It all started near the well-lined moon, or Harvest Moon, as it is titled once it occurs in close proximity the Autumn Equinox. As is my typical habit, I stood outer underneath that elysian orb, basking in mirrored light, opinion the illusion of a night, not gloomy and chock-a-block near stars, but a light reflection of day. A wobbly current of air caused branches to move, their moonlit shadows to shake. More magical. For a terse moment, I was not in this worldwide anymore. A proper origination to the excellent dark to come with. The Hallowed Night, hatched in a gloom circumstance chock-a-block with faeries, and teeny-weeny people, the admiration of trees, the transport of wizards, Druidic priests, and the magical.
Next antemeridian in beefed-up sunlight, I wide the morning tabloid and upturned pages. On my way to the editorials, I passed through the obituaries-and stopped, my persuasion careworn to the upper right-hand corner, to a woman's picture. She was lovely, next to a fascinating facial gesture. I read the obituary, stricken by the birthdate-the rigorous identical as my own, even to the twelvemonth. The adult female had died in an misadventure. A odd inspiration came to consciousness. She died so I wouldn't have to. No doubt, my real self nonmoving stood beneath that magic Harvest Moon.
Was this besides a preliminary to All Hallow's Eve? A instance once the movable barrier that separates this existence and the next is lowered, and inebriant be carried of your own accord from one world to the next, or so story would have us believe? Had I been reminded of my own mortality? Or my own immortality? For it is not in recent times we mortals who are invited to Otherworld. Otherworldly alcoholic beverage as well enter upon our truth on that one night, or so it has been aforementioned complete the centuries.
On that night, we array up in costumes and deterioration 'false' faces. Now it is for fun, but how did such as custom begin? Could it have been so we would not be recognized? So we would not tempt those in Otherworld to bit us, cozen us, clench us in Otherworld as the take easy rises to erstwhile again divided one world from the else.
What just about those who move our way from Otherworld? Will they, too, deterioration false faces? Will they wedding dress as goblins or gargoyles, creatures designed to alarm us into staying in this world? Or will they be their lean selves, ghostly spirits, sad us not next to freezing fear, but beside a gentle, by a hair's breadth detected caress?
Will we cognise them? Or will they be strangers, no event how they are uniformed or not clothed? Or will they be just look-alike us, just aware in a conflicting dimension, same golem creatures from a Star Trek movie?
Some life later, at a lower place a waning moon, I contemplated Otherworld. On All Hallow's Eve, or Samween, as the past Irish dubbed it, would I be able to walk into the global of my afterdeath, or be visited by individual who had departed in the past. That has not happened to me before, at most minuscule not on Hallowe'en. Why would I feel it would come to pass now? I do not even like-minded to deterioration a 'false' face, preferring to come together every person near my own visible, in 'character' next to myself.
My dreams that darkness were of Prince Anwen, he of disarming qualities and unreal humour. I floated done his domain until I reached his castle, which at first appeared insubstantial and ventilated. But as I watched, the mediaeval deposit became chock-a-block beside clanking armor, dimly-lit chandeliers, cobwebs, moans and grim surprises. Wispy people followed me everywhere I went, or popped out from trailing a movable barrier. At oldest I could not see myself in my desire. I looked out through with my eyes, an omnipresent goddess measuring her delicate kingdom. But did it be to me? Was this my world? Or Otherworld? Was the takings static lowered, or was it increasingly rising, motility me off from where on earth I necessary to be?
I did what any of sound mind soul would do. I woke up. I got up. I went to the room for a cocktail of marine. A flake of satellite shone through the room window, its kind insubstantial soft the terrors of my prophecy. Reminding me of what comes after All Hallow's Eve.
This morning's bedside light reveals a worldwide in tactfulness after a hours of darkness of startling stuff, a international chock-a-block with the reminiscences of all those who have lived earlier us and departed on, not to Otherworld, not simply to a different dimension, but to a simply and perpetual pay. The terrifying superstitious notion of Hallowe'en everlastingly followed by the allure and glorification of All Soul's Day, a day to accolade our ancestors, and in whatever measure, ourselves. How pluperfect is that?