You didn't think Halloween was the end did you? It's All Hallow's DAY now!

And in the spirit of of the season we are pleased to present the leftover oddities, last minute submissions, and other various and sundry previously unseen goodies from this year's countdown!

Thanks to several artists and writers you have an assortment to enjoy, but before you dig in I want to thank each and every one of you who contributed to this event in whatever way - with story, art, advice, enthusiasm, likes, shares, views, or magic potions -- especially the crew at 13 Stories Til Halloween without which none of this would have been possible.

13 Stories Til Halloween may be done for this year, but you can read the stories from years past at any time on their website here and also here.

Come back each month to Eldritch Almanac where the tales of creepy and strange holidays that aren't Halloween continue all year long. 13 Months Til Halloween? Hmm, that one might need some work...

It's been my pleasure and privilege to be your host this year. Until next time, I'm Preternatch!

Dig deep into your trick-or-treat bag, munch down on some sweet goodness and watch out for raisins!

First a video from Dudgrick Bevins:


Next, a poem from CG Tenpenny / Obol, of Molten Poetry


by Obol

Ancient oaks lined the path. Spanish moss, grey, a subtle splash in the dusk, barely lit, torchlight, fireflies flit on their way to, turn and twist, gather the sun’s last rays and replenish their light. I pressed on, horrors surely near, certain the elder ghosts hunted. They, hidden inside the oaks, like twisted dryads, hungry for, feasting on, thin scraps of wanderers’ prayers, and this traveler’s shaking bones, oh, the jostle and clatter, amidst the icy-blood running. Young and brave, I stayed the road and reached the end. Your father’s mansion, dreadful, expansive. Pillared gates, cathedral spires, all built with blood and ire. This night, I wore my best shirt, the grey one, a button held by wire. Trousers, threadbare, so unworthy it hurt. I, the disgrace, dared ask for your hand? But we were young, foolish, and bold. Moonlight brushed my skin, a stark light in the darkness, my skin matched the pallid glint, moonlit, glimmer sharply. The iron knocker lay cold in my hand, a merest rap, cacophony, resounded in the manse. Echoing on-and-on, it birthed a heartbeat for the beast your father built. In time, the doors swung wide and I was enthralled by what dwelled within. Before me, the most beautiful sight, my soon-to-be bride, radiant, floating in a cloud of gossamer white. Your father fell ignored, there by the door. I was transfixed by your descent down the staircase, spiralling, and your bare feet peeked from the hem to the floor. Pale skin… no, fair. Your jet black mane gleamed, yet reflected no light. You looked icy and cold, like the chill of the night, but I knew better, because I felt your flames. You are molten inside, magnetic, pulling in the light, so you can use it more wisely. My heat rose at the collar. Peasant shirt, sweating through, I could have no other. I would never understand why you chose me, but the gifts you gave, you gave freely. Now I, the grey-clad peasant, like a moth, am forever drawn to your light. But, now I understand why your father wished me ill. When our fingers touched, the fires raged, caught the curtains and reached for the gate. Burn, burn we must, this is our fate. We will burn away your father’s mansion of hate, and dance into the ancient oaks to feed the fireflies for the coming day.

©️ Obol, 2018-2019.


Then some artwork by Leah Hale

Looks like you should have let sleeping three-headed dogs lie!