By JP BROWN
The Jack-O-Lantern stood alone in the dark, on a table on the porch, illuminated only by the light it emanated and the soft glow of the porch light. All was quite at number 66, and there would be no trick or treat here, come the witching hour. Not the kind you would expect, or wish for, at any rate. He held a silent and evil vigil in the dark night, as if brooding about some heinous dark deed of his own, in the long forgotten annals of darkness and despair. The wind rustled softly through the leaves out in the yard, and danced a sad waltz with the drooping branches of the willow. The moon shone round and full on this Friday in October, and evil stretched its all penetrating tendrils into every corner of the black night. A dog howled in the distance; a long, lonely and eerie howl. As if the creature was as lost and forsaken as some human souls on the All Hallows Eve. And the Jack-O-Lantern still smiled his grim smile to himself in dark anticipation of ill fortune a head, as the clock ticked on towards a dark and dreary midnight.