Hester had fed the crows their crumbs,

and almost all of her avian visitors had taken wing and gone on their way, one remained behind. Perching itself on a stool near her front door, it watched Hester, turning side to side with its shiny black head. Regarding it with a practiced eye, she knew her initiation to the world of wise women was complete. She and the crow would not be separated now. Hester and the crow grew in their wisdom and their friendship as the years went on. Just as her predecessor had noted, the younger witch, was ready to claim her position as the benevolent presence of the woodland.

She had learned so many important lessons from the older woman, and the most important one of all was that the forest was her best teacher. as Hester continued the traditions of her mentor, she made her own discoveries using secrets that she had learned from the whispering voice of nature. Here, far from the interference of humans, the ways of the old forest were at their most powerful. Hester occasionally took her remedies to town, offering relief to more than one ailing grandfather or feverish child. When people lost their direction in the forest, she found ways to silently help them find

their footing again. When grieving hearts crossed her path, she tried her hardest to heal them. Through it all, she did everything in her power to protect her secret world and the animals who made it their home. In all of this, the crow was her main helpmate. It delivered messages, surveyed the land from the sky, and kept her reprised of goings-on in the forest. In this way, the seasons waxed and waned, and she and the crow grew older. together. But there was one time of the year

when the crow always left Hester to her own thoughts. On this evening, it would make an overnight pilgrimage to its flock because the bird's family was its source of strength. At the time many know as all hallows Eve, that moment when autumn reaches its most profound stillness, and humans let loose their traditions to make sense of the dark, that was the night that the crows would meet.

At dusk on that day, when Hester had closed. closed her door against the cold and sat rocking by her hearth. The crow would leave its perch and, with her blessing, vanish into the dark forest. It would cawore jubilantly as it swiftly cut through the thick canopy and into the cloudy skies. Rising up above the tops of the trees, it would flap its powerful jet-black wings, soaring confidently amid the deepening gloom. Underneath it, a million orange, yellow, red, and brown leaves whispered in unison. Some would be found clinging to their branches for one more hour or one more night. Others were already letting go to make their descent to the forest floor.

Then, following an intuition as old as its lineage, the bird would glide to a special place where it knew its family would be found. Diving down again, slicing deftly into the woods, it would gracefully alight on the crumbling stone wall of an abandoned house. This was a place so overgrown with ivy and trees, its paths so long been obscured and erased, that it was quite forgotten by civilization. any human memories were too long distant for it to be found by people but the crows were still there and what a flock they were a convergence of many families known to each other for time out of mind a group's cemented by the great-great-great-grandparents of the birds who now gathered in this spot.

Like a living manifestation of midnight, they gently descended upon the old stone ruin in an ebony blanket. turning to greet each other, these crows of long acquaintance would begin exchanging their latest news. One elder of the flock might relate how she had soared high above the tree-tops for many miles, observing the little villages, each separated from the other. like an island in a sea of trees. She would marvel at the knowledge that these people could live their entire lives within their little towns in just this manner.

Humans were so limited in their scope, she might say woefully. A younger, more daring crow would tell its brothers and sisters about the summer journey it had made, to reach the edge of the forest and see the ocean. When the land-dwelling bird got there, he would have seen a vast stretch of glittering blue water and encountered many large white gulls. The gathered flock would chatter and exclaim at this wondrous story of faraway places. One very humorous member of the flock

would probably tell a story of how he and some friends had alarmed people, people upon the road by throwing down nuts to crack upon the path at their feet. Then while the people were gathering their wits, the crows might have banded together to snatch bread from their wagons. This story of foolish behaviour would, of course, elicit mild disapproval. from the older generation of birds who were listening in. One memorable year, Hester's Crow shared the most amazing story of all.

In service to its mistress, the faithful bird had tried to help a group of royal princes who had accidentally become enchanted and turned into swans. Unable to reverse the spell, Hester had asked her familiar to show their sister a method to break the enchantment. Alas, the crow related, the task she had taken on was to be a long. one. The bird would have to keep watch over her for some time. In the years following, the crow would tell them how the story had ended with triumph and love. At this type of story, there was much expression of admiration among the gathered families. The role of a witch's familiar was a sacred and important one.

The valiant efforts of one member of the family brought status to all the rest. all the year's stories had been told, and the greetings fully exchanged, the group always took flight together. Rising in a heavy mass of feathers, the crows dispersed into the air, once again levitating above the trees and reshaping themselves into a dark mantle. As the wispy clouds hid and then revealed the moon, the individuals in the sea of birds flapped their wild wings and headed across the thick carpet of trees, watching all Hallows Eve unfold beneath them. Within the forest, the animals were alive to the oncoming chill of winter. They scurried and climbed. They burrowed and climbed. They burrowed.

and buried. They took in the peculiar mixture of dead leaves from the ground and wood smoke from the towns. They made haste to get ready for the oncoming lean season, because they sensed it in the air. the crews could observe the strange customs of the people below. There were bright crackling bonfires to be seen lighting up the farms and the villages. Cakes and other harvest-time delights were being shared and celebrated. Costumes were being paraded about, partly to hide their wearers from evil spirits, and partly to entertain their neighbors. Jackalantons grinned their unapologetic and lopsided smiles, illuminating the darkness with their foolishness.

All this the crows quietly observed from up high. Under the cover of darkness and in the midst of these revelries they were invisible, masters, creatures of the deepest night. But also brothers and sisters, parents and children, and keepers of a tradition, older than those that these villages knew. Just as the humans sensed the turning point in the year, so did the animals. It's just that the birds truly understood that the season's most profound purpose was to reconnect with those who came before and bring them full circle to those who were present.

On this night, the flock came home to roost. When they had surveyed their forest territory and the night of all Hallows Eve was waning, the crows always turned and moved homeward. The night would be quiet now as the human revellers disappeared behind their front doors. The towns extinguished their flames, and the villages returned to their warm beds, dreaming of tricks and treats. In the forest, the nocturnal animals went about their usual tasks, hooting and scurrying, and gathering.

Then, some years, the clouds pulled away, and with dawn imminent, the moon appeared briefly at her finest. The luminous glow from the sky might reflect on the waterways below. creating silvery veins that twisted through the sparser areas of the landscape. Looking down upon it, the crows would have a feeling of peace. All was as it should be in the world below. Soon, one small family flock always began to break away at a time, heading off to their own resting place.

Eventually, as the reunion dispersed, Hester's crew would smoothly diverge from the remaining birds and glide over the treetops. in the direction of her cottage. When the journey ended, the bird would find the garden was still quiet. The crow would alight on the stool near her front door and rest. dawn would be at the moment when the sun was just beginning to paint the sky the crow would watch as the heavens filled with all the pastors that heralded the daylight blues and grays seamlessly transitioned to yellow orange

and pink. But with the day, there was a lingering sense of melancholy. The crow always felt that with the departure of night, the most secret places of the wilderness were temporarily lost. The cover of darkness, the cover of darkness, was such a good friend to magic. But Hester did her best work in the sunlight. The crow's most earnest wish was to continue to help her in manifesting the good magic that followed her wherever she went.

Until this time next year, the crow would dedicate itself to that task. And now, because these wild places must remain hidden, we will leave Hester and her crow at this point in the story, to live their lives in peace. You must realise, of course, that it's never really at an end. For every enchanted prince or princess, for every distant kingdom and for every quest, There is another deeper fairy tale underneath. The true current of magic doesn't end with a palace wedding or a broken spell. It is a river that never runs dry. And that tale will go on forever.

There was once. There was once a young man named Hans, who never appeared to be afraid of anything. It was understandable that he had not yet reached an age when he had the wisdom to worry about life's little problems. However, the lack of fear he showed for absolutely any situation seemed to verge on foolishness. That little shiver that a normal person would experience, the nerves that make someone pause before doing something new, or the feeling of alertness one would have from hearing

a strange noise. These were experiences Hans had never had. From an early age, no tree was too tall to climb, and no stream too wide to cross. Han simply plunged bravely into the fray. Because he also appeared to be a very lucky person, he always escaped unscathed. This made him disregard the advice of his elders that he should be more careful. Indeed, Han seemed to live a charmed life. All the village girls thought he was awfully handsome.

His generous nature and quick smile won him many friends. He was good at making jokes as well. Any local gathering was more amusing with Hans there. He was light on his feet, good with a story and entirely likable. The fact that he was also willing to take on just about any madcap adventure or wild plan only enhanced his charms. There were things about him that his family found less charming, however. His parents had another son, his older brother Klaus. He and Klaus were as different as night day. The elder brother was not a very humorous person. In fact, he tended toward being a bit

dull. However, he was extremely responsible and was a great help to their parents in the family business. Hans, on the other hand, had no serious plans to follow in his parents' footsteps. He had big dreams that made him yearn for a life beyond his humble village. Although he would obediently sit down to complete tasks his parents set for him, he would usually be found thumbing through a favourite book or staring into space a short time later. His parents were concerned that without a useful trade and a reputation for reliability, he would not be successful in life. But as usual, Hans was a very good. afraid of nothing. That included experiencing any bad future effects from his unruly ways.

When his mother implored him to apply himself more, he patted her kindly on the shoulder and told her not to worry. Hans assured her he would be ready to to face any problems that came his way. He was absolutely not afraid. It just so happened that one windy autumn, a stranger passed through town. He was a mysterious-looking older man who travelled with a bundle of book. pen and paper. The visitor got a room at the local inn, for there was only one tavern in the small hamlet. Of course, half the town showed up in the pub that night, hoping he would come down from his room for supper. A visitor was a somewhat rare occurrence.

To get a look at him would be exciting, but the idea that he brought news was even more enticing. Small villages tended to be somewhat isolated in those times. assembled company were not disappointed, as the man did eventually emerge from his room. He was quite amiable as it turned out. He sat himself down at one of the rough wooden tables, ordered some stew and a tankard avail and was quickly drawn into conversation by some eager local boys. Hans was of course among them. Klaus was there too, but he hung back in the shadows, listening. The stranger was a scribe and a story

teller, it turned out. This made him the most popular type of guest. As the wild October evening rattled the shutters of the pup, the man began to spin tails of far-off places. Too soon, the night grew late, and the number The number of people in the pub began to dwindle. The stranger, however, announced that he would tell one last story. He said it would be a ghost story and that anyone with tender sensibilities should go home to their bed. The remaining folk laughed jovially. Not a single one of them would admit to being scared of a tale spun by firelight at the pub. Ten minutes later, nearly the entire company in the little tavern were shaking in their boots.

The stranger was indeed a master storyteller. He built up a dark story of suspense and thrilled every listener with its spine-tingling conclusion. Well, every listener that is, except Hans. At the end of the story, he chided to the others, saying he couldn't believe they were scared. Smiling broadly, he shrugged and said he was not afraid at all. The scribe puffed slowly on his pipe and regarded Hans with a searching gaze. After a few moments, he said, Young man, if you are truly this impervious to fear, I may know of a way that you can achieve greatness. At this, Klaus rolled his eyes. But Hans sat up straight and

eager, and urged the man to continue. A couple of days' journey from here, straight through the forest, you will come upon a grand castle, the man said. There is a king who lives there with his only child. She is a maiden of unsurpassed beauty. But her father has impossibly high standards for any man who would seek to marry her. At this, the other boys in the pub laughed, patting hands on the back. The idea that a simple village boy would somehow meet such high standards did seem ridiculous. Hans asked the man why he would even qualify as a suitor in that case. The man held up his finger, clearly ready to deliver the key piece of information.

Then he continued. The castle is beautiful, but it's also rumoured to be haunted. Other hopeful visitors have been known to hear and see things so strange that they depart in haste the very next day. Some, in fact, don't even wait until morning. The king is seeking a man who is brave enough to last three entire nights in this enchanted place. He must truly be a person who knows no fear. At this, the remaining company fell silent and thoughtful. Hans and his talent for boldness. were famous in the village.

In fact, his lack of fear was his defining quality. Perhaps a simple country boy would have a chance if this were the test. As the assembled villagers finally disbanded and wandered home to their warm bed, heads. Hans asked the scribe to draw him a map. The grizzled traveller did just that, indicating to Hans where he would find important landmarks and where he must go in order to make his way to the haunted castle. First, according to the man, he must cross a narrow, swinging bridge over a chasm. The visitor cautioned that this was a task that scared some people, but he assumed Hans would have no concerns.

he would eventually find a cave. He must enter the cave and walk through it. Although it was not apparent from the opening, it was a tunnel to a path on the other side. The scribe suggested bringing a torch for this part of the journey, as the tunnel would be completely dark, Lastly, Hans would come upon a massive dead oak tree. If he could find the courage to reach inside, he would discover a hand bell.

This bell would summon someone to open the castle gates for him. wringing the bell, he would not be admitted. Hans listened carefully to all of these important instructions, for he was a very bright boy, even if he rarely exerted himself. The truth was he had always been looking for challenges that would truly insertion. interest him. This quest appeared to be the test he had always envisioned for himself. Thanking the kind storyteller, he took the map and carefully rolled it up into his coat.

As he exited through the door of the pub, he got a final glimpse. of the old traveller, puffing away on his pipe by the fire, and saw that the man was smiling to himself. The next day, despite his parents' objections, Hans could be seen trudging through the village, the knapsack of belongings over his back. As he made his way to the forest path, he waved cheerfully to his friends and neighbors, who appeared at their windows, stood in their doorways, and stopped to look at him on their way to the market.

Laos, likewise, watched his brother with skepticism as he disappeared into the distance. He had no interest in going on such a wild goose chase as this, he thought. Folding his arms in ill-humour, he began his chores for the day. Hans looked over his shoulder at the edge of the village and could just barely see his mother waving at him from their front stoop. Then, turning to face the unknown, he began his journey. It was one of those really fine, sunny autumn days. Hans felt his spirits lift as he breathed deeply of the crisp October air.

His feet made a pleasing, swishing and crunching noise as he journeyed through the part of the forest he was familiar with. After all, he had been exploring these woods since he was a child, and there were areas around the village he knew quite well. The trees were ablaze with fiery colours. Every few steps he saw an orange leaf or a red leaf or a yellow leaf as it spun as it spun lazily through the air and came to its resting place on the forest floor. He was surrounded by the familiar and comforting earthy smells of the season.

By the time the sun was shining at its lowest angle in the sky, he was encountering unfamiliar The path through the woods was still visible. He had just never walked this far before. He was beginning to get tired after travelling such a long way and noticed he was dragging his feet more than before. The swish of his own footsteps lulled him into a rhythm. Just a little farther, he kept thinking, and then I'll stop for the night. Right when he felt he couldn't go any further, he came upon the swinging bridge the scribe

had spoken of. Looking at it, you could see why some people shied away from using it. The chasm that it crossed was rather wide, and the bridge looked as if it had been there for quite some time. Hans, however, was unaffected by these observations. Eager to cross the gap and settle for the night, he grabbed both sides of the narrow bridge and confidently stepped forward. He advanced steadily from one plank to the next. next, understabbed even when a bird flew beneath him. With consistent progress and good balance, he was soon on the other side.

He looked back at the bridge and nodded to himself with satisfaction. Well, he thought, that wasn't bad at all. With his victory over the swinging bridge behind him, he took off his knapsack. It felt so much heavier than it had this morning. Then he collected a bit of firewood and built himself a cheerful blaze in a clearing off to the side of the forest path. After enjoying a dinner of bread and cheese, he rolled himself up in his wall blanket and fell into a deep sleep almost instantly. After all, there really wasn't anything in these woods he was afraid of.

The next morning, Hans awoke to a coating of frost and brilliant rays of sun reaching through the trees. He unrolled himself from his blanket and rubbed his hands together vigorously, blowing into them to warm his fingers and his nose. His first night in the forest had passed without incident, and he was anxious to be on his way again. Without bothering to light a fire, he simply packed up and went on his way. eating some leftover bread as he walked. He was so confident that there was nothing lying ahead that he couldn't handle. Hans trekked all morning without encountering a single person,

although he certainly saw many a squirrel or bird along his way. The whole forest seemed engaged in the important task of preparing for winter. As if to make that point, the temperatures slowly dropped throughout the day, and the once sunny skies became cloudy and grey. Hans wrapped his blanket around himself. as he walked, and the lad began to think fondly of an evening campfire. But he had not yet reached the tunnel the storyteller had spoken of, and he knew it would be best to get through it before stopping for the night.

the skies were too overcast for him to see a sunset but he sensed twilight was approaching luckily just when he was beginning to think he might not get there he finally reached the mouth of the tunnel He'd made it just in time to pass through before the day's end. As he fumbled in his backpack for the torch he had brought, he heard a light whining noise. Looking off to the side, he saw a little brown dog sitting by the mouth. of the cave. He couldn't imagine how a dog had ventured way out here all by itself, but the creature was certainly excited to see him. Wagging its tail energetically, it slowly walked in his direction, clearly hoping for a friend.

Hans had a soft spot for animals. He leaned down to pet the dog, and it wiggled its hindquarters with delight. Hans thought to himself that he would simply let the dog come with him. But there was a problem. The torch Hans had brought would, would would not light. Although he tried and tried, he was unsuccessful. Peering into the mouth of the tunnel, he shrugged to himself. He would just go through it in the dark. As if sensing his thoughts, the little dog trotted.

confidently forward, and then turned to him with a cheerful bark. They would head into the unknown together. Another person might have had some concerns about stepping into that inky blackness, but Hans was unaffected by worry. As he and the dog moved forward, the waning daylight behind them was quickly extinguished. Meanwhile they were proceeding on faith. If the scribe hadn't told him there was an exit ahead, he would have assumed he was descending into the belly of the earth. The air temperature around them dropped, and felt clammy as they slowly put one foot in front of the

other. Hans did begin to wish for the friendly guidance of the torch, if only so he could walk without bumping into a stone wall. Reaching out with his hands, he could feel the dripping rocks to his right and left. The passage was not wide. If he ever thought of losing his footing, However, the friendly little dog was there for him. Walking just in front of hands, but close by, his trusty new companion didn't allow him to make a mistake. Together, the two persisted until they saw a weak light streaming towards them. Then, all at once, the trial was passed, and they had emerged into the forest again.

Hans patted the faithful pup on the head and looked around him. The woods had a different feel on this side of the tunnel. The trees were the same, but there was an intangible energy surrounding them. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he felt as if he had emerged in a new place. First and foremost, however, he needed to start a fire. He and his new sidekick were going to need a little light and warmth to get them through this cold night. After sharing the last of his provisions, he and the dog snuggled into the blanket together. The temperature was lower even than the night before.

and the dead leaves gusted in the breeze, making little whirling spirals around them. But they kept each other comfortable and managed to sleep through the night. Upon waking the next morning, Hans knew that this day must be the day must be the the last day of his journey, and that it would end with finding the hand-bell. As he set off, he smiled at the dog, which was striding importantly by his side. His new best friend needed a name. He pondered what it should be. Spot? No. Brownie? No. That was too obvious.

As if reading his thoughts, the dog peered up at him, eyes twinkling. His funny, whiskered face reminded hands of a man named Fritz, who frequented the pub at home. He grinned broadly. Fritzie, that was perfect. Fritzy it was. The dog ran ahead of him, as if glad that the matter had been decided. Unlike the previous mornings, this one was dark and moody. Hands pulled the blanket closer around him as he walked. Looking up at the sky, he thought there might be a storm coming. He quickened his pace, hoping that if he covered enough ground, he and Fritzie wouldn't

end up soaked to the skin. Luckily, he would soon find that this was to be a shorter travel day. Before he was expecting to, he came to a place where a massive dead oak was sitting in the middle of the road. It was a nulled and towering thing. Looking upward, Hans could see its weighty branches extending to the sky above the younger living trees below. He wondered to himself how old it was. Walking around the side, he found the whole the story-touching. had told him about. It was a bit above his reach, a jagged opening that disappeared into the recesses of the trunk. He would have to climb part way up, and then reach his hand above his

head and put it in the hole without seeing what was inside. Fritzie sat calmly nearby. Hans put down his knapsack and prepared to find a foothold. There was no time to waste if he wanted to reach the castle before the storm broke. One, two, three. He hoisted himself up high enough, and fearlessly inserted his hand into the mysterious gap in the tree trunk. At first, he thought there was nothing there.

But feeling around a bit, his palm made contact with a very cold, very smooth surface. Then a wooden handle worn with use. Teetering on his patch, he grabbed the handle and slipped back down the trunk to the ground. Then he turned and brightly displayed a brass handbell to Fritzi. the dog barked in congratulations and wagged its stumpy tail with excitement it was the final piece of the puzzle hans was filled with a sense of purpose Pulling the blanket back over his shoulders, he told Fripsy to look lively. They had a castle to find. Just a few minutes on, the road parted.

The main branch continued straight into the darkening forest. It twisted ahead, leading to places unknown. He spared himself just a moment of curiosity, thinking about those far-off places. But his destination was clearly at the end of the smaller trail to his left. peering around the curve in the path, he could just spy a mouldering old stone wall. This had to be the castle, he reasoned. His discovery of the handbell must surely be an indication of that. As the two travellers approached the wall, they

instinctively slowed their steps. It wasn't fear Hans was experiencing. Naturally, that emotion was unknown to him. It was more a sense of reverence. It was obvious to both man and little beast that they were entering a very old place. and that the place itself was an important one. Following the path along the ivy-covered wall, they couldn't see inside at all.

Hans assumed he would eventually reach an entry, and he was right. After a short time, a massive massive. wrought iron gate appeared. It looked for all the world, like it hadn't been opened in years. Of course, Hans thought to himself, that was ridiculous. Even the storyteller had said that many visitors had been coming to the castle to win the princess. Mustering his dignity and trying not to feel silly, he began to loudly ring the hand bow. It resonated starkly in the silence of the forest, its vibrating tones rippling through the natural sounds of the autumn woods.

Fritzie sat nearby, his ears alive to this unusual music. He was poised for action. But nothing happened. Just as Hans was about to raise the bell and try again. For what else could he do? The voice of an old man came echoing from inside. Do not ring that bell again, the cranky person called. Give a fellow a minute, would you? Hans and Fritzie gaited at each other. Then their attention turned to the inside of the gate. A very small, grey-haired man in an old-fashioned man-servant uniform appeared.

Pulling with all his might, he forced the gate to open just enough, so that Tans and Fritzy could squeeze through. Once the two travellers had to open just enough, so that Tans and Fritzi could squeeze through. Once the two travellers had entered, he stood with ill-temper and put out his hand. Hans looked at him with confusion. Impatiently, he said, well, give me the instrument then. If I never hear that hand-bell again, it'll be too soon. Hans hastily proffered the offending item, and the man took it. Then without a word, the gentleman turned and lurched towards a castle that lay ahead, waving

his hand that the visitors should follow. tried not to openly gawk as they made their way through the beautiful castle grounds. Belying its ancient-looking wall, the interior was well cared for and very welcoming. Although the trees and the gardens were clearly ready for winter, it was obvious how many charming spots there were for quiet conversation, contemplation of a fountain, or a shady nap. This was a treasured place, and it was clear that someone in the castle made sure it stayed that way. The castle itself was no less charming. It was not overly large or ostentatious.

However, there were multiple towers and sections that hinted at twisting corridors and mysterious round rooms. It was easy to see that a person could find a nook in which to sketch pictures or lose one's himself in a book on a rainy afternoon. Hans thought to himself that this castle didn't seem at all haunted or forbidding. Trotting jauntily at his side, Fritzie appeared to share his opinion. When they reached the formidable front doors of the dwelling, the grouchy little man pulled the portal open by tugging with all his might. Hans had an impulse to help him, but he held back.

He had a feeling that his assistance would be an insult to the older man, who didn't seem the type to want a boost while doing his job. Once the heavy doors were open wide enough, the man strode wordlessly inside, clearly expecting Hans and Fritzi to follow. Then, almost causing them to bump into him, he turned abruptly and began to speak at them, in a voice that exuded boredom.

I assume you're here to court the Princess Maya. As I'm sure you've heard, no man has yet demonstrated the courage to stay three nights here at the castle. Each and every suitor has been sent packing. Here, the man paused and rolled his eyes. You don't get to meet the king or the princess until you've at least lasted one night. It is, and here he paused with a smirk, a waste of their time. Hans nodded in a way that he hoped looked humble.

The servant continued by saying that Hans would be shown to his room and dinner would be brought up for him. If he was still here in the morning, he would be allowed to join the king and the princess for a luncheon. Having rattled off this well-rehearsed speech, he cocked an eyebrow at Hans and appeared to regard him with scepticism. Then, without saying another word, he turned again and began to climb a wide staircase to the second level of the castle.

and Fritzie hurried to keep up with him. His heels made echoing sounds as he led them down a long corridor filled with portraits. Finally, when they were almost at the end, he stopped and opened a door to a round room in a turret. Throwing it wide, he motioned to Hans to enter. The younger man stepped obligingly inside, and Fritzi was barely able to scoot in after him. Then, in a monotone voice, the man said, My name is Peter, and Hans had no time to respond. before the door was firmly shut. The simple village lad looked around him.

The tower was quite spacious. In the middle, there was a canopied bed with curtains that could be drawn around it. Hans knew that this. This was to protect against the draughtiness of old stone buildings. Against one windowless portion of the wall near the door, there was a large wooden wardrobe. The other half of the room boasted multiple windows, giving him a lovely view of the gardens. A writing desk stood under one of the windows.

What a nice place to compose a letter, he thought. It was a simple chamber, but the nicest one he'd ever seen. It seemed the tired travellers had reached the castle in the nick of time. Even as Hans was setting down his knapsack and gladly taking off his shoes, the cold rain overtook the world outside. Darkness descended upon the gardens. The trees leaned away from the wind, waving their branches against the deepening twilight. A hard pattering hit all the windows at once, and Hans was soon surrounded by the acoustics of the storm as it whipped against the castle. He lit a candle that was sitting on the desk.

and then lay back on the large, soft bed, suddenly feeling very exhausted. Just as he was beginning to doze off, there was a knock on his door. Jumping up, he opened the chamber to find a tray lying on the floor outside. There was no indication of who had put it there, but he gladly took the plate of bread, cheese and wine inside. Finding himself ravenously hungry, he shared some with the dog, and then ate every remaining crumb. Now, with a comfortable warmth in his belly, he felt drowsy and happy.

He lay back on the bed once again, pulling the cover over himself. Fritzie jumped up on the mattress too, turning several times before curling up next to him. Without even realising it, and with the torrential downpour intensifying around him, he fell into a deep sleep. Hans must have passed many hours in dreamless slumber, because when he suddenly awoke, they The candle had burned down. The rain was still lashing the windows, and it was very dark in the room. At first, he couldn't think what had pulled him from his sleep, but then he heard it. There was a noise in the hallway that sounded like change.

being dragged across the floor. He sat upright in bed and held his breath, trying to figure out whether it was right near his room or down the hall. The sound stopped. Fritzie had heard it too. He was sitting in front of the door. door, his stubby tail thumping, and he was whining lightly. Rising from the bed and walking to the door, Hans threw it open, half expecting to find

something right outside. But nothing was there. Sticking his head out, he looked up and down the hall. Torches glazed along the corridor, casting shadows on the stones, but it was silent. Hans closed his door, puzzled, and began. to stroll back to his bed. Just then, he heard it again. The noise sounded as if a chain was hitting the stone and then being dragged.

Hans once again through the door open to find nothing there. This is how Hans spent much of the rest of the night. Just when he thought the noise had gone away, it would begin again. But truth be told, he was not afraid. After all, what was this noise going to do to him? was lodging in a luxurious castle room with a heavy door, and whoever, or whatever made the noise, was invisible. He had no plan to be scared off from his nice luncheon with the king tomorrow. Shrugging, he dozed on and off, until the bright sun once again shone through the windows of his room.

He opened his door with a plan of taking a morning stroll in the garden with Fritzy. outside his room on a fresh tray in the hallway he found a nice plate with a pastry and a steaming cup of hot coffee there was also a biscuit for fritzie next to the plate of breakfast was a note in pretty lettering that invited him to luncheon with the king and Princess Maya. Hans grinned triumphantly and offered the biscuit to Fritzi with a flourish. He felt victorious. After a chilly romp through the garden, Hans left Fritzi in the turret room. Not knowing exactly where to go, he appeared in the foyer of the castle at the hour indicated on his invitation. Hans wasn't sure what was supposed to happen next, but as he suspected, the stern-faced Peter appeared

exactly on the hour, and indicated that Hans should follow him. He was led into a richly furnished sitting room, where he was left alone to enjoy the roaring fire and peruse the many books on a nearby shelf. He didn't have long to wait, however, The servant soon threw open the door, announcing in a formal voice that the king and the Princess Maya had arrived. Hans turned eagerly, although he was wondering to himself if the royal pair would be all he had hoped and expected. After all, he had never seen a king before. The man in question walked confidently through the door, wearing rich velvet robes and a guarded expression. He was a substantial man,

if not tall, and he had a very noble-looking beard and moustache. But Hans was more interested in the young lady who followed behind. Wearing a simple grey gown, the Princess Maya nonetheless sparkled with humour and intelligence, Her dark brown hair was tied back and she wore no jewellery, but she did not need it. She was the prettiest girl that Hans had ever seen. Hans bowed to the king, who said, well then, who's this else. lad who made it through a whole night in the haunted castle. Myers' face revealed nothing.

She regarded Hans curiously and with reserve, but she didn't appear unfriendly. The lad responded by introducing himself. Then he added, Your Majesty, I believe you have a bit of a noise problem late at night in that hallway. I was unable to determine the source, however. Feeling bold, he flashed a smile at Maya and nodded his head in a small bow. Whatever Princess Maya thought of his comment, she didn't reveal it. The king raised his eyebrows as if skeptical.

Then he and Maya sat down at a table which was laid with shining plates and silverware for three. Hans did the same. It was a very elegant meal. Rich hot soup and generous sandwiches were followed by delicate cookies and tea. As they ate, the king asked Hans a series of questions. Where was he from? What type of occupation did his family undertake?

How did he hear about the opportunity to win his daughter's hand? These were very normal questions for any father to ask of a man seeking to court his daughter. Meanwhile, Maya merely appeared to listen with interest, although she always had the look of a person who was guarding her own thoughts. At the conclusion of the meal, the king stood, causing Maya and Hans to rise as well. He looked at Hans one more time and tilted his head to the side, as if pondering exactly what to say. After a long pause, he asked one more question.

What are you afraid of? He said to the lad. was taken aback, but almost without thinking, he responded. So far, I've been afraid of nothing. Then, seeing his answer might appear like boasting, he added. It does give my mother some concern. She wonders if I need to give more care. The king shook his head, as if he also thought Hans might be a little foolish.

Then he told Meyer he was going to withdraw, and Riley wished Hans a night of good fortune. If you are still here tomorrow, he added, which I do not think you will be. You shall come to dinner. Then he strode out of the room, leaving Maya and Hans alone. Myr looked at the closed door before turning back to her guest. Then she asked Hans if he'd like a tour of the gardens. He said he would very much, and the two of them ventured outside. He and the princess spent a lovely hour together after that.

Clearly, Maya was a great lover of the castle grounds, and it was obvious to him that she had personally overseen the construction of all the clever pergolas and reading spots. plants and trees were entering dormancy now, but she spoke with animation about what they would look like when they came back to life next year. As they strolled about, their conversation also turned to books, to likes and dislikes, and even to a few childhood stories. His time with Maya went by quickly. It was over too soon, and by the time she left him to his own devices, he was sure she was the most lovely and agreeable young woman he had ever met. He was quite smitten.

When he returned to his room, there was a bowl of food outside that had been left for Fritzy. Hans thought this was an awfully kind gesture. For all his grouchiness, Peter the man-servant seemed to like dogs. The daylight waned early in keeping with the advancing autumn season. Hans found himself spending a cosy evening in his room, reading a book Maya had lent him. at the end of lunch. Apparently, she knew there was nothing else for him to do in the turret room that evening. It struck him that she may have seen a suitor go through this process before him,

but was he afraid of what lay ahead in the night? Quite simply, he was not, for Hans had still never known fear. Dinner was delivered on a tray at the proper hour, once again with food for Fritzie. Nothing else remarkable occurred that evening. As night-time descended, a howling gale struck again. Hans thought to himself that if he didn't know better, he'd think the king was requesting this sullen weather just to deter him. He knew that was silly, however.

It was merely the autumn in its stormiest mood. Once again, he dozed off in his big bed with an untroubled mind. It seemed like the wee hours of the morning when he was awakened to find the window wide open. The wind was howling into his room, whipping at the curtains around the bed. Jumping up, he pushed the window shut. He was surprised that this had happened. After all, the glass was very heavy, and it didn't seem likely that even this was. weather could push it inward. Shrugging to himself, he got back in bed and went right back to

sleep. But he wasn't that way for long. In what seemed like a minute, he was again pulled from his dreams by what sounded like laughter. Sitting upright in bed, he looked around the room. The door to the hallway was wide open, revealing only darkness beyond. He quickly walked over and looked out. He saw nothing but flickering torches. Nobody was there. He closed the door again. But further dreams were out of reach. Alas, a banging noise once again interrupted his slumber. paired with another bout of howling wind. The window was open again, and this time so was the wardrobe. As he once more closed doors and windows, he swore he heard laughing again in the hallway.

However, Hans was wise enough not to bother looking this time. He knew he wouldn't find anything. He ended up with a rather sleepless night. It seemed every time he was once again peacefully slumbering, a door or a window. window would bump open. The hall, the cupboard, the window. The hall, the cupboard, the window. And there was always that faint laughing that almost seemed like a dream.

Despite his lack of fear, he was rather dishevelled in the morning. He found that he was glad he didn't have an engagement until dinner time, and he slept much of the day away in his turret room, rising only to accept food deliveries and to take Fritzi out briefly into the gardens. When he returned from that quick foray, there was a snack outside for Fritzi. Next to it, he found another nicely lettered note, inviting him to dine at 6 p.m. After donning the only clean shirt he had remaining, he left the dog napping. in the turret room. Then he proceeded down to the foyer once again.

This time, Peter took him to a room with a long dining table that had silver candelabras and a white cloth on it. Here too, the hear too, the hearth. contained a cheerful fire. Hans found he was quite hungry, and he sat in a chair on one side of the table, waiting for the king and Maya to appear. Once again, he didn't have long to wait.

The door to the room soon opened, and the princess entered, cursing briefly to Hans, and then walking around to sit across from him at the table. The lad stood and bowed his head at the king, who took the third place, which was positioned between the younger people at the end. As Hans was taking in Maya's stunning emerald dress, her sparkling eyes and her beautiful smile, the king gestured for the food to be brought in. Oh, and what a feast it was for Hans! Roasted meats, cheeses, fruit and bread were placed on the table. in abundance. Hans put on his best table manners and waited patiently until they were all served,

and the king started eating. Then, wordlessly, he tucked into his own plate. After After a minute or two, the king finally spoke. So, he said, I gather that you managed to keep your courage for another night. He cocked an eyebrow at Hans, as if waiting for him to explain himself. Aya smiled a little bit. Hans could have sworn she was blushing. Yes, Your Majesty, he answered in a serious voice. The wind was quite something, wasn't it? I found my windows and doors would not stay shut. Do you often have such a gale here?

The king peered at Hans from below bushy eyebrows and took another bite of food. Then he said, why yes, it has happened before. Just ask any of the former disappointed suitors who departed in fear. This felt like a bit of a challenge to Hans. but he wisely held his tongue. Then he said carefully, I look forward to facing whatever surprise may show itself tonight. The three of them all turned their attention to their meals,

each one obviously thinking their own thoughts. At the end of dinner, a gorgeous tray of tarts and small cakes was brought in. The king, Maya and Hans all sat around the table contentedly, feeling full and sipping on some tea. After a long silence, the king put his napkin on the table and said, Well Hans, if you are still here in the morning, which I doubt you will be, we'll have an appointment to discuss the possibility of you courting Maya. In the end, the selection of any suitor is truly up to her. Showing your bravery here in the castle for three nights was just my first requirement

as her father. Maya offered no commentary and did not appear surprised. She merely sipped her tea and stole a sly glance at Hans from under her eyelashes. Then, inviting no further conversation, the king stood, bid them both for good night, and exited the room. Maya too put her napkin on the table and took the last sip from her cup, indicating she was about to leave as well. Wanting to prolong the moment with her as much as possible, Hans asked the only question that popped into his head. He said, Princess, if it is up to you to choose, what are you looking for in a suitor?

The young woman smiled and narrowed her eyes slightly, as if deciding whether or not to tell him. Then she said, Well, I suppose I'd like it if he were handsome. them. She paused as if to allow him a moment to absorb this. Then she continued, and he must like animals, and long strolls in the garden, and books, of course. Hans nodded, secretly wondering if he met all those requirements adequately. But most of all, she added with emphasis, any man who wishes to court me must understand that I will choose my future husband, and that simply passing my father's tests alone will not gain him the stronghold of my heart.

this pronouncement, Hans felt oddly clumsy and speechless. The declaration of autonomy was not something commonly expected of princesses. All at once he realized two things. First, he had come unprepared for the glorious frankness of Princess Maya. Second, she was the most intriguing woman he had ever met. While Hans was processing this moment, Maya rose, wished him a successful night and departed. When the lad returned to his room, he felt oddly unsettled. This was a new emotion for him, and it continued to distract him from his reading, and even from Fritz's snuggles.

As the candle burned low and the night approached, he wrestled with his thoughts. He was not fearing the third and final night of hauntings. No, that wasn't it at all. But he had this growing and unfamiliar sense of concern. Yes, he was concerned, and the longer he searched his soul for the source of the comfortable feeling, the more he found himself thinking of Maya, her wit, her intelligence, her beauty, and the more he lost himself in thoughts about the princess, the more he realized that she had something to do with the source of his concern.

Hans arrived here, assuming that all he had to do was be unafraid of ghosts for three nights, and he would win the heart of a princess. As a concept, it had seemed agreeable. But the reality of Princess Maya was so much more wonderful than he could have possibly anticipated. And now he was finding out that she might well reject him after everything he'd accomplished. This realization did not make Khan's happy at all. Feeling out of sorts, he blew out his candle, pulled up the covers, and allowed himself to drift off into a fitful sleep. He was awakened by a low growl from Fritzi.

The room around him was drenched in an inky darkness, since the overcast autumn skies outside had allowed for no moonlight at all. Trying to make out where Fritzi was in the room, Hans followed the dog's little voice and saw that he was crouched by the door. Just when Hans was about to call to the pup, the lad saw a light flash by in the crack at the bottom. It was moving very fast. Hans leapt out of bed and threw the door open.

The torches of the wall were unlit for some reason. Nonetheless, even in the darkness, Hans was pretty sure nobody was there. He knew better than to tell the dog nobody was outside and expect that to settle him. Somebody, or something, was moving about the castle. However, as with previous nights, he shrugged his shoulders and got back into bed, hoping to get some sleep before morning. Alas, a bark from Fritzie pulled him from sleep just when he had drifted off. This time, the dog was standing on his hind legs, looking out of the window.

hands drew aside the covers and walked across the cold stone floor to investigate the garden beyond. When he did, he saw why Fritzy was agitated. A glowing light was moving quickly through the night. It vanished downstairs at the day. door to the castle. This gave Hans the idea that whatever carried the light was probably inside once again. Whatever the case, Hans felt the only course of action was to get back in bed. This time, he may have slept for many minutes or hours. He wasn't sure.

He was dimly aware of the wind rattling the windows. Yet another stormy night, he thought, with a groggy awareness of the noise. Just as this was blending into his dream, he felt the vibrations of a low growl at his side. The dog was alert to something, and it felt very close. Hans cracked open an eye and saw a light hovering right in the middle of his room. It was levitating in the darkness, or so it appeared. The gloom was so profound that Hans could really not see anything else. Jumping up with youthful agility, he lunged for the light and grabbed something soft instead.

The glowing orb disappeared in the direction of his cupboard, and he was left holding the soft thing. After he lit his bedside candle with a shaky hand, the object was revealed to him. It was nothing but a dark blanket. But how had the light disappeared without the door to the hallway opening? Holding up the candle, he pulled the cupboard door a jar. Pressing here and there, it only took him a moment to discover a latch inside the back. Lo and behold, a secret door swung open, revealing a very tight stone staircase that disappeared

straight downward. Easing himself through, he carefully descended the steps to find another wooden door directly below the one in his own closet. Pushing the panel open, he stepped into another turret room and was amazed by what he saw. and the king were both there, and they appeared to be having a disagreement. The king was in his nightshirt, holding a candle. Meanwhile, the servant was in his usual uniform, and he was carrying an unlit torch. You let him catch you, the king was whispered. The king was whispered. at the servant.

Don't blame me, the ill-tempered little man was retorting. How did I know he'd grab my disguise in the dark? Hans cleared his throat and held out the blanket as the dishevelled pair regarded him with surprise. I believe this is yours. he offered Riley. And that was how Hans discovered that the castle wasn't really haunted.

Excited about all the uproar, Fritzie began barking and jumping. With so much noise, It wasn't long before Maya appeared at the door of the chamber in her long white night dress. Walking into the room, she demanded to know what was creating such a commotion. Once she saw all three men, she covered her mouth in amusement and started laughing. Seeing her unsurprised reaction, Hans realised in that moment that she knew all the hauntings had been play-acting. It was obvious that she was perfectly happy to have sent so many suitors packing. This revelation gave

him butterflies in his stomach. As Hans regarded her, with that unpleasant feeling of concern surging through him again, her father turned to the lad in exasperation and said, Nothing worked to scare you away. What are you afraid of man? Without missing a beat and without even pondering the truth that was coming, he looked at Maya and answered her father's question. As it turns out, I'm terribly afraid that your daughter will send me away now, he said with a crack in his voice.

At this, Maya's face became very serious, and then she gave him a comforting smile. But he was not sure if it was meant as a consolation prize, or if she was going to realize his hopes and tell him he could stay. After a few seconds that seemed like an eternity, she responded, oh don't worry Hans, you can stay around for a while and try to impress me some more. With a wink, she added, besides, I like your dog. Everyone in the room laughed, even Peter. And because it was ridiculous to try to go back to bed, they all went to the morning room and had warm milk and cookies.

Maya didn't agree to marry Hans the next day, or the one after that. But the two young friends did begin spending a lot of time together. Hans pitched in to help out with some tasks around the castle in his free time. which made him a welcome guest. There were no more hauntings, of course, and when the cold snows of winter passed and spring brought the world back to life, the one-time village boy

finally heard the words he'd been waiting for, seated in one of her, charming little pergolas, with a graceful fountain pattering nearby, Maya agreed to marry Hans. They sent word through the forest to his family that they were invited to a wedding. Of course, They made sure that the dark little cave was well lit for their guest's journey, and they built a much better bridge, so that the incoming travellers would not be afraid to make the trip. And, at Peter's request, the front gates were thrown wide open for their visitors' arrival, and nobody rang the loathsome handbell ever again.

And because of that, even Grouchy Peter lived happily ever after. You're in the car following the road to the outskirts of town. You're on your way to Sleepy Hill Manor. An old home perched atop a little hill, not far from here. It's the perfect place to spend a quiet autumn weekend away from the door. demands of everyday life. You've never been out this way before, and had never heard of Sleepy Hill Manor until recently, when your friend invited you to come for a few days.

It was a strange series of events that led to the invitation, your friend told you. One day, they'd been sitting at home when they heard a knock at the door. A man in a suit was on the doorstep, with a small wooden box in his hands. When asked, the man explained that your friend was the apparent heir of an old Victorian home, located on a sprawling hilltop estate. It had been left by a very distant relative. Someone your friend had never met. Inside the box was a heavy, ornate bronze key, the key to Sleepy Hill Manor. Your friend and the man agreed the key would be held in the care of the resident groundskeeper, and your friend would be welcome to visit the property whenever they'd like.

It did, after all, belong to them now. So they got in touch and asked if you'd like to join them for an autumnal getaway to Sleepy Hill Manor. It didn't take much to persuade you, and before you knew it, you'd packed your bags and were on the road. The rhythmic sound of the car lulls you into a kind of trance. You're still paying attention to where you're going, of course, but you allow yourself the space to really take in your surroundings.

Autumn leaves blanket the ground on either side of the winding road. A few specks of yellow and orange dot the pavement, like flecks of paint on a black canvas. The sky overhead is moody and dark. Stormy weather, you think to yourself. You're excited to see what Sleepy Hill Manor looks like. Your friend told you they'd only seen a single exterior photo of the place, a beautiful old Victorian home with towers, gabled roofs, and bay windows to spare. You almost feel it isn't fair, that you'll get to see it for the first time. before your friend does, especially since they are the rightful owner now.

They sent you a message this morning to let you know they'd been delayed. They'll be arriving tomorrow just in time for breakfast instead of tonight. It means the first night at sleep. steepy hill manner will be yours and yours alone. The road before you narrows, becoming more of a country lane. It still winds upwards, climbing the hill gently but purposefully. You feel as though you're being carried along to another reality. A secret hideaway, not too far from town, but removed from the concerns of the world.

Soon you arrive at a wrought iron gate. Opening the car window, you spot a small button attached to what looks like a speaker. You press it and hear a faint crackling in reply. Almost instantly, the gate swings open. I suppose that means I'm in the right place, you think to yourself. Slowly you inch the car forwards, through the gate and into a gravel parking area. Your tyres crunch to a halt as you pull a car into a space beneath the golden-leafed boughs of a Jacaranda tree.

If it were spring or summer, you know the tree above you would be bursting with purple flowers nestled among bright green leaves. But autumn has brought its dusky palette to the grounds of Sleepy Hill Manor. Stepping out of the car with your bag, you notice a few of the Jacaranda's fernel burn like clusters of leaves on the ground. You pick one up, gently brushing your fingertips along the rib, similar to a stem, feeling the tiny leaves fan beneath your skin. It's similar to running your fingers up a feather or along the side of a zipper.

Moving your fingers back to the bottom of the rib, you hold them in place and pull the rib quickly downwards. The leaves detach, remaining pinched between your fingertips in a tiny bouquet. drop the now barren rib to the ground, and then release the rice grain leaves, watching as they flutter delicately down to join it. Like tiny performers spinning and leaping their way off stage at the end of a ballet, before coming to rest in the quiet darkness. behind the curtains. You take a deep breath of the cool, evening air.

It's brisk with a touch of humidity. As you breathe, you detect the complex sense that mark this season. There's the smell. of decomposing leaves mixed with damp wood and soil. There's a cold freshness, no flowers or pollen, just bare branches and quiet garden plots. And behind it all there's a hint of wood smoke, aromatic and familiar. Turning to find the source of the wood smoke, you notice a small cottage at the edge of the property near the gate.

Standing just outside is an older man wearing a flat cap and an olive-coloured knit vest. He nods to you when your eyes meet, and you make your way over to him. Perhaps this is the groundskeeper, you muse, and your suspicion turns out to be correct. A man of few words, he introduces himself brusquely and presents you with the large bronze key. You take it and thank him, feeling its cold weight in the palm of your hand. He nods in the direction of the manor just down the gravel drive beyond a nearby cluster of trees.

It's obscured by the autumn foliage. But you gather it's only a few minutes walk. Everything's been prepared for your stay, he tells you. There's firewood in each room, and the beds have been made. He's also lit an oil lamp in the room you'll be sleeping in. The house has an election. electricity now, he says, but the previous owner liked the ambience of the older furnishings. You imagine you will too.

As you part ways, the caretaker reaches over and taps your arm. comes coming, he says, looking up to the sky and then towards the manor. And blustery nights make for strange sounds in an old house like that. It could be a mere observation, but there's a small part of you that wonders if there's a gentle warning there too. Then he turns on his heels and walks into his cottage, closing the door with a clunk. With his words lingering in your mind, you make your way up the gravel drive to sleepy hill manner. Just ahead of the cabal drive.

caretaker's cottage, the drive curves sharply to the right. You pass beneath the hanging boughs of a large, scraggly tree. As you step into its shadow, the temperature seems to drop. You pull your jacket more tightly around you and move quickly. back into the dimming light. The gravel slides beneath your shoes. It's a satisfying sound that makes you think of those sweeping Gothic tales set in large old houses,

not unlike this one. You smile briefly. Perhaps this is the beginning of your very own night of intrigue, you think. As you walk the last few steps up to the house, you begin composing the story in your head. Of course, it begins with it was a dark and stormy night. You hear a rumble of thunder in the distance, as though the weather has been tasked with adding a soundtrack to your musings. You continue.

A solitary traveller walks up the long and lonesome drive to the house where it all began. As you finish that thought, Sleepy Hill Manor appears in your view for the very first time. Right on cue. The rest of your imagined story flutters from your mind as you take it in with awe, the sight before you. Sleepy Hill Manor is breathtakingly beautiful and mysterious, you think. Its wine-red exterior blends in with the long evening shadows and is punctuated by black and gold trim.

Rounded turrets and angular towers jut up from various corners of the house, complemented by enormous bay windows and countless smaller windows that dot the exterior. The roofs are steeply pitched, and a large covered porch shrouded in darkness sits at the front to greet you. A set of thick steps leads up to a round keyhole-style entrance to the porch. Beyond the round entry, tones of cherry and slate fade to black near the door. Above this on the second floor, you see a light flickering behind the sheer curtains in a round window. Perhaps it's the lamp the caretaker mentioned, you think. Sitting here in the evening gloom, the house feels old, enchanting and quite formidable.

Looking down, you see you've been holding onto the key quite firmly. It leaves a slight imprint on your palm as you loosen your grip. It's just you and me tonight, you whisper to the house. Then you make your way up to the door, insert the key and step inside, just as the first drops of rain begin to fall. Upon entering, you are greeted by a dim flash of light. candles flicker to life along the walls. Strange, you think, you didn't flip a light switch, and the entry hall seemed to be dark

when you were standing outside. Perhaps you just didn't notice the light through the thick, leaded, stained glass windows. You set your bag down and take a look around. The walls are a rich dark wood filled with unique recesses, protrusions and other curious accents. The ceiling is white here with detailed moulding. The floor is also wood, covered in a heavy crimson rug splashed with curlicues in blue and green. A red velvet chaise lounge sits in the right corner. To your left is a wall-to-wall bookshelf, filled with old leather bow.

books whose spines are stamped with gold, silver and black lettering. Their aging paper and binding gives off a particular scent, not quite dusty or mildewy, but a familiar old smell. It would seem to be a perfectly normal entry hall, save for one peculiarity. This is the extent of it. You can see no other doors, nor windows, nor stairs. The entry hall appears to be a dead end. How curious you think, there must be a way to get to the rest of the house.

You begin to inspect the room for any signs you might have missed, or even a note from the groundskeeper explaining that you should use a backdoor instead. You run your fingers across the wood of the walls. It's smooth and highly polished. Your fingertips bump over the ridges and dips where it's been elegantly shaped. What wonderful craftsmanship you think to yourself. Watching the enormous bookcase, you move your fingers over the leather-bound tomes. There are a few classic mystery novels you recognize, along with history books, and a few about

old houses like this one. Touched on a shelf at eye height is an ornate silver candlestick. You can't help but touch the spindly spiderwebbed patterns of its hefty base. As your skin meets the metal, a crack of thunder sounds outside the house. bolt of lightning flashes through the front window, and the bookcase begins to move. Slowly it slides open to reveal a long corridor. This must lead to the rest of the house, you realize. You turn around to pick up your bag and see that it's now resting on the chaise lounge. You're nearly certain you left it on the floor, but perhaps not. With your bag in hand,

You step through the opening in the bookcase. The same wooden floors are here, lined with elegant crimson rugs. The thick material masks your footsteps. The house is silent. The only thing you hear is the muffled sound of the rain, pattering against the windows and roof, accompanied by furtive rumbles of thunder and quick flashes of lightning. Making your way down the corridor, you see a few portraits hanging on the walls. an elegant woman in a black gown and pearl necklace, a man in a top hat, and even a painting

of a dog sitting near a chair. As you pass by each portrait, you notice the people's eyes seem to follow you. pausing, you step backwards and then forwards. Backwards and forwards. The portraits appear to observe your strange movements. It must be an optical illusion, you realise. Some trick employed by the painter to make the portrait. traits more lifelike.

You give a quick nod to the dog and then smile to yourself. Painted or not, animals can be such a comfort in unfamiliar spaces, you think. When you reach the end of the corridor, you find yourself in an odd sort of central space. In every direction, there are rooms or additional corridors to choose from. In this middle hall, there's something you never expected to find. old-fashioned bar. Tall wooden stalls stand in a line beneath a counter. Behind it are rows of glasses in all shapes and sizes arranged in front of a wide mirror. The ceiling in this hall is different from the others you've seen.

It's covered in pressed tin, which boasts elegant patterns and lends a sort of gloomy shine to the room. You wonder if the people who lived here before used to host grand parties. This space is so central. It's the perfect location for people to gather and chat. You can imagine guests in elegant, old-fashioned dresses and suits sitting here or milling about, moving from room to room. As you're daydreaming, you catch a flash of movement. out of the corner of your eye.

Turning towards it, you find the hall is still empty. For a moment, you thought you saw the heavy fabric of a long skirt moving through a doorway. But it was probably just a trick of light. Moving on from the bar, you make her left into a small chamber, only big enough for a piano, a few stalls, a wing-back chair, and a tall standing table. Roughly, you run your fingertips over the yellowing keys of the piano. They plunk down gently under your touch, sending solitary notes into the room. You can imagine how wonderful it must have been to sit in such an intimate space listening

to someone playing a long, moving piece. With a sigh and a last glimpse of the piano, you turn and continue to the next room. Here you find a treasure trove of books, countless volumes, bound in red, green and blue, standing at attention on wall-to-wall bookshelves. Their pages are yellowing and some of their spines have cracked, but they are beautiful nonetheless. You find books on geography and history, along with faintly. famous novels. In one corner of the bookshelf, you spot a heavy tome with a black spine and shiny silver lettering.

Victorian ghost stories, the title reads. Outside, a boom of thunder rattles the windows. It's followed by a bolt of lightning that illuminates the white curtains. Even though it's a pleasant temperature in the house, you feel the urge to pull your jacket around yourself once again. Having seen all there is to see here, you leave the library and head back into the central hall. Resting your elbows on the bar, you stifle a yawn. You hadn't realised how sleepy you were until you began to explain,

exploring the house. Now, what you'd really like to do is have a good long rest. Your friend will be arriving early tomorrow just in time for breakfast. You smile at the prospect of getting a full night of sleep. Once you find your room. You've seen the piano room and the library, but off to the right is another corridor. Third times the charm you whisper to yourself. As you're heading for the unexplored territory, you think you hear a faint sound coming from behind you.

Pausing for a moment, you close your eyes and listen carefully. Yes, you think to yourself. That's the unmistakable sound of a piano. You turn back, walking past the bar and into the music. room. When you enter, you feel some cool air that you hadn't noticed before. It flows over the skin on your arms, raising tiny goose bumps. Old houses can be draughty, you remind yourself, mentally making a note to close any windows you might find open. Cool temperatures aside, the room is just as you left it.

The piano and the furniture are all undisturbed. You shrug and leave the room. It was probably just the storm you tell yourself. It's time to find where you'll be sleeping tonight. Crossing the central hall, you soon reach the second corridor. This one is shorter than the first, leading directly to a staircase. With your bag now slung over your shoulder, you begin to climb the red carpet-covered stairs. It feels regal exploring this vast and strange house alone.

of you wishes your friend was here, but you're enjoying having the manner all to yourself tonight too. At the top of the stairs, you realize you've reached the living quarters. There are five rooms, all roughly the same size, arranged in a semi-circle around the same kind of central hall. Just then, you recall the flickering of the light you'd seen through the window outside. You're nearly positive, but once you find that oil lamp, you'll find your bed for the night. You peer into the first room and see it's been done up for a child.

There's a tiny bed much smaller than those for adults, a few toys, and a little white wooden rocking horse. Somehow, the same draught that found you downstairs has made its way up here. A hint of cool air moves around the room, and the small wooden horse rocks ever so slightly. You smile, thinking of what a perfect room this would be for any. lucky child. Moving on to the next room, you find it nearly empty. There are no furnishings here, just a built-in bookcase that's been left bare.

The walls are painted the same white as downstairs, and the ceiling has ornate The only object in the room is a large, dark painting hanging above the unlit fireplace. You hear a rumble of thunder in the distance. Soon it's followed by a flash of lightning. The flash illuminates the whole room in an instant, allowing you to see even the smallest details of the painting in stark relief. You realise the painting is of this very house, Sleepy Hill Manor, on a dark and stormy night just like this one. The details are so fine, you can make out individual raindrops pounding

on the windows, as they are at this very moment. Once the brilliance of the flash subsides, you're left standing in the half-dark room. There's something about the painting that leaves you feeling strange. Maybe it's too large for the wall it's on, or perhaps the details are a little too realistic. Or maybe it's that even once the flash of light was gone, you still thought you could see the flickering of a single light in one of the upstairs rooms. A gentle creaking sound brings you out of your reverie. At first, you think it's footsteps on the stairs, but you soon realize it's just the sound

of a tree branch scratching at a window with every gust of wind. Taking your bag, you hope the next room will be yours. You cross the broad central hall and make your way into a large bedroom overlooking the front of the house. The room is dark save for a single oil lamp sitting in the window. it, streaks of rain run down the glass, like a thousand tiny rivers flowing over hills and valleys. You smile.

You've found your bed for the night. You flick on the electric light switch, flooding the room with a soft, you. yellow glow. Then you turn and close the door behind you. There's a small silver key in the lock, and you turn it until you hear a gentle click. You take a moment to appreciate how unique this spaces before getting ready for bed. It has the same crimson carpeting and elegant white walls and ceiling. Near the door stands a display case with several tiny knickknacks arranged on glass shelves. You spot an old playbill from a theatre production, a spyglass, a deck of playing cards, and more. A large clawfoot tub sits near the door to the bathroom. You also have your own

Shea's lounge, as well as a large, rich red velvet armchair and mahogany writing table. The bed looks inviting too, covered in crisp white sheets. You can't wait any longer to lie down. You change into your pyjamas and brush your teeth in your private bathroom. Then you flick off the electric lights. The room grows dark, save for the single oil lamp in the window. You carefully walk over to it and extinguish it as well. Then you draw the curtains and slide into bed.

The cool sheets envelop your body. At first they feel chilly, but soon you're nice and warm. and cozy. What a strange and fascinating old place this is, you think to yourself. You're excited, your friend will be arriving in the morning. There's so much more to explore, both in the house and on the grounds. Before you know it, you feel your eyelids growing heavy and your eyes beginning to close. The rain patters against the windows.

Every so often, a rumble of thunder sounds in the distance. And just as you're starting to drift off to sleep, you think you can almost hear a few solitary notes from an old piano floating through the air here at Sleepy Hill Manor. On this dark, and stormy night. lightning paints a jagged streak across the dark night sky. Moments later, a crack of thunder sounds overhead. Heavy rain patters against the roof of the carriage, drowning out the clip-clopping of the horse's hooves.

The carriage wheels rumble over the hard-packed road, which winds its way up the steep mountainside. The carriage rocks steadily back and forth as you're transported deeper and deeper into the Alps. You are cosy in your warm layers, and a soft throw lays gently over your legs. A bit of moisture has crept into the carriage, fogging the windows and making the fabric interior slightly damp. But in spite of this, you are quite comfortable. It's a luxury, after all, to travel in this manner instead of on foot. You're on your way to the residence of someone you've never met before.

He is a cousin of an acquaintance from back home. It's a loose connection, but you're glad to have it on an evening like this one. Before you left home, you happened to mention in passing that you would be travelling through these parts at this time of year. And your friend told you they had a distant relative who would surely be happy to provide accommodation for a night or two. Your travels have taken you through the picturesque towns of Bavaria and through the river valleys of France.

You've tasted exquisite meals in Italy and sipped the full of France. and sipped the finest drinks by candlelight in small dark rooms, where conversation is just as potent as the spirits. And now you find yourself amongst some of the greatest mountains you've ever seen here in Switzerland. today before beginning your journey to your accommodations for tonight. You watched evening fall in this breathtaking landscape. The high rocky peaks were bathed in rose and violet light as the sun made its descent.

You stood at the confluence of two crystal clear streams. A herd of sheep ambled lazily around you. The lush green valley spread out before you, nestled between the majestic mountains. You had never seen a shade of green, so rich as that of the wild. grass is there, or a palette of stone grey so gloomy, yet changeable. When it was time to leave, you met the carriage at the local tavern. It was waiting outside, its driver shrouded in a black cloak, only his mouth visible. beneath a wide-brimmed hat.

The horses poured at the ground, eager to move, and perhaps sensing the coming storm. As you began your journey in the moody twilight, you watched little homesteads and quiet villages flash by. But since nightfall, all you've been able to see are the jagged peaks that loom over the valleys below, like silent sentinels. In the darkness, without a single light to break the gloom, save for the lantern on the front of the carriage, the mountains are immense. and daunting. They cast shadows as long as rivers, and as deep and dark as the caves

that dot their steep slopes. After only an hour or so on the road, you heard the first pitter-patter of raindrops on the roof of your carriage. It began as a quiet pebbling, but quickly rose in volume to a steady downpour. The horses pushed on, confident on these mountain roads, and the driver made no sound. He gave no indication at all that he'd noticed the change in the weather, despite the river of water cascading down the brim of his hat.

You sat warm and dry inside the conveyance, watching the shadowed landscape slipping by behind the rain. As the carriage rocks back and forth bumping over the uneven ground, you consider what lies ahead on your journey. You have very little information about your host, whose name is Ambrose Aeddon. You only know he is a distant cousin of your friend, and that he is generous enough to provide a bed and a warm meal to a relative stranger. Your friend wrote a letter to this cousin some time before you departed, and received a swift reply

delivered by courier. He would be happy to entertain a guest for a few nights, so long as the guest didn't mind if he was occupied in his laboratory most of the time. He was working on something that could change the future of medical science, and the understanding of the nature of life itself. He said. It was a bold proclamation, you thought, reading the letter your friend handed to you. You noticed the cramped handwriting and errant blobs of ink that had trickled onto the paper. The writing seemed hurried, though the words were not unfriendly. Your friend told you that this particular cousin has always been a little different, keeping

more or less to himself. He is a doctor and a man of science dedicated to his work and study above all else. Every now and then, he travels to Prague or Munich to attend a conference where innovations in the field of anatomy, experimental physiology, chemistry and philosophy are shared breathlessly by his fellow scholars. You wonder what the character of such a learned man will be. Judas, you assume, perhaps quiet or easily distractible. In any case, you are eager to meet him and hear more about these fascinating concepts

that fill his thoughts and his days. As the carriage wheels rattle and crunch over the ground, the gentle swaying lulls you into a kind of reverie. Mountains and streams blur together in a streak of inky black, as sounds and sights begin to fade. You aren't sure how long you exist in this half-dream state, but soon you feel the carriage roll to a stop. One of the horses, winnie's and chaffs,

and the stoic driver hops down from his bench. The door to the carriage is opened from the out. side, and you catch your first glimpse of the home of Dr. Adelstein. Based on what you've heard from your friend, you were expecting something large and lavish, but nothing like what stands before you now. You'd describe it more like a small castle than any type of house, with thick grey stone walls and multiple square turrets. A large rose window stands in the middle of the central façade. stone steps lead up to a significant arched wooden door with metal studs.

But what catches your eye is a thin, forked metal rod perched atop the highest tower, pointing to the sky. through the gloom, you try to make out the purpose of the rod. But then a bolt of lightning flashes overhead. It strikes the metal rod with a crack. This must be a component of one of Dr. Adelstein's experiments with electricity you will realize. It piques your interest and you find yourself even more intrigued by your mysterious host. Just then, you hear the sound of a heavy metal latch being lifted and a wooden door creaking open.

You turn towards the entrance to the house and see the outline of a figure standing in the doorway. The figure is illuminated by the glow of the candles flickering in the hall behind him. Without a word, he motions towards you, beckoning you in sight. side. You see the driver has already brought your trunk to the door, so you grab your smaller travelling case and hop out of the carriage. Your foot splashes in a deep puddle, which sends up a small spray of mud onto the lower edges of your clothing. Shaking off the excess water, you make your way towards the figure at the door. As you approach, you see he is a small man wearing a strange black outfit, halfway between

a cloak and a suit. You begin to ask if he is your host, but he quickly shakes his head, beckoning you closer. Follow me, he says in a low voice. With a quick glance over your shoulder at the carriage, you step over the threshold into the home of Dr. Adelstein. Candle flames flicker wildly in the draught from the door. Cold damp air swells around your legs as you walk into the entry hall. The man waves you past him and then drags your luggage over the threshold.

He motions you away from helping him. It will be delivered to your room in short order. Then he turns and closes the heavy door with a clunk. The sound of the rain fades into the background, replaced by the mellow. by the mellow silence of the empty hall. You set down your case on the cool stone floor. The sound lightly echoes in the open space. You turn to ask the man where to find your host, but realize he has already disappeared.

Perhaps he's gone to locate him, you think. Biding your time, you begin to explore the entry hall, which leads into a large, formal sitting room. Your footsteps sound softly on the walls and floor, like pebbles tumbling onto a rocky beach. From somewhere deep inside the house, you hear a faint clanging of metal, but quickly dismiss it. It's slightly something being blown about by the storm.

The sitting room is filled with heavy wooden fur. furniture upholstered in red, blue and green velvet and brocade. Everything has an air of opulence, and yet there is a time weariness to the place, as though it is rarely filled with the laughter of friends or the hum of conversation. The closer you look, the more you notice, our kind of absent-minded neglect has marked the space. A fine layer of dust covers the mantelpiece and the tables, and the rich fabrics are smudged in places with dirt. It's not in poor condition by any means, but could do with some regular attention. In the far corner, above a solid oak writing desk, is a display case.

Looking closer, you see that it houses dozens of pinned specimens, insects for the most part, with their scientific names carefully noted below. The writing matches the cramped hand on the letter your friend received. This must be the personal collection of your host you realize. Just then, a smooth yet gentle voice sounds behind you. I am a humble student of the natural world, the voice says. Turning, you see it belongs to a tall, thin man, dressed in a nice, yet well-worn suit. Dr. Adelstein, I presume, you say in reply.

The doctor nods, extending his hand. You shake it, noting the calluses on his fingertips and palm. This is someone who works with his hands, you think, and your curiosity grows deeper. He gestures to one of the velvet armchairs, inviting you to take a seat. It's quite comfortable with ample room to move. He walks over to a sideboard and offers you a drink from one of the many ornate glass bottles and crystal decanters on display. You accept and he pours you a small glass and one for himself. Settling down, he asks you about.

about your travels. You've been comfortable enough despite the weather, he hopes. You nod, praising the carriage driver for a swift ride as you take a sip of the drink. It's smooth and ever so slightly sweet, the perfect remedy for a chilly night. You thank him for hosting you, a perfect stranger. He smiles warmly in reply. He doesn't get many visitors, he says. Few are hardy enough to brave the mountain road.

emotion in the direction of the insect collection, saying your friend told you of his scientific pursuits. Ah, yes, he replies, I am working on something different this time. As he speaks, his eyes almost seem to glaze over, as though he is like to glaze over, as though he is lost in thought. It's an all-consuming passion, I'm afraid, he tells you, and it makes me poor company at times. I spend most of my hours hidden away in my laboratory. You shake your head, saying that you're simply grateful for a place to sleep.

But perhaps you might also take a look at his library while you're here, you ask. He smiles again, happy it seems, to have another scientifically minded soul in the house. You are welcome to explore all his home has to offer, he tells you. There are many scientific journals and books on psychology and anatomy that you might find interesting. You thank him again and say you'll have a look around later, perhaps after you've freshened up a bit from your journey. Of course, he says quietly. Supper will be brought to your room this evening, if you don't mind, he says. Tomorrow you may dine together, but for now he is in the midst of sorting out a particularly

confounding part of his experiment. that, he stands placing his glass on a side table. He nods briefly in your direction, but is already lost in thought as he turns and makes his way out of the room. As he disappears, you catch a few words mumbled under his breath. But if I succeed, he says, it will change everything. Moments later, the small man in the strange black outfit appears before you. Emotions for you to follow him.

You set down your glass and retrieve your case before heading up the stairs to the second floor. Here the man turns right and walks down a long hallway. Near the end, he stops in front of a wooden door. Pulling a key from his pocket, he unlocks the door and gestures for you to go inside. You thank him, but he has already turned, making his way back to the stairs. Your room is large and comfortably furnished. A sturdy four-poster bed stands against the back wall. Heavy curtains are draped around it, which you think will help block out the light from

any lamps you might leave on. A leaded glass window overlooks a small courtyard. The glass is streaked with rain. Flashes of lightning illuminate the grounds, which are dotted with craggy black trees. Peering out of the window, you see the man in black crossing the courtyard, an old shovel in his hands. I wonder what he could possibly be doing with a shovel at this time of night, and in these conditions.

But he seems a strange sort of fellow, so perhaps he has his reasons. Turning away from the glass, you see your luggage has been set in the corner of the room. place your travelling case beside it. A bowl of water and a cloth sit in the adjacent washroom. You splash some water on your face and pat it dry. Then you change out of your muddy clothes and into something fresh and clean. It feels good to be out of your travelling attire and into more comfortable garments. Glancing at your pocket watch, you see there is still quite a bit of time until supper.

Perhaps you'll explore the house a bit before settling in for the night. As you place your hand on the door to open it, you hear the same metallic clanging sound coming from somewhere in the house. This time it's followed by what almost sounds like an animal. You've never heard a lion roar or a bear growl. But you imagine it might sound something like that. But if there were exotic animals in the house, you're quite sure that your friend or your host would have mentioned it.

Come to think of it, the roar sounded a little more human than you first thought. It must be the howling of the wind, you think, brushing the memory of the sound from your thoughts. The storm is still raging outside, and these old homes are draughty. out into the hall, you walk towards the staircase. But instead of going back down to the ground floor, you decide to explore the third floor. The stairs are smooth and solid beneath your feet. It feels good to walk up them. muscles tightening with every step.

When you reach the third floor, you find it looks quite similar to the second. A hallway with several doors stretching out before you. You try your hand on the first door and find it locked. The same thing happens with the second and third doors. Perhaps this is another floor for guests, and the doors will not be opened until they're needed. Returning to the stairs, you make your way up to the fourth floor. Here, the first door is unlocked.

locked. You walk inside to find a large library filled with old and dusty tomes. Stacks of scientific journals stand haphazardly on reading tables, and a few gas lamps flicker quietly on the walls. You trace your fingertips across the first books and papers you find, an exploration of the anatomy of man, the mechanics of a static electric charge, understanding the mind, and death the possibility. What a strange and varied collection your host has.

He truly is a student of the natural world. But the lighting here is quite dim, so even though it is a library, you don't think it would be the best place to sit and read. You pick up a volume on experimental physiology and tuck it under your arm. You'd like to find out more on the subject, perhaps as you enjoy supper in your room. the library behind, you head to the stairs. But this time, instead of continuing with your exploration, you decide to go back to your room. You deposit the book on your bedside table and then make your way up to the topmost floor.

You recall the metal rod on the roof of the house and think it must be attached to something here for the doctor's experiments. Upon reaching the landing at the top of the final stairwell, you find yourself in a long hall with rooms branching off on either side. This part of the house is darker than the rest, and quite a bit draughtier. A cool breeze ruffles your clothing, possibly from the open door at the end of the hall. The door, you can see, leads out to a landing, a kind of balcony over the wall. looking the courtyard far below.

A few lamps flicker on the walls here, casting golden pools of light on the ground. But there are large patches of darkness between them, beyond the reach of the lamplight. You walk down the hallway, pausing at the first door. Pressing your ear against the wood, you hear a kind of electric buzzing sound. At least that's what you think it must be, given that you aren't a student of electricity yourself and have had limited experience with such things. You push the door open with care, and for the first time, you see the laboratory of Dr. Adelstein. The laboratory occupies a cavernous room, a vaulted ceiling reaches for the heavens,

narrowing until it becomes the interior of the central square turret. Thick ropes hang from the ceiling in places attached to strange chairs and metal tables. You realise the ropes are for moving the furniture, allowing a single person to store. swing a table in another direction, or turn a chair to face a different way. The walls are lined with wooden shelves filled with every shape and size of jar and canister. of the thick glass jars contain murky fluid, whose opacity hides the details of the bulbous shapes floating within. Microscopes and curved glass lenses are scattered about on long, rough work tables.

All manner of scientific equipment you cannot even begin to identify fills every open space. As you are surveying your surroundings, thunder booms outside, rattling the glass and metal in the room. A loud bang accompanies the the thunder, somewhere in the recesses of the laboratory. Not expecting the sound, you turn quickly, but then realize it must have been the storm. A single wire dangles through the air at the back of the room, behind shelves. shelves of jars and books. A flash of lightning brightens the room and a streak of light travels down the wire. You hear the same buzzing sound, followed by a heavy thud on metal.

This must be the experiment Dr. Adelstein has been working on. the one that, as he said, will change everything. You aren't sure if the good doctor would want you to see what he is working on, but your curiosity gets the better of you. Slowly, you begin to make your way, towards the single wire. From here, you can see that it's connected to something, laid out on a large metal table. The thing on the table is covered in a heavy white sheet.

For a moment, you think the thing has an almost human shape. But before you can get any closer, Dr. Adelstein steps out from behind a bookshelf. I see you've found my laboratory, he says. Though he doesn't seem upset, the doctor appears somewhat distracted, glancing over his shoulder at the large metal table. You smile, explaining that you are just exploring the house. He tells you in a friendly manner that you're more than welcome to continue looking around. But perhaps let's leave the laboratory for another day, he says.

After all, we wouldn't want to disturb anything before it's time. Nodding in agreement, you let him guide you towards the door. I trust your room is comfortable, he asks. Yes, you tell him, you're very happy with your accommodations and are looking forward to a hot supper later on. Glancing at your pocket watch, you realize how much time has passed. Your supper is likely waiting for you. back downstairs. He's happy to hear it. After all, he reminds you, he really doesn't have many guests, especially not one so interested in the sciences as he is. Tomorrow, he'll gladly tell you

about his work, but perhaps it's best to turn in for the night. You agree, and suppressing a yawn, you realize you are quite tired from your journey. A hot meal and an early night in bed will be ideal. And so you bid Dr. Adelstein good evening, leaving him his laboratory and the secrets it holds to the veil of night. The bright sun beats down on the green and grassy square. You raise your hand to your forehead. to your forehead, shading your eyes.

Around you, people are preparing for the long night ahead. When the sun sets, Noche de Muetos, or Night of the Dead, begins. This night is part of the largest celebration of Dia de los Muetos, also called day de moatos or day of the dead. When some people believe the spirits of those who have passed on return to eat, drink and visit the places they walked in life. It's a time when families come together to remember their loved ones and celebrate their lives. Here, in the area around Lake Patscuaro, the festivities begin weeks in advance. The lake is in Mijuacan, a state on the Pacific coast, west of Mexico City, and it is home

to some of the most well-known Day of the Dead events. The first stop on your journey was the secluded mountain town of Kapula. It's a village known for its fine pottery and artwork. Two weeks before the holiday, Kapula begins its popular Feria Artisanal de la Catrina. This festival celebrates the rich history of the figure known as La Catrina. Even outside of Mexico, La Catrina has come to be one of the most famous symbols of the Day of the Dead. She is often depicted as a skeleton wearing an old-fashioned dress and wide-brimmed hat. In Kapula, women of the area dress up as La Catrina and walk through the city streets.

They are resplendent in their shiny, satin gowns of rich purple and midnight black, trimmed in delicate folds of lace. Her eyes are hooded beneath the brims of the hats. Some keep their faces obscured behind the black veils. But you can always see their signature makeup, white collar bones, hollow eyes and skeletal teeth. During the festival, one of these women is crowned Queen of the Dead. But to you, they all stand out as heralds of the night. La Catrina traces her roots to the illustrator named Jose Guadalupe Posada.

He was born in Mexico in 1852 and was known for using his art to make social commentary. He made engravings and lithographs, which critiqued the major social and political issues of his time. His works of satire were often published in newspapers and pamphlets. Perhaps his most famous creation was La Calaver Gabancera. It critiqued the leader at the time for his intense fascination with European high society. That leader was later overthrown during the Mexican Revolution. Mexican Revolution. The original drawing shows the chest, shoulders and head of a skeleton.

She grins with large white teeth. On top of her head is an oversized lady's hat. It is covered in flowers and enormous drooping feathers. The hat hangs above her like a parasol, comically large. This drawing came to be known as La Calaver Katrina, or the elegant skull. For the years, it found its way into many facets of Mexican culture. La Catrina even appears in one of the most famous murals ever made by the artist Diego Rivera. In it, she stands between him and his wife, fellow artist Frida Carlo.

Now, she is most commonly seen during the Day of the Dead celebrations. While people may dress as many different types of skeletons, La Catrina is the one you are most likely to see. In Kapula, you spotted her everywhere as you explored the stalls of the artisan market. In every shop window there were little calacas or figurines of skeletons grinning at you through the glass. In one display, several of them were posed together as the members of a mariachi group. They had white shirts, red ties and ornately embroidered black jacket. pockets and trousers.

They each held a tiny instrument and you could almost hear the music they seemed to play. Kapula was a beautiful place to begin to understand the aesthetic of this special occasion. Walking through one of the alleys, you watched Papal Piccardo flutter. in the air above you. These little squares of delicately cut tissue paper are meant to catch the wind, allowing souls to travel through them on their journey. They are vibrant and colourful, and they tell a story, like so many aspects of this holiday. After Kapula, you travelled down the mountain to the town of Patscuaro, which is situated on the edge of the lake.

This is the hub of activity during the holiday week, but there are things to do in all of the villages along the waterfront here. When you arrived in Patscuaro, the first thing you did was make a stop at Plaza Grande. There, in the main square, was another artisan market. Stores were lined up in tightly packed rows, selling pottery and other local handicrafts. At one table, a woman showed you ceramic skulls, painted rich brown and red, with white around the eyes and mouth. She also had pieces of the famous Okumicho pottery. They come from a town of the same name in Michoacan and show vibrant scenes of much

mind-bending fantasy. With their mermaids and gods, strange animals and diablitos or little devils, they reminded you of something out of a dream. Nearby, a man had rows of white sugar skulls with jeweled eyes that danced in the light. No names of loved ones were written yet upon their foreheads. That would come later, at home, to dedicate these offerings to ones who have passed. The market was brimming with activity and anticipation as people hurried to prepare for the holiday ahead. Children laughed running between the stores, and adults smiled and greeted one another as they passed. Although this holiday is one of the dead, it carries with it a sense of joy and

humour. Life is something to be celebrated and the richness of family family ties is felt deeply at this time of year. You find it easy to get caught up in the feelings of remembrance and love that seem to infuse the very air around you in this place. After a day at the market, you went back to your room in one of the historic buildings in town. You laid down on the bed and closed your eyes. It felt good to rest after the excitement of the day.

While the moon was high in the sky, visions of fairy-tale creatures and grinning Calaveras danced in your mind. A few days later, it was time to visit the area near the basilica for the wondrous world that is the flower market. There your senses were overtaken by the dazzling colour and sweet aroma of Sempa Succili. or Mexican marigolds. This large yellow and orange bloom is often called floor de mueto or flower of the dead. It is said the aroma entices the souls to the altars on which they are placed.

You smelled the stunning piles of flowers before you saw them. From several streets away, the alluring scent called you to the market. You followed your nose around corners and through alleys until you reached the beautiful display. vendors sold the flowers by the armful. Mothers and fathers and children too carried as many stems as they could fit in outstretched hands and bent elbows. From one side of the street it almost looked as though a volcano had let off a mighty eruption. But instead of lava, these breathtaking flowers had fallen upon the town, dusting it in gold. In and around the orange marigolds were bunches of the maroon and raspberry-coloured motta de Obispo flowers, or coxcomb.

They are named for their uniquely ruffled shape, which is reminiscent of the comb on the head of a rooster. After a day wandering through the flower market and up and down the streets of Patscuaro, it was time to head back to your room once again for a good night's sleep. You woke up this morning, feeling refreshed. It was welcome as you knew you'd have a long day and night ahead of you. And now you're standing here beside a green square, enjoying the feeling of the sunshine on your face. You decide to take one final walk around town before you head down to the docks where this evening's festivities will begin.

You leave the greenery of the square and head out onto one of the small streets that border it on either side. Once you walk, you notice the sun has shifted from directly overhead to a lower position in the sky. Sunset is on its way. Continuing on, you fall into a rhythm with your feet. They carry you up one street and down the next. Time passes quickly as you note the movement of your legs and the feeling of your shoes connecting with the pavement beneath them.

After several minutes, you pause for a moment on a quiet street corner. There are not many people out and about in this part of time. town. It seems unusual to you now after so many days spent in busy market squares with countless others. Looking up, you see you are standing across from an open courtyard. There, beside a small fountain is an elaborate Offrenda. Home-made altars hold offerings for loved ones who have passed away. This one is made of a small table covered in a colourful cloth. Bright blue, red, orange and green stand out against a white background. Shearful tassels hang down the sides of the table, like a rainbow reaching for the ground.

On the table, you see a picture of the person the altar is for. It's small and encased in a shiny gold frame. Around it are bright clusters of marigolds. They also decorate a large tiered frame that stands up vertically behind the main table, adding an extra touch of decoration and splendour. Next to the photograph is a small white sugar skull. Across the forehead, someone has written the person's name. The skull is decorated with purple and blue icing and has ruby red jewels for eyes.

It faces outward, welcoming passers-by to gaze back at it in admiration. Several small tea lights are tucked away among the flowers. They flicker in the light breeze and illuminate the many colours of the offreenda. Finally, next to the candles, there are a few loaves of Pandemuato, or Bread of the Dead, and a selection of the Purrida. a selection of the person's favourite drinks. These will nourish the soul when it returns. Standing here, you can see how these offerings honour this person's unique life and journey. You can feel the love and care that went into building it and setting up.

out the perfect items to welcome them now. With a final glance at this special altar, you continue on down the road. After a while, you come to a crossroads. You choose the path on the right and make your way towards the waterfront. The closer you get, the more people you encounter walking past you on the street. Some are carrying armfuls of flowers to bring home for an altar. Others seem to have just left home and are slowly heading to the docks like you. A little further down the road you smell something delicious.

It catches your attention and you stop for a moment to figure out where it's coming from. There in a shop window you see what's giving off such a tempting aroma. There are rows and rows of pan de muerto on display. They are small loaves which look like a cross between a circle and a square. That's because of the bone-shaped accents that have been baked into the top of the bread. They are coated in a thick layer of sugar. The smell is so familiar to you. It is warm and sweet and lets you know the bread is fresh out of the oven.

You take a minute to enjoy its scent and the fond memories it brings. By now the sun is beginning to set. much as you would like to stay and enjoy the aroma of the fresh bread. It's time to head down to the pier. When you arrive, you find the waterfront is bustling with people. You make your way carefully through the crowd until you reach the edge of Lake Patscuaro. There, you shift your gaze away from shore and out over the water. This is where you are heading tonight.

You watch as the sun makes its final descent below the horizon. It's time to be on your world. way. Looking down, you see the first set of boats are about to head out to the island of Harnizio. They are long and thin and floating in the water, a short distance offshore. belong to this region's indigenous Purepecha fishermen. What makes these boats special is the large butterfly-shaped fishing net that extends far past the rim on either side.

It gives the appearance of wide, delicate wings, which is how the group has earned the nickname fishermen. In each of the boats stands a sturdy candle which flickers gently in the light breeze. Together the boats begin their journey to the island. From here they look like a hundred tiny lightning bugs with wings like dragon-flow skimming the surface of the water. They seem to enchant the lake with their presence, shimmering through the gloom with the magic of their movement and luminescence. Without hesitation, these small boats lead the candlelight procession across the

the lake. You board a boat with several of the people around you, and before long you feel the smooth sensation of gliding across the water. You find yourself in the middle of this dance of fireflies, and watch as the tiny lights flicker long reflections on the darkened lake. After several minutes you see the island of Hanizio rising out of the water in front of you. It is a striking sight, a small mound dotted with homes and crowned with an immense statue made of stone. This is the memorial to Jose Maria Morelos, one of the people celebrated as a hero of Mexico's

independence. It stands 40 metres tall and depicts Morelos with his fist raised in the air, a symbol of strength and perseverance. The boat docks at the pier of Henizia. Slowly people pour out onto the sidewalks and roads. They take their time walking together arm in arm, making sure their families are close. Together they meander through the city streets until they come to the island's church and cemetery

This is where families will gather and hold a vigil through the night Like most things during this festival It represents a blend of cultures practices, and times. For days, families have been preparing the grave sites for their arrival, and that of the souls whose journey will bring them here. Every grave is piled high with marigolds. There are so many, the space blends together. together as one.

It looks as though someone has laid an enormous blanket of amber and gold across the hill. The aroma of these flowers is sweet and inviting. Surrounding the marigolds are hundreds of candles. Although it is night and the sky above is dark, the cemetery is a wash in the warm glow of candlelight. Standing back at a distance, it looks like a garden of light, with flowers and flames playing off one another in a fantastical and awe-inspiring way. The candlelight flickers in the dancing breeze, casting shadows on the ground that move and turn with every whisper.

The flowers catch the light, mirroring the flames with their rich yellow petals that set the cemetery ablaze in red, radiant colour. The air itself brims with a special kind of anticipation and also a sense of deep peacefulness. While it is a beautiful thing to see, it is time to leave these families to their memories. Night is upon you and your boat is waiting. You walk back down to the pier and board the same vessel

that brought you here. Slowly it makes its way back out onto the lake. You feel the cool breeze flow around you as the boat picks up speed. It makes you think of something you've heard before, that tonight, on Noce de Muaitos, the souls return with the wind. Looking back at Anizio, bathed in candlelight, you can feel the beauty of this time and place.

It's for all those who have passed on and also for the living to remember and to celebrate the wonders of life. The car tires crunch as you make your way down the loose gravel drive. You turned off the highway several minutes ago and are now being carried deep into the forest along this secluded lane. You're heading to a quiet bed and breakfast that promised to be off the beaten track. And so far it seems to be living up to its description. Tall trees arch over the car, forming an intertwined web of branches.

that obscures your view of the sky. Every so often you spot a dark cloud passing overhead and watch until it drifts behind a thick trunk and out of sight. The road turns unpredictably, weaving in and out of the trees. You're never able to see more than a few dozen feet ahead of you at a time before it twists away, leading even deeper into the woods. The directions say you should stay on this gravel track for several miles.

So, you cruise along slowly and carefully. You're in no hurry to get there. You'll arrive when you can and not a moment sooner. Through the glass, you can see there's a light wind outside. You roll down the window, letting in some fresh air. As soon as it's open just a sliver, a cool, crisp, a breeze flows into the car. It brings with it the scent of damp leaves and pine needles, moss and oak.

You relish the feeling of the air on your cheeks and smile as you navigate down the lonesome road. This is just what you were hoping for. a cosy spot tucked away in nature to relax and restore your mind and spirit. The road curves to the left and then drifts to the right before leading you to a narrow gravel parking area in front of a humble bed and breakfast. With your first look at your home away from home, you like what you see. The exterior is made of stacked, split logs, like a classic log cabin. It's two stories tall with checkered curtains in every window. Two large, bushy trees, heavy with clusters.

of tiny red berries loom over it on either side, and a short fence encloses a pretty garden in the back. Above the midnight blue door is a hand-painted sign. It shows the silhouette of a wolf howling at a large glowing moon hanging low in the sky. and it bears the name, Lunar Lodge. Lunar Lodge, you whisper to yourself, feeling the way the words play on your tongue. It's a pretty name, romantic even. You imagine you'll feel quite at home here for the next few days.

Beside the door is a round button for the bell. You press it gently and hear a faint ringing sound echo within. You wait for a few moments, but there's no answer. So you try the bell a second time. All is quiet in Lunar Lodge. Taking a step back, you look around to see if there's a sign. Perhaps you can call the owner to let you in. Just then, you notice a thin envelope resting against the bottom of the door frame with your name on it.

You pick it up and use your finger to slide open the flap. Inside is a note written in an elegant sloping hand. Welcome to Lunar Lodge, it reads. You'll find the key under the mat. Please come inside and make yourself at home. My apologies for not being here to greet you in person. I hope to meet you in the morning. It's signed by the owner.

You notice a hastily scribbled post script at the bottom. P.S., the note continues. It might be best to keep to your room tonight. I hope you'll find it cozy and to your liking. How strange you think to yourself. but looking up at the sky you see heavy storm clouds drifting past perhaps it's predicted to rain tonight and he wants to make sure you'll be safe and dry you appreciate the owner's thoughtfulness and give him a word of thanks in your mind before retrieving the key

It's right where he promised it would be, under the mat. You slide it into the lock and turn the knob. The door opens into a cosy little parlour that doubles as a breakfast nook. Right across from the entrance is a desk with a handful of pamphlets. you idly flip through them there's a guide to local flora and fauna a page of recommended nature walks and a tattered almanac that lists the sunrise and sunset times for the year along with the moon phases every month there's also a second envelope addressed to you inside is a metal key attached to a plastic key chain with the room number stamped on it

it looks like you'll be staying in room two on the second floor you slip the key into your pocket and continue surveying the entryway to the right is a modest grouping of wooden tables and chairs. They all look as though they've been roughly carved by hand and polished. The heady scent of pine and sandalwood fills the air, making you think of wintry evenings in a hidden forest. The ceiling here is low. While you don't have to bend down, you sense the presence of it not too far above your head.

But rather than feeling cramped, it makes the room seem quaint and welcoming, like someone's living room. This is the kind of place that makes you think of home. But now, it seems as though you're the only guest. That's fine by you, as it will give you a bit more space and privacy to relax, which is just what you need. You're looking forward to having a few days without the pressing demands of everyday life. No deadlines, no work, nothing to do but enjoy a cup of hot tea and a good book by the fireplace.

With a smile you carry your bag over to the carpeted stairs and begin to climb. Every other step seems to creak with the weight. your footfalls are padded by the thick emerald green carpet. The interior of the lodge looks like something from another age. It's as though it's been frozen in time, tucked away in the forest, removed from the influence of passing years. The wood-panelled walls reflect the sounds of your shoes on the floor and the rustling of your bag against your body.

Pared with the carpet, it makes the environment feel close and secure, like someone's private home. You reach the second floor landing and glance around until you reach the second floor landing and glance around until your eyes settle on room number two. There's a charming bundle of purple flowers hanging on the door. You've never seen this type of bloom made into such a decoration before. Violet coloured blossoms hang like hoods in a column off a central stem. The leaves of a spindly, fern-like plant are nestled into the gaps, filling out the space between. It really is a beautiful display, you think, a lovely personal touch from the thoughtful owner of Lunar Lodge. You pull out the

key from your pocket and go to insert it in the lock when something unusual catches your eye. The lock and the doorknob are a gleaming, brushed silver colour. But all the other doors down the hall have standard brass knobs, which are much older by the look of it. Perhaps your door was being tricky and needed new hardware, you muse. Either way, the key fits. You open the sturdy door, walk inside your room, and let it shut gently behind you. You've been placed in a suite, it seems. From the entryway, you have the choice of going straight ahead or to the right. Ahead is a pleasant seating area. complete with overstuffed couches, an armchair and a small fireplace.

To the right is an open doorway leading to the bedroom where an enormous bed as soft as clouds is waiting for you. On the bedside table and again on the coffee table by the couches. sits a vase filled with the same bluish purple flowers. They vaguely remind you of Lupin the way the blossoms climb the stem, but they aren't quite the same. They stand in contrast to the heavy-looking furniture. The coffee table appears to be made of wrought iron. with a gleaming silver top. Turning around to look at the room from a different perspective,

you notice a bundle of leaves hanging above the door. Moving closer, you see it's a bunch of mistletoe dangleing upside down, its stems tied together with silver ribbon. Delicate white berries dot the bright green leaves like snowflakes. What a strange decoration for a room in autumn, you think. But still, you like how it adds a splash of colour to the entryway, so you decide to leave it there. You set your bag down. near the door, planning to unpack it later on. You'd like to do a bit of

exploring first. From your bag you get your jacket, hat and scarf in case you decide to go outside. You imagine it's probably quite chilly at night here in the forest. With your key in your pocket and a last glance around the room, you head out into the hallway. Rather than going straight back to the landing and down the stairs, you decide to have a look around on the second floor. A handful of other rooms lie in the hall, but none of them are in use at the moment. Like other bed and breakfasts you've stayed at before, this one has a few aesthetic touches that hint at the owner's personality. It's kept clean and neat despite

being an old building. A waist-high glass table stands at the end of the hall, holding a bunch of the same purple flowers and lacy green leaves. And along the upper edge of the wall, above the tops of the door frames, is a wallpaper border. On it is a repeating pattern, the silhouette of a wolf howling at a bright full moon. It matches the sign on the front of the building you realize. It seems to be an appropriate image for a lodge tucked away in the woods. Turning back towards the stairs, you make your way down to the first floor. But instead of going into the breakfast nook, you walk around the back of the stairs, into a large sitting room. You imagine that this is where guests can come

and relax together on an evening like this one, playing board games, drinking tea, or simply gazing at a crackling fire in the fireplace. As you're the only guest and the owner is away for the night. The fireplace is dark. It would be quite pretty, you think, with the flames reflecting off the cranberry red walls and emerald carpet. Above the fireplace is a solid wood mantelpiece. In the centre, you find a bouquet of the same purple flowers in a glass. In a glass vase. It's nestled between two bunches of mistletoe and an array of the lacy leaves. Above the mantle is a wide painting hanging on the wall. But instead of being a family portrait or a tranquil landscape. This is an oil painting of a bright, full moon, hanging low above the same kind of

tree that stands outside the lodge. You wonder if the owner is a botanist, or otherwise fascinated by flowers, plants and trees. As you're about to step back from the fireplace, you notice something on the floor. Bending down, you see that it's a tuft of dark, grey-black fur. The owner didn't mention having a dog. Perhaps it just visited for a time, you think. Standing up, you return to the front desk. You remember seeing a pamphlet on local flora and fauna, and you'd like to check and see if it

has the name of the purple flowers in it. It doesn't take you long to locate the folded informational booklet on the desk. Opening it, you trace your fingertip down the page, scanning for any mention of flowers and leaves. Not finding anything of use, you flip it over to check the other side. There, just along the fold, is a picture of the purple flowers. labelled aconitum, commonly known as Monkshood Blue Rocket or Wolfsbane. How curious you think to yourself. You've heard of the plant before, but never seen it kept

inside like this. You scan the rest of the page, searching for the leafy plant, mixed in with the wolfsbane on the door and in the vase. But there isn't anything resembling it to be found here. You set aside the pamphlet and walk into the breakfast nook. There, on the back wall, is a bookshelf filled with old-looking books. Some are leather bound, while others have tattered fabric bindings. Scanning the shells, you soon find that your intuition was right. There's a volume dedicated to local plant law.

Its weathered green cover has seen better days, but all the pages seemed to be intact. You open the book, inhaling deeply the comforting scent of musty old pages. Turning them one by one, you soon come to the section you're looking for. About a quarter of the way through, you find an image of the leafy plant. It's labelled Artemisia, or common wormwood. Further down the page is a sketch of mistletoe hanging in a bundle, and of a mountain ash tree, also known as Rowan, with its clusters of red berries standing beside a house. So that, where the section on law about the users of these plants is supposed to be, the page

is torn. The bottom half is missing, only a tattered edge of old paper remaining. With a sigh you place the book on the shelf. have to look it up elsewhere once you're back in town. Just then, you feel a yawn rising up through your chest. You stretch your arms out and blink slowly. It's nearing bedtime and you're quite tired, especially after a long day of driving. But before heading off to sleep, there's one more thing you'd like to do. You recall seeing a garden behind the lodge.

Even if it's just for a few minutes, you'd like to step outside, get some fresh air, and walk around a bit before climbing into bed. You're happy you remembered to bring your generous air. jacket, scarf and hat. Putting them on, you open the front door of Luna Lodge and step out into the brisk night air. The sky overhead is dark and overcast. Stars twinkle brightly between the tree branches whenever there's a gap in the thin, wispy, out. Taking a deep breath, you feel the cool air enter your lungs.

When you breathe out, it condenses into the slightest hint of fog. You imagine the first frost must be coming soon to this part of the forest. With your gloved hands in your pockets for warmth, you walk around the side of the lodge until you reach the gate. It only stands at about knee height and is more ornamental than anything. You lift the latch and step inside the garden. This place must have been beautiful in summer. You can see traces of leafy bushes and tangled vines.

But now all that remains are the bare tendrils and stems of autumn as the plants prepare for the winter months. come here during a time of change and transformation, you see. Pine trees rustle around you, as if in agreement. And then you notice a shift in the light. The garden has been shrouded in darkness beneath the overcast sky. Now, it's illuminated in shades of silver and gold. Looking up, you see the clouds have parted, revealing an enormous full moon, hanging low

and heavy in the sky. As the final wisp of cloud drifts away from its edge, a long, echoing call sounds through the woods. It's a howl unlike any you've ever heard before. The sound of it prickles your skin, making the hairs on your arm stand on end. For some reason, at this moment, you recall the scribbled words at the bottom of the lodge owner's note. It might be best to keep to your room tonight. You aren't sure why, but you feel as though some part of you understands his meaning now. Without a second glance at the woods, you turn and make your way back inside Lunar Lodge.

You walk around the desk and up the carpeted stairs to the second floor landing. Fishing the key out of your pocket, you insert it into the silver lock. and then turn the silver doorknob. The heavy door closes securely behind you. All around your room you see the purple flowers, wolf spain, in their vases. Here in the comfort of your own space, you feel your body start to be. start to relax. Your mind clears like the parting clouds in the sky. You take off your jacket and scarf and put on a pair of soft pajamas. Then you turn off the lights and climb into the large fluffy bed.

It's situated against a wall with a window right above it. Looking out through the glass, you can see the stars twinkling overhead. The wind rustles the trees, which cast long shadows on your window. You yawn and close your eyes, and then you drift off to sleep, and dream of transformations, purple flowers, tufts of fur, and the glow of the glow of the full moon, in a dark, night sky. The road is bathed in the muted purple of twilight. Clouds hang in the sky, evidence of the late afternoon rainstorm that left puddles on the pavement. A small walking path follows the road to one side. Occasionally, your shoes brush

against wet grass as you make your way down it. As the rain has passed, and there's no more in the forecast. It's the perfect evening for a walk. A chilly breeze rustles the last of the golden brown leaves that cling to the tree branches overhead. You're grateful for the familiar warmth of your coat tonight. As the thought crosses your moment, mind, a gust of wind picks up a bunch of damp leaves and tosses them end over end down

the road. You watch them tumble and float, cartwheeling across the dark surface like flecks of gold in a pot of ink. Time is a beautiful season, you think, a time of transition and transformation, when the last vestiges of bright summer depart to make room for the cold hush of winter. There's also always a bit of mystery in the air at this time of year. You can never be sure what you'll see, even on the most familiar streets. Just as the trees change a little every day, so does the world around them

in autumn. The thought makes you smile to yourself. A little mystery keeps life interesting. Your feet guide you down the walking path as your mind wonders. You think of the colours of an autumn day, the brilliant oranges, fiery reds and shimmering yellows. The flavours come to mind next, pumpkin, cinnamon, cranberry and pear. Then you recall the scents, the ground after it rains, old damp leaves, spiced cider, and caramel popcorn.

Except the last scent isn't a memory. You pause for a moment and take a deep breath in. It's the distinct aroma of sweet and salty caramel popcorn on the breeze. Looking around, you can't see anything or anyone who might be responsible for it. It's just you out here on this lonely path tonight. Not even a single car has passed by for as long as you've been on your walk. You turn slowly in a circle, and as you do, the scent grows stronger. It brings to mind visions of days at the fair or at an amusement park.

You can picture the sticky mounds of toffee covered popcorn and can almost taste the sweetness on your tongue. Just then you hear the unmistakable strains of calliope music in the distance. The tune hops and skips through the air as though seeking you out to lead you to its source. Your thought from earlier replays in your mind. A little mystery keeps life interesting. So you turn off the walking path and follow the music and the enticing scent into the trees.

The sky's twilight hues have faded to make the twilight hues have faded to midnight blue. The moon is visible when the clouds part, and it casts a pearly glow on the ghostly white trunks of the birch and aspen trees all around you. In daylight, the trees glisten and shine in their autumn splendor. At night, the trees glisten and shine in their autumn splendor. night they seem bare, standing straight, tall and imposing. And yet they're still beautiful, you think. They just look and feel larger at night. They're colors overtaken by a stark palette of blacks, whites and grays.

As you make your way through the moonlit woods, you find yourself wondering where you're going. What could be out here on a night like this? Your curiosity pulls you along one step at a time. For a moment, you consider turning back. After all, you could return home and curl up under a blanket for a lazy evening of reading, drinking hot cocoa or listening to music. Or you could even carve that pumpkin you've been keeping on the windowsill. Many of the other houses, apartments and shops have their jack-a-lanterns displayed. But yours is still just just a pumpkin. As if on cue, the inviting scent of the popcorn grows stronger.

The Calliope music intensifies as well, its steam whistle notes dancing through the trees. You breathe in deeply. relishing the warm, sumptuous aroma. And then you continue walking deeper into the woods. As you stroll along, you listen to the sounds of the dry leaves crunching underfoot, and the breeze whispering through the leaves still attached to the branches. It's a soothing. rushing sound that fills you with a sense of ease.

Before long, you come to the edge of a large clearing. The trees give way to a flat area where the ground has been compacted by recent activity. It's the kind of open space you could see being used as a fairground, especially as the far end is bordered by an expansive cornfield, which provides a natural barrier. You half expected this to be the origin of the music and the smell, but now you can see There's nothing here. It's just you, the falling leaves, and the cool whispering breeze. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you see a small booth. It's a bright cherry red on all sides, and is covered by a slanted jet-black roof. The booth is only big enough for a single person to stand inside.

You walk over to it, hoping to find someone to ask about the strange music. But you find the booth is empty. The counter is chest high and boasts an old-fashioned machine with hand-painted gold-legged lettering and a large gold button. There's an arrow and the words press for ticket. Once again your curiosity gets the better of you. You press the button and the machine sends out a single, rectangular, paper ticket. Holding it up to the moonlight, you read what it says.

The night carnival, one night only, find your way to the big top. All attractions gone by morning. Present ticket to enter. And on the other side of the ticket, you see your name written in the same lettering. How odd you think. You didn't tell anyone you were coming here tonight because you didn't know. But as strange as it is to find your name on a ticket, it's nothing compared to what you see when you look up. The clearing starts to shimmer like a mirage.

You see the almost translucent outlines of structures beginning to appear. A ferris wheel, a fun house, game booths, a carousel. The image quivers around the edges before coming into full view. Right before your eyes, the clearing is transformed into a carnival, complete with flashing signboards, game cards and colourful displays. Beyond the ticket booth, you see a single turnstile. Perhaps that's where you enter, you think. You walk over to it and find a slot to insert your ticket. Pushing through the metal turnstile, you enter the world of the night carnival.

your senses are enraptured by your new surroundings. The Calliope's whistling tune fills the air around you, in concert with organ music emanating from the carousel. Delicious, savory and sweet aromas waft toward you from unseen sources. and your eyes can't decide what to gaze at first, the old-fashioned signboard at the house of curiosities, or the light bulbs flashing in a circle around the fun house. Turning back for a moment, you realise you can no longer see the woods.

Perhaps you wandered deeper into the carnival than you thought. You try to glance around the side of a tent, only to find your view blocked by a large set of swings. It's all right, you think. You can always try again later. Returning your gaze to the options at hand. you decide to visit the House of Curiosity's first. The path there is lined with jack-o'-lanterns, whose expressions seem to shift with the flickering candlelight. The door to the house is made of wood

and is propped open with a small wedge. You wander inside, letting your house, letting your eyes adjust to the even dimmer light. The first display you come to is a pedestal, no larger than a coffee mug. On it sits a perfect little street light with a sign underneath reading genuine Paris street lamp. inspecting it closely you were impressed by how realistic the details are if it wasn't so tiny it could be the real thing you think the next display features a single golden pomegranate seed

its sign reads a gift from the gods in a separate room that's as dark as night you find a lone jack-o'-lantern sitting on a stool there is no sign accompanying this curiosity but you're drawn to it nonetheless You gaze into its glowing orange depths in order to make out the details of its design. There's an old-fashioned carriage being pulled by horses whose wispy manes fall in gentle ripples down their backs. On the carriage hangs a distinctive pump.

pumpkin lantern, and on the pumpkin, the same scene is repeated in even finer detail. As you gaze at the jack-a-lantern, you find yourself falling into a dreamlike state. The flickering candlelight lulls you as the repeating design draws you fine. further in. You feel as though you can see the design repeating countless times as you drift deeper and deeper into your reverie. Time stands still as your eyes focus on the candlelight and the lantern twinkling in the autumnal scene.

The sound of gentle laughter brings you out of your trance. You glance around to see who has joined you here in the house of curiosities, only to find you are still alone. Pulling your coat snugly around you, you decide it's time to move on. There's more to explore here at the carnival. You wander back out into the cool night air and consider where you'd like to go next. Down the opposite path you see the entrance to the fun house looming in the distance. That could be interesting, you think to yourself.

Walking past the jackalantons, you notice that some of their expressions seem to have changed once again. Or maybe it really is just a trick of the candlelight. You can't be sure. When you reach the Fun House, you spend a few moments studying the exterior. It's a rectangular building, longer than it is deep. From this distance you can see there are two doors, one entrance and one exit, you'd guess, and a ramp leading to both.

front of the fun house is dominated by an enormous wooden cut-out of an old-fashioned clown. His face is painted mostly white and he has a large red nose. Only the top of his outfit is visible, but you can see it's meant to be a loose white shirt with red trim and oversized by buttons. A matching white conical hat with a red pome sits atop his head. His expression is somewhere between a smile and a frown. The whole display is surrounded by large light bulbs. Like everything here, this fun house and its design seem to be from a different era. It's as though the carnival hasn't been touched by the passage of time, you think. But that should be impossible.

Letting the thought drift out of your life. your mind, you make your way up to the entrance. The metal door squeaks lightly when you pull it open and you enter a world where everything is different. The first room is filled with hanging pieces of fabric. They are suspended from the ceiling, which is completely dark. The fabric is crimson and delicate as it brushes over your skin. From where you're standing, you can't see a way out of the room. You have to find a path through, you realize. Carefully, you nudge the fabric to the side as you walk between the strips. When a piece lightly moves across your face, it feels like a silk veil skimming over your cheek.

For a moment, you think you see someone else, but then you realise it's just the fabric. waving back and forth disturbed by your motion. When you reach the other side, you pass through a doorway and into a room with three mirrors standing in a row. The first distorts your image in such a way that you seem impossibly tall and thin and wavy from top to bottom. The second makes you appear several times wider than normal, with waves going in the opposite direction. The third mirror reflects you more accurately, and yet there's something in the glass

that fragments the image, making you appear as triangular shards of beautiful glass, put back together haphazardly in not quite your right form. With a final glance at your fragmented reflection, you leave the room. In the next and final space, you find even more mirrors, this time arranged along narrow passageways that snake around to the exit. It's easy to get turned around in here, you think, seeing yourself reflected back in every direction. You put your hands out in front of you and begin to navigate down the hall of mirrors. You don't want to accidentally walk into a wall, so your hands will stop you before you do. Every time you turn a corner, you see yourself move out of the corner of your eye.

You catch a flickering motion and realise it's your own feet walking down the passage. You turn a corner and then another and another that looks the same as the first. When you turn again, you hear the gentle laughter once more. It permeates the air, but you can't tell where it's coming from. As far as you know, you're still alone in the fun house. Finally, you locate the exit and step out into the chilly breeze. It's a welcome contrast to the still air inside the building. You're glad you walk through both the fun house and the house of curiosities, but you think

you'd like to spend the rest of the night outdoors. You aren't sure where to go next, so you let your feet guide you. You walk around the back of the fun house. past a few antique game setups. There's a ring toss booth, another is a beanbag toss, and a third has a large mallet and a thermometer. You assume you have to hit the bottom of the thermometer to test your strength and see how high the mercury climbs. Beyond those is an old red ferris wheel. You don't see anyone working it or riding it, which makes you consider something you hadn't put your finger on before.

You haven't seen a single other person since you arrived. While the carnival is open and everything is working, there's no. Nobody here but you. As you approach the ferris wheel, it slows its soft movement and comes to a stop with a carriage right in front of you. Without hesitation, you open the safety bar and climb into the seat before lowering the bar again. Soon, the ride starts up and you find yourself travelling at an easy, comfortable pace into the sky. When you reach the top, the wheel slows, giving you time to admire the view.

Taking a long look, you can see the night carnival stretching out in all directions. You seem to be at the heart of it all here. But oddly enough, you can't see the woods you walked through, or the cornerfield that borders the clearing on the far side. It's as though the only thing for miles is just this carnival. As the carriage begins to descend, you take a deep breath of the fresh night air. It feels soothing and cleansing, helping you release any lingering thoughts. By the time you reach the bottom, you're ready to keep exploring.

There's just one more thing you really want to see. The Carousel. You heard its charming organ music earlier, but you'd like to experience it up close. Right as you think that, the sound of the organ grows louder leading you towards the elusive ride you weave your way through booths rides and fun houses turning corner after corner and looping back on yourself once or twice but eventually you make it to the

carousel. The craftsmanship is incredible. It's an old one with hand-carved and painted wooden animals. Long poles extend from top to bottom, giving riders a place to hold on. But what really draws your eye is the extent. exquisite paint job on the animals. They look so lifelike, you muse. Every single one has a unique expression.

No two horses, swans, or ostriches are the same. The animals are dressed up for the season, it seems. Each one has a thin orange. black and purple bow made of ribbons. As with the House of Curiosity's, Jackalantons line the edge of the ride. They surround it like sentries keeping a watchful eye. Carefully, you step up onto the carousel. like to find the perfect place to sit, so you move between the rows of animals, admiring

them as you pass. You run your fingertips over the grooves in a horse's mane, and over the lines of a swan's wing. They're even more beautiful up close. About halfway around the carousel, you find a little sleigh being pulled by two brown deer. You take a seat, resting your chin on your hand, as you look out into the night. The pace of the organ music picks up as it begins a new song, and the carousel turns along with it.

Again, you find yourself drifting into a sleepy reverie, lulled into a trance by the movement and the magical sound of the instrument. You could almost stay here forever, you think. Just then, the same familiar laughter rings out through the air. You blink your eyes sleepily and look around. Just as before, there's no one here but you. You suppose it's time to move on though, so you stand up and hop off the carousel. When your feet touch the ground, you feel something in the air change. It's like a

flicker of magic, a glimmer of something otherworldly, and when you look ahead of you, you see it, the big top. You don't recall noticing the enormous red and white striped tent when you first arrived at the carousel. But it must have been there, you think. Tents don't just appear out of nowhere, do they? You wonder. You begin walking towards it when you hear the gentle, laughter once again.

Pausing, you gaze into the distance. You see motion inside the big top. The ethereal sounds of performers talking and dancing float toward you on the breeze. Perhaps this is where the mysterious people responsible for the night carnival are. As you're watching the tent, a single cloud drifts across the face of the moon, sending the carnival and the big top into shadow. recall the words printed on your ticket, find your way to the Big Top. It didn't say you had to visit the Big Top, just find it.

You think, perhaps, it's best to leave the mysterious tent to its hidden performers, at least for tonight. With your mind made up, you glance in the opposite direction. Strangely enough, you see the turnstile standing behind you. You're sure that wasn't there a few minutes ago. With a final look at the strange and wondrous night carnival, you push through the metal turnstile and step back into your own world once more. The woods stand at attention in the distance, just as they did when you first arrived.

You can still smell the alluring scent of toffee popcorn. and hear the strains of Calliope music, but already they are beginning to fade into the night. Turning back, you watch as the carnival shimmers, quivers, and disappears from view. With a sigh of contentment, you make your way to the woods. The moon hangs high and bright in the sky without a single trace of cloud left. The trees are bathed in a delicate white glow. As you walk,

You listen to the familiar sounds of leaves crunching underfoot and the breeze whispering through the tree branches. When you reach the far edge of the woods and step out onto the footpath that follows the road, you know you aren't far from home. The air is colder now at this time of night. You put your hands deep into your pockets, but your fingertips touch something, like the corner of a piece of thick paper. You pull out the mysterious paper and hold it up to the moonlight. It's your ticket that still bears your name. But now it reads,

Thank you for visiting the night carnival. One night only, all attractions gone by morning. We'll see you again next year. Will you see us? With a smile, you tuck the ticket back into your pocket. A little mystery really does keep life interesting. You whisper into the night before making your way back home to bed. Thank you.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. We're going to be. Thank you. We're going to be able to be.

We're going to be able to be. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

We're going to be. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.