All Hallow's Eve

*Guess what's new? An all new retelling written for English class in the style of Poe (or so I hope) at the bottom!*


The night was pitch black and tempest-filled. Lightning crackled across the sky, and booming thunder echoed throughout the heavens. Lillian sat tensely in her cozy bed, clutching the bedclothes, unable to sleep. She felt something calling her, pulling her out into the night.

Half an hour passed; the call grew stronger, more urgent. At last, Lillian rose, and the call seemed…relieved. Lillian wrapped a dressing gown around her pajama clad form, and tiptoed down the hall, carefully avoiding the creaky board so as not to wake the friend with whom she shared the apartment.

Having donned coat, hat, and gloves, Lillian grabbed her keys and headed for her red Volvo. She started the car and pulled onto the road. In what seemed to be only a matter of minutes, she reached the shore of a misty lake. The rain had abated, and with it the thunder and lightning. Some of the dark gray clouds had parted, revealing the sickly light of a full, pale yellow moon. Lillian almost expected to hear the howling of a pack of wolves as she got out of the Volvo.

Instead, she saw a furrow in the mist, and the boat that was creating it floated towards her. Lillian, with a few misgivings, climbed into it, and it immediately began to cross the lake. Lillian had a vague recollection that something like this had happened before, but she consciously pushed this thought away as completely preposterous. Lillian Jones wasn’t one to go out on midnight adventure! Then why was she here now? She should be home sleeping, and yet, she was here…

A tingling sensation born of fear ran up her spine. For there, on the shore she was fast approaching, stood a graveyard at the top of a rise. It was bordered by a very homey looking picket fence and was chock full of eerie tombstones. The boat ran aground, and became lodged in the sand. Even if Lillian had a paddle with which to propel the boat, it would have been of no use. The vessel was stuck, and could not be pulled free of the encumbering sand. Lillian trembled, and began to walk around the lake, as fast and as close to the shore as she could.

Within a hundred yards, she was effectively blocked from shore by a close-knit grove of weeping willows. As she skirted it, it seemed only to grow larger. Before long, the grove had chased her right up the slope to the edge of the graveyard proper. The white-washed picket fence which bordered it sported an open gate just in front of her. Oh, what the hell? thought Lillian, and walked through the gateway.




And now, the all new version, that actually has an ending (of sorts).



I had never thought myself to be subject to the whims of spirits, nor indeed thought myself sensitive to spirits at all. Yet one gloomy night I felt myself drawn to the graveyard where three years previously my fiancé had been interred in the family vault subsequent to his untimely death.

My dearest Reginald always was fond of performing impressive feats of horsemanship and at last his fondness did him in mere weeks prior to our scheduled matrimonial. It must have run in the family, for today his younger brother followed his fatal example.

I have of late become engaged again, and my new fiancé and I lingered at Reginald’s family’s mansion until the moon was high as we did our best to offer comfort and condolence. Our efforts were largely in vain, working no change in the forlorn company or the dismal house.

Having returned home and bid my fiancé good night, I retired to my chambers with the intention of preparing for sleep. Here I was mistaken, for though I went through my customary evening rituals, I felt no satisfaction in them and desired only to be sure that Reginald was at peace. Some small, elusive part of me realized that this was not the case and that I was being manipulated, but that part was hidden most efficiently, most like through the machinations of Reginald’s envious spirit.

So it was that I found myself at the stables, garbed in riding clothes. I impatiently ordered my mare to be saddled, mounting her at the soonest instant possible, and away we dashed. I kept the mare at a trot along the forest trails until the clouds burst, pelting us with heavy water droplets. Through thunder, lightning, and rising fog, I lost all sense of direction, when at last the rain slackened and the mare’s halting steps came to a complete stop.

I dismounted and peered through the slowly dissipating fog; I discovered that I had come clear around the back of the graveyard, to the small lake which borders it. I let go the reins in wonder as I saw a bark gliding silently toward me across the water. The mare whinnied and bolted for home, and I boarded the boat without a second thought.

At once the bark proceeded to the shore from whence it had come. I trembled and glanced up at the clearing sky, where hung the full yellow moon leering at me. The boat pitched as it reached the shore and I stepped out on the soggy land. I entered the graveyard with trepidation and picked my way to the crypt that belonged to Reginald’s family. It was large and ornate, not unlike that of the famous family Capulet, but most importantly, it was not locked, due to the interment to take place on the morrow.

I fearfully turned the handle and fairly flew down the stairs before I could lose my nerve. Dusky moonlight filtered in through the small, latticed windows set around the ground level and lit my path among the sarcophagi to Reginald’s resting place.

I remembered standing by that space, partially hidden in a small niche, nearly playing the part of a widow. Perhaps Reginald and I were merely destined never to married, but how I longed for it…

A sound aroused me from my reverie; quickly I spun on my heel to face it. There was another creak and I spun again, and there, there I could see, directly in front of me, Reginald’s coffin beginning to fall. It tumbled to the floor, landing quite close to me, and the impact jarred it open.

* * *

I must have fainted, as I so often do. This time I hit my head, I think, for the back of it is crusted with blood. I am unable to process my observations quickly. Late evening shadows are slanting into the crypt. Can the funeral be over? How could they not have noticed me? Oh, I see, I’m in this niche. A niche that once I thought of as comforting, supportive. Now I see it has been my undoing.

I hasten to the door of the crypt. It is locked, of course. The funeral is over; no one else needs to come in. But I need to get out. I run back to the niche. Reginald’s remains are no longer scattered over the floor; his coffin is back in its place. His spirit torments me, taunts me. I shriek and claw at the walls. I whimper and plead, “Let me out!”