Burn, Witch, Burn, Witch, Burn

Charred Wood from Elizabeth Selwyn’s Pyre (inspired by the film, The City of the Dead aka Horror Hotel (1960)) – Antiqued clock case; burnt wood; antique flat head nails; genuine raven feather; hand-stained vellum print of witches sabbat taken from an original fifteenth-century woodcut; antiqued pewter Baphomet charm; altered art piece—business card for the Raven’s Inn

The low, measured cadence of a drumbeat sounds.

Through an unnatural fog, which clings close to the ground, choking the tree roots, a swarm of New England puritans come. Their leader, his wide-brimmed hat shadowing his face, calls, “Bring out Elizabeth Selwyn!”

The jailers bring forth a formidable woman with hair as black as pitch. She is disheveled, dirty, cloaked in what resembles nothing more, nothing less, than a tattered shroud. Her wrists bear the marks and bruises of shackles. She and the assembled are now face to face.

An unbearable stillness falls, apprehension and fear grow.

Then one old, wizened shrew moves to the front, her eyes set in determination on the woman held fast by burly captors—“Witch!” she screams, unafraid.

Elizabeth Selwyn meets the defiant stare with one of her own. She hisses and spits at the old woman’s feet.

The crowd parts, allowing Elizabeth Selwyn her first glimpse of the wooden stake and its surrounding pyre; allows her the first glimpse of her impending fate.

Another woman in the group smiles triumphantly, and points, shouting, “Burn the witch!”, a chant echoed by one and all, while Elizabeth Selwyn is dragged forward, kicking and fighting. But it is no use, and she is soon bound and chained to the solid, unyielding post.

The leader steps up, a blazing torch raised, to pronounce sentence.

“Elizabeth Selwyn. On this, the third day of March, in the year of our Lord, 1692, we the people of Whitewood, Massachusetts, condemn thee as a witch. May the flames cleanse thy soul of its evil and its lust for blood…”

He shoves the torch into the kindling, and the conflagration erupts.

Elizabeth Selwyn struggles a few moments, then a vociferous roar of thunder rolls across the heavens and a great black shade descends, obliterating the light from above. Elizabeth Selwyn ceases her fight, her gaze uplifted, saying loud, saying strong:

“I have made my pact with thee O Lucifer! Hear me, hear me! I will do thy bidding for all eternity. For all eternity shall I practice the ritual of Black Mass. For all eternity shall I sacrifice unto thee. I give thee my soul, take me into thy service…”

Next she sets her sights upon her accusers, intoning, “Make this city an example of thy vengeance. Curse it, curse it for all eternity! Let me be the instrument of thy curse. Hear me O Lucifer, hear me!”

The townspeople blanch, draw back, eyes wide as the woman on the burning pyre at first smiles, then laughter pours from her as the flames soar, relegating Elizabeth Selwyn to ashes.

Today, exactly three-hundred and twenty years on, Whitewood is a mere pin dot on maps of the northeastern United States. Some guides to the area do not even mention the tiny hamlet. Salem has claimed the glut of tourists seeking safe, cheap thrills of the Samantha Stephens/Bewitched or the “Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble,” kind, as well as the students and scholars seeking serious knowledge, seeking actual proof of the hysteria of the pathetic, shameful American witch trials of the 1600s. Not many god-fearing folk visit Whitewood these days, but for those seeking just a little bit more than what those musty library books and family-friendly attractions have to offer, here are the directions to Whitewood, MA:

Take Road 28A, turn onto Wamport Road, bear left at the fork through to Whitewood.

As you travel on, the forests will become denser, darker, an unnatural fog forever looms and swirls, clinging, suffocating, even in the middle of the day. The town is not much, and they who live there don’t take kindly to strangers, especially those interested in the taint of its past, those curious, those prying and probing, those anxious to stir up the ashes.

There are no fast food joints in Whitewood, no shopping mall, no Starbucks, and not a single image of an old crone in a black cape and pointed hat astride a broomstick can be found. In Whitewood, time stands still, electricity seems to be the one compromise made to the modern day. There is nothing in neither the amenities nor the atmosphere that would make one want to stay and linger. There is but one antique shop, the owner possibly the only person willing to talk about Whitewood’s infamy. There is a long-standing cemetery, overgrown and unused for nearly two-hundred years, where, in one corner, those charged with the blasphemy of consorting with the devil lie in unconsecrated ground. And there is a church, ancient and rotting, which hasn’t seen a worshipper in decades.

Then there is Whitewood’s lone hub of activity—The Raven’s Inn, a genuine seventeenth-century structure of leaded windows and oaken doors, of hand-planed clapboard and hand-hewn shingle—a place rivaled in its somber and solemn New England aura only by Salem’s own cursed House of the Seven Gables. Within silence, nothing more than a fire crackling on the hearth and a clock’s metrical passing of the seconds can be heard. The rooms are considered colonial quaint now, furnished with sturdy, simple pieces. The lobby is austere, unadorned, save for an old-fashioned barometer, a few mundane canvases in plain wood frames, a calendar, and that ever-ticking clock—and that strange plaque, the one hung directly, prominently, on the wall behind the front desk that reads:

March 3rd 1692
On this site was burned for witchcraft
Elizabeth Selwyn

All this is lorded over by the Inn’s proprietor, Mrs. Newless, a formidable woman with hair as black as pitch.

Of course, with its outdated, archaic, and antiquated way of life and its unwelcoming, unfriendly, and inhospitable ambiance, Whitewood has earned its place in local legend—the inhabitants are nothing but a coven of witches; that good persons, young and old, have traveled there, never to be heard or seen of again; that some guests at the Raven’s Inn have found dead birds and sprigs of woodbine on their pillows at night instead of a foil-wrapped chocolate; that strange and frightening noises and litanies of sacrilegious chants emerge from that smothering fog every February 2nd—Candlemas Eve—a well-known witches sabbat.

And that Mrs. Newless’ name spelt backwards, may be too close to “Selwyn” for comfort.

Tall tales, of course, hearsay, gossip, tittle-tattle, and chitchat—something better suited for Halloween nights and the autumnal equinox than the sun-drenched advent of spring.

But if you manage to speak to the elderly, sightless reverend who still presides over an empty church, the Good Lord’s shepherd abandoned by his flock, he might just urge you on quickly with this warning:

“Leave Whitewood. Leave Whitewood, tonight, I beg of you…before it is too late…”

It’s a warning I’d heed.

Love Crazy

J’aime des fleurs—I Love Flowers (inspired by Guy de Maupassant’s 1886 short story, Un Cas de divorce) – Vintage gold metal floral-patterned frame; custom cut double mat; a dozen dried white roses; various dried flowers, dried leaves; dried lily pod; colour print of dried white roses; hand-tinted print of a vintage photograph of a mummy from the Capuchin catacombs, Palermo, Italy

When love is not madness, it is not love

Thus the Spanish poet and playwright, Pedro Calderon de la Barca, wrote over four hundred years ago, and things haven’t changed much, have they?

We humans are a strange lot, especially when it comes to love.

Love crazy, that’s what we are.

Right from the get-go we’re lost—we fall in love.

So, did we jump, did we trip, or were we pushed?

Just think about all of the glorious miseries love creates; getting up enough guts to ask that special someone you’ve met out, then comes that age old question, do you kiss on the first date or not? Then comes the anguished wait by the phone (oops, sorry, kids, but I hate to tell you this, but there was time when a telephone was screwed to the kitchen wall or plugged in behind the bedroom night table, the cord only reaching so far, so maybe, to bring myself up to date, I should say—then comes the anguished wait for that special someone to email, or text, or Tweet.) Then comes the haunting self-doubt—what’s the matter with me? Why aren’t they calling? Then that haunting self-doubt becomes anger—what, do they think they’re too good for me? Well, I wouldn’t go out with them again even if they were the last…

There goes the phone or there’s the Tweet, and all that’s forgotten. Inside we swoon, and all’s right with the world.

Like the old adage says, first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes…

Then comes every December 25th when we run ourselves ragged in crowded shopping malls, going into hock, just to find the right gift to prove our love for that special someone only to realize that those pearl earrings or diamond ring, that flat screen TV or latest iPad doesn’t amount to a hill of beans come February 14th—or that next birthday, or that next anniversary, or next Easter, Halloween, or Arbor Day.

Reflect on literature and the silver screen’s most famous doomed romances—Antony and Cleopatra, Tristan and Isolde, Lancelot and Guinevere, Romeo and Juliet, Rhett and Scarlett, Oliver and Jennifer, Jack and Ennis.

Next stop a moment to mull over all those murder/suicides you hear about—if I can’t have you, nobody can!

Then there’s all those poems, those songs, those novels, those plays, those movies, those television shows, all about just how nuts is love.

And lastly ruminate, if you will, over how abused the word “love” really is.

I “love” chocolate. Oh, I just “love” that dress! I “love” my dog, my cat, my ferret, my budgerigar. I “love” New York. I “love” Paris in the springtime, I “love” Paris in the fall. I “love” rock ‘n roll…

I Love Lucy…

Yup, we’re love crazy.

Need a better example?

Okay, here goes…

French courts, in the late nineteenth-century.

A young woman’s advocate is presenting her case for divorce.

Her’s the typical story—wooed, courted, married; she happy, he…well, therein lies the tale.

Seems that her beau at first idolized the ground she walked on, but then when that beau became hubby…

…then he really idolized the ground she walked on.

Literally.

His ardor turned to disgust. The human mating ritual repulsed, and hubby fell in love with another.

But that’s an old story, I hear you saying. True…but here comes the kicker.

The other the hubby has fallen for?

A flower of beauty.

A real flower of beauty.

Perhaps I should let the young man speak for himself:

“Flowers alone, which smell so sweet, those large flowers, glittering or pale, whose tones and shades make my heart tremble and trouble my eyes. They are so beautiful, their structure is so finished, so varied and sensual, semi-opened like human organs, more tempting than mouths, and streaked with turned up lips, teeth, flesh, seed of life powders, which, in each, gives forth a distinct perfume…

I love flowers, not as flowers, but as material and delicious beings; I pass my days and my nights in beds of flowers, where they have been concealed from the public view like the women of a harem.

My heart palpitates, my eyes flash at the sight of them; my blood rushes through my veins, my soul is elated, and my hands tremble from desire as soon as I touch them…

How healthy, strong and rosy, a rosiness that moistens the lips of desire! How I love them! The border is frizzled, paler than their throat, where the corolla hides itself away; a mysterious mouth, seductive sugar under the tongue, exhibiting and unveiling the delicate, admirable and sacred organs of these divine little creatures which smell so exquisitely and…”

That’s quite enough of that, thank you.

I think we get the point.

So, like I said, we’re love crazy—and on that note I think I’ll let good ol’ Sigmund Freud have the last word:

"One is very crazy when in love."

That’s what he said…

…and he should know, right?

Oh, and before we part, a word in your ear, dear…if you’re presented with a bouquet of roses this holiday…

…don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Baby, It's Cold Outside

I’m Growing Warmer Now… (inspired by the 1843 American folk ballad “Frozen Charlotte” by Seba Smith) – Black wood-framed shadowbox; Epsom salts; beer; Plexiglas; artist’s board; colour print of snow woodland scene; colour print of Currier & Ives sleigh; colour print of underwater ice; colour print of frozen woman

January 1st.

The New Year’s come in and the winter winds are ablowin’…

A whole brand new 365 days stretch out ahead of us (actually 366, since 2012’s a Leap Year).

Time to reflect on the past; time to plan for the future.

Maybe a time to make some of those New Year’s resolutions—you know them, the good intentions we make, lose a few pounds, get in shape, spend more time with the kids, the wife, the hubby, to slow down, not let things bother us so much…

Yeah, those good intentions that are usually forgotten by dawn on January 2nd.

And remember, Hell is paved with good intentions…

Maybe another of those good intentions should be to follow the advice of your elders—like Mom who’s always after you to be careful, eat your vegetables, to cross at the green, or to wear clean underwear in case you’re in an accident, and don’t talk to strangers, don’t make that face it might freeze that way, or if you fall out of that tree and break your leg, don’t come running to me.

Yup, you should always listen to your mother.

And I’ll tell you, fair Charlotte should have listened to hers.

Fair Charlotte was a country gal. She had her share of swains, all waiting for the chance to court the comely young maid. One handsome youth vying for her affections tempted the Fates by asking if fair Charlotte would be willing to accompany him to a New Year’s Eve celebration in the village, some fifteen miles away from fair Charlotte’s humble cottage.

And fair Charlotte said yes.

That night, fair Charlotte attired herself in her finest—her satin party dress, her silken cloak and scarf, her bonnet and gloves; she was a beauteous sight.

Sleigh bells were soon heard as her escort rode up. Bowing low, he greeted fair Charlotte, kissing her hand, leading her toward the door and the bitterly cold darkness that lay beyond the threshold.

Then came her mother’s voice:

“Make sure you bundle up, dear daughter! Wrap the blanket tight around you! ‘Tis a dreadful night tonight!”

But fair Charlotte shook her head. “Nay, mother! My silken cloak and my silken scarf are more than enough to keep me warm. No one shall see my finery if I am covered!”

Saying so, she stepped into the sleigh. With a crack of a whip, they were off.

In only a few miles, fair Charlotte’s swain began to grumble of the cold, the ice beading his brow, numbing his fingers. But all fair Charlotte could manage was a single shivering sentence:

“I am exceedingly cold.”

The swain whipped his steed faster, the sleigh flying through the snow, and soon, alas, all fair Charlotte could utter was a faint whisper:

“I’m growing warmer now…”

At last the sleigh reached the village, it skidded up to the ballroom, all aglow, with sounds of laughter and merriment coming from within. Fair Charlotte’s beau leapt from his seat, and put out a hand. But fair Charlotte moved not. He called her name once, twice, no answer came.

For fair Charlotte was now frozen Charlotte…

…stone, cold dead.

This Edward Goreyesque cautionary tale was first published in 1843, and quickly became one of America’s first fads—long before hula hoops, or yo-yos, or Cabbage Patch Kids, or Beanie Babies, or Tickle-Me-Elmo. It was set to music and sung in theatres, dancehalls, and candlelit parlors. It was read to children, to scare them out of their wits—or at least into obeying their parents. And just as with any good fad, there were those all ready and waiting to cash in—so country store and city shop were soon stocked to the rafters with “Frozen Charlotte” dolls. They weren’t much, it must be said—just a simple, standing naked little white bisque figure, molded cheaply, all in one piece. They ranged in size from about an inch all the way up to a foot-and-a-half; the smallest ones found their main function in being charms cooked into Christmas plum puddings.

But, exactly as with pet rocks and Rubik’s Cubes, the “Frozen Charlotte” craze waned, leaving behind a glut of the various-sized dollies. Manufacturers were left high and dry, with an inventory of thousands of the little vacant-eyed porcelain zombies. Then some bright, enterprising soul somehow convinced the booming housing industry that the dolls made for excellent—and more importantly, cheap—insulation, and all that unsold supply vanished from company warehouses.

They can still be found, those “Frozen Charlottes”—hundreds of them, thousands of them—stuffed in walls and in-between joists and behind chimneys in old homes throughout the country.

Maybe we have found a practical purpose for all those dusty Cabbage Patch Kids and dog-chewed Beanie Babies and laughed-out, drained-batteried Elmos after all.

Who knows what the next fad will be, but believe me when I say, there’s probably another right around the corner.

Fair Charlotte…oops, frozen Charlotte should have made a New Year’s resolution to heed her mother’s advice. It was probably on her list of “things-to-do” for the coming year, but, sadly, she never got around to it before those hardhearted Fates gave her the cold shoulder.

So, before it’s too late, make sure you take note that, like it or not…

…your mother’s always right.

Happy New Year!!

The Furious Winter's Rages

Stykker fra den Sneedronningen’s Spejl – Splinters from the Snow Queen’s Mirror (inspired by Hans Christian Andersen’s 1845 short story, Sneedronningen) – Antiqued, silvered, frosted, and hand-stained resin frame; white paint; rusted tacks; mirror shards; colour print of “grunge” frost; colour print of Edmund Dulac’s illustration of the “Snow Queen”

Christmastime is upon us once again, the season of peace on earth and good will toward men. A season of smiles. A season of giving, of open, generous, happy hearts.

But some hearts are not giving.

They are not generous.

They are not happy.

There are hearts that are closed—sealed shut—frozen.

Those are the hearts that are longed for by the Snow Queen.

Who is the Snow Queen, you ask?

She is the bitterly cold ruler of the polar regions, living amongst the shifting dunes of snow and floes of ice, with her hives of snow bees.

Snow bees?

Yes, every snowflake created by the Snow Queen is a bee, and just like all bees, they have a queen…

That’s why snowflakes swarm and fly in the winter, and where the snowflakes cluster most, there is their sovereign.

In her great, white sleigh, the Snow Queen traverses the globe in search of those hearts frozen against good and beauty and love.

And she found such a heart in a little boy named Kai.

Kai lived with his grandmother and his best playmate, Gerda, in a garret in the big city. Kai and Gerda loved each other very much—they were happy and joyful. Then, one morning, Kai changed. He became cold and angry, he could only see ugliness and bad in all people—for Kai had a splinter of the Snow Queen’s mirror lodged in his eye, and it soured him against the world.

What is the Snow Queen’s mirror?

It was created by the Devil; a massive silvered looking glass, and anyone that peered into it would only see the worst of things. But the Devil had a plan, he wanted to carry the mirror all the way to Heaven to torment the angels. Thus, he and his minions flew higher and higher toward the pearly gates, but on their way aloft the mirror slipped from their grasp and plummeted to the ground. There it shattered, the splinters flying off in all directions, carried on the wind, and those splinters got into people’s eyes and hearts and all of them would be cursed to Kai’s fate.

Hence the Snow Queen came, in her great, white sleigh, in the midst of a blizzard to take Kai away. And the Snow Queen kissed Kai, twice—once to numb him against the cold, and once again to make him forget all about his grandmother and Gerda and his warm home; to make him forget about happiness; to make him forget about love.

But Gerda did not forget about Kai, she did not forget about love. Gerda went off in search of him—all the way to the Snow Queen’s palace in the faraway frozen north.

There she found Kai a prisoner, alone and still, in the middle of a vast arctic lake, where sat the Snow Queen’s throne. She found him playing with shards of ice, moving them this way and that, as if at work at a giant jigsaw puzzle, for the Snow Queen promised him release, but only if he was able to spell the word “eternity”—a word Kai no longer remembered.

Gerda made her way across the treacherous ice, embracing her beloved Kai. But Kai was so cold, so still, so unmoved that Gerda’s joy became sorrow, and she began to cry. Her warm tears flowed down, dripping onto Kai’s blue, numbed skin, they dripped into his eyes, burning away the cursed splinter of mirror.

Kai’s heart melted.

He was happy, warm and rosy-cheeked again.

He remembered Gerda.

He remembered happiness.

He remembered love.

He and Gerda danced, the ice crystal puzzle pieces being swept up in their delight, and when those ice crystals fell back to the surface of the frozen lake, they spelled out…

…eternity.

So, this Christmas remember that word—eternity.

For only love is eternal.

Only love opens your eyes.

Only love melts your heart.

Only love…

Merry Christmas.

Don't Lick the Spoon!

Typhoid Mary’s Tasting Spoon (inspired by the life and legend of “Typhoid Mary” Mallon) – Antiqued and stained wooden frame, with cracked glass; antique silver spoon; black thread; cobwebs; hand-stained newspaper clippings; hand-stained typhoid fever warning; hand-stained potato soup recipe; paper flies; black and white print of a photograph of a New York tenement kitchen, ca. 1909

Thanksgiving time is here again!

What was that, groaning I heard amongst the groaning boards?

Not that traditional menu again?!

Your grandma’s time-honored roast turkey—so dry the oven must have been set to “cremation”.
Your wife’s cherished stuffing recipe—so gummy it could be used to repair the mortar on the chimney.
Your sister-in-law’s famous pumpkin pie—so heavy the Mafia’s threatened to use it instead of cement to weigh down bodies in the river.

And we won’t mention that string bean casserole, swimming in Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup; the one with French’s canned french-fried onions sprinkled on top?

Stop shuddering.

You should be thankful.

Thankful?! you scoff, eyebrows raised.

Yes.

Thankful.

Thankful that your annual holiday repast is not being prepared by history’s most notorious cook, Mary Mallon…

…better known as “Typhoid Mary”.

Typhoid—a disease that once spread horror—is described thusly by a modern day medical journal (in laymen’s terms):

Typhoid fever is a bacterial infection characterized by diarrhea, systemic disease, and a rash – most commonly caused by the bacteria Salmonella typhi. S. typhi are spread by contaminated food, drink, or water. Following ingestion, the bacteria spread from the intestine via the bloodstream to the intestinal lymph nodes, liver, and spleen via the blood where they multiply and…

Okay, that’s enough of that—I’ll spare you the rest of the gory details. Basically, it’s a really, really, REALLY bad case of food poisoning, really, really, REALLY bad, as in, you-could-be-pushing-up-daisies-soon bad.

But that same medical journal provides an interesting footnote to its typhoid definition:

A few people can become carriers of S. typhi and continue to shed the bacteria for years, spreading the disease while being asymptomatic themselves, as in the case of "Typhoid Mary" in New York over 100 years ago.

There she is!

Typhoid Mary!

Mary Mallon was from good Irish stock, emigrating at age fifteen to the Land of Opportunity where she soon found employment in the upper-middle class New York suburb of Mamaroneck. Mary was a strong, willing worker, and a mighty fine cook it was said. Regrettably, all of her recipes came with an extra added ingredient—a heapin’ helpin’ of ‘em nasty S.typhi germs. That’s why, two weeks after being added to the servant roster at her very first job, those in the household came down with typhoid.

Mary jumped ship, and began quickly stirring up trouble in the heart of New York City. There her new family was, by and by, suffering from fevers and other ills of the Pepto-Bismol television commercial kind, if you know what I mean, and the laundress died, and they were out a cook, since their old one had just skedaddled.

Mary’s next position was behind the stove of an attorney, until seven out of eight of his relatives were rapidly indisposed, and a big “Quarantined for Typhoid” notice was plastered on his front door. It must be said here that tender-hearted Mary stayed on for a while, nursing those she made ill—those she had made unintentionally ill, continued to make unintentionally ill.

That’s the macabre joke of it all—Mary herself was perfectly healthy. Not a symptom of anything to be seen, to give fair warning—not a rumble of the tummy, not a twist of the bowel.

Nothing.

And so, with her current employers not much in need of a cook any longer—since most of them were unable to eat—Mary and her culinary expertise moved on to a post in the wealthy quarter of Oyster Bay, Long Island. Lo and behold, you guessed it, all there got sick, too! Six out of eleven hospitalized. Mary handed in her walking papers, and strolled into three more households, serving up bacteria by the spoonful.

By then, the New York Health Department realized it had a “carrier” on its hands; one redoubtable investigating agent finally tracing the breakouts straight to Mary Mallon’s kitchen door.

Poor Mary.

Under the law of the day, she was taken away to a clinic on North Brother Island located in the middle of Manhattan’s East River. There she languished for three years, until she promised she was “prepared to change her occupation (that of a cook), and would give assurance by affidavit that she would upon her release take such hygienic precautions as would protect those with whom she came in contact, from infection”.

Didn’t work.

Mary was soon back in the midst of the human throng, and cooking up a storm. In early 1915 alone she was alleged to have sickened over two dozen unfortunates—and causing one death—at, of all places, New York’s Sloan Hospital for Women.

Hey, you gotta do what you do best, right?

And damn, her fresh peach ice cream was first-class…

Be that as it may, the officials had had enough. Mary was carted off, kicking and screaming, back to her quarantine in the East River; this time confined there for life and becoming something of a minor celebrity with journalists always on the hunt for a good bad story.

In the end, it’s calculated that Mary Mallon, “Typhoid Mary”, was responsible for infecting fifty-three, and causing three deaths.

Mary’s own death came in 1938, when she was sixty-nine.

She was cremated (you can insert your own jokes here).

Since then, Mary’s name has gone down in infamy… well, at least her nickname. “Typhoid Mary” has been for nearly a century the medical world’s label for someone who passes along an ailment without being sick themselves. It’s also a term for anybody out there in cyberspace who deliberately and maliciously infects innocent computers with viruses. There’s even a hip-hop group named after her, and a comic book supervillian.

Oops! There goes the dinner bell!

See…there are worse things than that dry turkey, that gummy stuffing, that leaden pumpkin pie, so stop complaining…

…and go wash your hands.

The Thirteenth Child

The Opprobrium of Mother Leeds—or The Umbilical Cord of the Jersey Devil (inspired by the legend of the Jersey Devil) – Vintage Depression glass candy jar; antique hand-forged fish hook; tissue paper; black thread; theatrical blood; red paint; white glue; floral wire; rotted burlap; hemp twine; dried leaf; dried pine branches and pine cones; sand

Come closer round the fire, kiddies—have I got a Halloween tale for you…

A long, long time ago—near on three-hundred years past—in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey – a lonely, desolate sweep of coarse sand and dense forest – there lived a woman known as Mother Leeds. She and her husband (a drunken lout if ever there was one) and their twelve children (guess there wasn’t much else to do in-between brewin’ up ‘em batches of moonshine) called a single, ramshackle cabin home. Life was hard enough scrounging up food sufficient to feed her current brood, then Mother Leeds once again discovered herself “with child”. Maddened at the forthcoming so-called blessed event, Mother Leeds railed at the heavens, shouting, “Let this one be a devil!”

And thus the child was cursed, even before its birth.

Fast-forward nine months.

It was a dark and stormy night when the babe arrived. Lightning crackled, illuminating Mother Leeds’ bed. A midwife scurried about in the candlelight, while the Leeds’ children huddled in the shadows near the fire anxiously awaiting their sibling’s delivery, while Father Leeds snored off the last of the alcohol. Thunder rolled, combining with Mother Leeds’ cries, a deafening din that continued until…

…there came another cry—the cry of the newborn.

The midwife cut the umbilical cord and held the infant up proudly, all smiles. “A boy, Mrs. Leeds—a beautiful boy!”

But no sooner had those words been said then the smiles withered. The midwife frowned, it seemed that the babe was all of sudden heavier, bigger—that the babe was growing! She dropped the little one to the filthy floorboards and backed away, hand to mouth, aghast. Mother Leeds, sweaty and exhausted, drew herself up on her elbows, trying to see, while her other offspring stared, whimpering.

Then those whimpers turned to screams.

Mother Leeds’ thirteenth child was changing, metamorphosing, mutating, right before their very eyes! A devil she’d wished for; a devil she’d received.

The babe uncurled. Pink skin turned dark and leathery. Wings, like those of a great bat, sprouted. Gnarled horns budded from either side of a lengthening skull. Little fingers elongated, lethal claws pushing their way from each tip. Feet became hoofs. Sharp teeth grew from bloody gums, filling in the animal-like muzzle the creature now possessed. Its eyes blinked, its irises glowing hellfire red, its pupils thin, black slits.

It stood.

It stretched.

It turned.

It took in its family, one by one, until those infernal eyes caught its mother in their sights.

There came an inhuman howl—and it leapt!

Carnage ensued.

Those bestial talons tore through flesh, snapped bones, decapitated, dismembered, and disemboweled.

Its work of familicide finished, the creature went to the fireplace. It spread its wings, and with a leap and a bound it flapped its way straight up the chimney and into the storm.

And ever since then, it’s called the Pine Barrens home.

Sightings are still reported.

For three centuries there are those unfortunate few who claim to have encountered it. For three centuries strange sounds have be heard in the Barrens at night—unnatural sounds—eerie wailings, uncanny cries. For three centuries weird hoof prints have been found, in mud, in snow. For three centuries dogs, horses, and cows in its territory, have vanished, or been found slaughtered, half-eaten. For three centuries it has never been caught, never been captured.

It.

Mother Leeds’ thirteenth child.

It.

The Jersey Devil.

Yup, it’s still out there…

…somewhere.

And if you listen real hard, maybe you’ll hear…

Wait!

What was that?

An inhuman howl?

A guttural growl?

A stomp of hoofs?

A flap of wings?

Silence.

Guess it was nothing.

But… then again…

So, be careful when you’re trick-or-treating this Halloween, kiddies…

…’cause the devil just might get you if you don’t watch out!

Beware the Autumn People

The Autumn People (inspired by Ray Bradbury’s 1962 novel, Something Wicked This Way Comes) – Old wooden book box; autumn leaves; dried autumn foliage; thorn branches; cracked pomegranate piece with seeds; pine cones; plant pods; rusted tacks; hemp twine; hand-tinted print of old-fashioned carnival/skull clouds; altered art pieces—Green Town Public Library card, paper wasp, Mr. Dark silhouettes, old typewriter quote, ticket to Mr. Dark’s Pandemonium Carnival

By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.

Carnivals stop coming before Labor Day, everybody knows that. They’re summertime revels—merry-go-rounds and Ferris wheels and cotton candy and hot dogs and lemonade, balloons and games of chance with gimcrack plastic prizes on the midway—the perfect way to celebrate the longest days of the year, the liberation from the schoolroom, the clear, wide, sultry afternoons that melt into cooling twilights as the sun descends, then into breezy nights of glaring lights, loud tinny music, and booming fireworks.

Yes, all of that ends as soon as there’s a hint of autumn in the air. That season brings with it crisp evenings, the smell of freshly picked apples, the scents of dying leaves and chimney smoke; the days grow shorter, darkness begins its reign, and Halloween is fast approaching.

But some years, in some places, Halloween comes early.

The ear heeds it first, the rhythmic click-clack of the train as it draws near, a black serpentine silhouette in the night. Then the nose takes in the bittersweet black clouds of coal smoke. Next the eyes catch the engine’s lamp, round and white and as bright as the moon; a moon those billowing black clouds of coal smoke are obscuring. A strange, unexplainable frisson of fear runs up the spine as the plaintive wail of a calliope—a siren’s song—sounds.

The carnival is coming.

Mr. Dark’s Pandemonium Carnival.

A fair like no other.

Whereas other carnivals are sources of merriment, of jollity, of laughter and screams of delight, feeding its gluttonous attendants with the thrills and chills and spills of a more innocuous, ingenuous type, this one feeds off of you, your friends, family and neighbors until there’s nothing left but dry husks, like corn stalks left to rot in the farmer’s field.

Mr. Dark and his entourage—the Dust Witch, the Illustrated Man, Mademoiselle Tarot, even the Most Beautiful Woman in the World—know your deepest, darkest secrets.

What would you trade for the fulfillment of your fondest wish?

You there, portly matron—what would you give to be a fine-looking, svelte filly again, a feast for any man’s eye?

And what about you, the faded football hero—wouldn’t you like one last chance to prove yourself, to make that winning touchdown? All hail the conquering hero!

And you, old man—what would you offer in return for another taste of youth, of strength in those limbs, of a restoration of your masculine virility?

And you, son—wouldn’t you like to be older? Wouldn’t you like to be a man, to know what men and women do behind locked doors while the children sleep?

They can smell your yearnings, they salivate at the thought of your unrequited desires.

After all, most men jump at the chance to give up everything for nothing, and there’s nothing we’re so careless with as our own immortal souls.

So, step right up…

Visit the Egyptian Mirror Maze, constructed to trick the eye, boggle the mind, as you see yourself, your faults and shortcomings reflected back ten thousand times!

Ascend high in the Monster Montgolfier Balloon! Catch a glimpse of your town from God’s perspective; so quaint, so orderly from above—so ripe, so fetid, so foul from within!

Take a ride on the carousel! Choose your steed! How many years do you want to gain by going forward? How many years do you want to lose by going in reverse?

A flash of early-autumn lightning reveals Mr. Dark for who—and what—he is, as a bleached skull materializes from beneath the skin.

His minions scuttle in the dust, in the must, and fallen leaves, seeking out any morsel of your soul you’ve left behind, gorging themselves on your pangs of regret and remorse.

And when they’re finished here, like any good carnival, they’ll pull up stakes, pack up and move on—so, beware of the train that arrives in the night; beware of the carnival that sets up tent after summer’s end…

But most of all…

…beware of what you wish for…

…you might just get it.

Happy autumn to you all.