Opening Invocation
𐕣 Incantation XIII 𐕣
“Every season whispers. Some scream.”
⟬☾⟡⛤⟡☽⟭
Every year, as the August sun begins its slow surrender, I feel it again: the crack in the air, the rustle in the leaves, the scent of something older than memory. While others chase pumpkin spice and sweaters, I chase something far stranger: the portal between the ordinary and the uncanny.
From August 29th to November 1st, my days blur into ritual. Films become sacraments. Candles and soaps become spell components. Decorations transform my world into a stage set for the macabre.
I call this season not just autumn, but The Autumn Book of Dark Shadows – a living grimoire of the memories, obsessions, and enchantments that have shaped me since childhood. Each page is not written in ink, but in the marrow of memory, and every year, I turn to the pages again.
Page I: Autumn on the Farm
𐕣 Incantation XIII 𐕣
“In cornfields deep, where shadows creep, The harvest hides what the children seek.”
⟬☾♄✶♄☽⟭
✎ “The shadows on the corn stalks were taller than me.”
I was a child among barns, fields, and the hiss of wind sweeping through cornstalks. It was there that I first believed in dark shadows – not metaphorical ones, but entities that seemed to linger just beyond my sight.
The farm at dusk was not peaceful. It was alive with something unseen: footsteps in the leaf piles, whispers between the hay bales, strange lights shimmering at the tree line. At six years old, I knew autumn was magical, but I also knew it could be dangerous.
Page II: Michael Myers
𐕣 Incantation XLVII 𐕣
“The Shape walks slow, yet never sleeps.
He waits, he waits, he waits.”
⟬☾⛧†⛧☽⟭
✎ “1978. Halloween. My initiation into terror. My first horror movie.”
Halloween devastated me the first time I saw it. Free HBO. Eight years old. Alone. True story.
Michael Myers did not just frighten me. He rewired me. That pale mask, that steady walk – it was as if the shadows outside my window had finally taken shape. To this day, I sometimes half-expect to look out into my yard on a cool October night and see him, standing there, silent, inevitable.
It was not fear alone that bound me to him. It was obsession. That film transformed me from a scared little kid into a lifelong adult horror devotee.
✎ “It was the Boogeyman.”
Page III: Hocus Pocus
𐕣 Incantation VIII 𐕣
“By candle’s flame, the black fire burns,
The sisters rise, the wheel returns.”
⟬☾☿✶☿☽⟭
✎ “The first bell toll of Samhain.”
1993 brought Hocus Pocus, and with it, a ritual. Every August 29th, it is the first film I play. It is my autumn incantation, a spell to unlock the doorway into Halloween.
It is campy, yes, but it is also pure enchantment. The cobblestone streets, the black flame candle, the witches who never die. It all is Halloween, bottled into a perfect brew. And sometimes, I let myself slip into the fantasy that I am one of the characters, living in Salem, where magic is always waiting.
Page IV: Trick ’r Treat
𐕣 Incantation XXIX 𐕣
“Keep the rules, or blood will flow,
Sam is watching, this you know.”
⟬☾⛓◯⛓☽⟭
✎ “Sam is the keeper of the rules.”
Immediately after Hocus Pocus comes Trick ’r Treat. The ritual is precise. One film summons the whimsy; the other locks in the dread.
Trick ’r Treat is not just a movie—it is folklore. It feels older than it is, stitched together from campfire tales and the bloodied pages of graphic novels. It reminds me that Halloween has rules, and that those rules are sacred. Break them, and you pay the price.
Page V: Decorations on Cypress Street
𐕣 Incantation XCIV 𐕣
“Gravestones rise, the fog rolls in,
A haunted house, where fears begin.”
⟬☾⌂✶⌂☽⟭
✎ “Spooky House, loud whispers, candle glow.”
As a young adult, I claimed a house on Cypress Street and turned it into a legend. Every October, our ¾-acre yard became a theater of shadows. Gravestones rose from the ground, fog machines breathed like dragons, skeletons rattled in the trees. The neighborhood christened us The Spooky House.
There is a certain magic in creating not just decorations, but an atmosphere—a place where children screamed in delight, and adults lingered, remembering what it felt like to believe.
Page VI: Candles & Soaps
𐕣 Incantation LXII 𐕣
“Apple’s bite and pumpkin flame,
Scented smoke, the spirits claim.”
⟬☾╎✶╎☽⟭
✎ “Aromas are portals to another dimension.”
If visuals conjure the world, scents are what bind it. Autumn arrives in my home through wicks and wax. Bath & Body Works becomes my co-conspirator.
Pumpkin Clove. Ghoul Friend. Wicked Vanilla Woods. These are not just fragrances. They are spells that seep into the walls, lingering long after October ends. I burn them as though they are offerings to the season itself.
Page VII: Music of the Shadows
𐕣 Incantation III 𐕣
“Strike the keys, the violins cry,
Ghosts awaken when echoes fly.”
⟬☾♩†♭☽⟭
✎ “Every October has a soundtrack.”
The days and nights are scored with soundtracks: Carpenter’s synthesizers, Goblin’s prog-horror riffs. But when I want to descend deeper, I turn to Midnight Syndicate and Nox Arcana.
Their gothic instrumentals are not background. They are invocations. They transform ordinary rooms into haunted cathedrals, backyards into graveyards, kitchens into candlelit chapels of shadow. Their music is the heartbeat of my October rituals.
The Final Page: Samhain’s Threshold
𐕣 Incantation LXXVII 𐕣
“On All Hallows, the veil grows thin,
The shadows close, but call me in.”
†☾⚰†⚰☽†
✎ “Nov 1: the book closes, but the shadows remain.”
And then, as fast as it came, the season ends. November 1st arrives, and the veil closes. But not without residue.
Every year, as I walk away from October, I carry with me the sense that I have touched something eternal. Childhood, horror, enchantment, scent, music – they are more than nostalgia. They are proof that I have lived in two worlds: the ordinary and the haunted.
That is what The Autumn Book of Dark Shadows is for me: not just memory, not just obsession, but survival. It is the ritual that makes the mundane endurable.
And I will turn its pages again, year after year, until the shadows finally come for me.
Hallowed Be Samhain,
Scott 🎃
