“And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

Shall be lifted—nevermore!”  (Poe, 1845)

A year is a year in a year and it always is. Call it arbitrary; 365 days and one more every four years. It’s not a perfect system as nothing hardly ever is. Divide it by twelve and you’ve got your months, divide it by four and you’ve got your seasons. No matter what calendar, journal, or pocketbook you look at, the wheel of the year will still keep turning. In a way it is one of the most comforting things I can think of, the reliable process of the ebb and flow of time, the whole complex composition of this speeding rock in space keeps chugging forward by living and dying, growing and wilting, waxing and waning.

The end of October brings with it the rattling crunch of fallen leaves, those who went out in blazing jewel-colored glory, muted to schlumps and slushing as they dissolve into the ever-growing puddles taking over cobbled stones and muddy paths alike. Reflections of this scene flicker all around us this time of year, as the world, much like the last glowing embers of a resilient hearth, hangs suspended in between light and dark. There is something about this time that puts everything in limbo—sort of like that moment when you lock your eyes with the beady black ones of a Raven, only for it to inevitably croak ‘nevermore’—making it feel almost like the universe is stretching a rubber band that’s just about to snap.

There’s a silence that grows with the farewell of sunlight hours, which makes it very easy to imagine why this time of year is associated with spooky things creeping and crawling among us. In fact, many of you, dear readers, may be dressing up as ghosts or witches or whatever makes the hairs at the nape of your neck tingle with fright, and heading out to Halloween parties to meet up with your fellow ghouls. The modern holiday of Halloween has its roots all the way in an ancient Celtic religion’s calendar festival called Samhain, when the veil between worlds was believed to be at its thinnest, and the gods would play tricks on humans. For the most part, the Halloween we’re familiar with today, is considered pretty jolly and lighthearted, where fright is fun and exhilarating. In a sense that is probably as healthy as it gets. Not all fear is a foe, and not all deaths are the end. Yet, there is a flip side to the type of spookiness that makes your heart pound and adrenaline coat your veins. It’s the kind of fear present in the poems of Edgar Allan Poe; the kind of fear that springs from our own minds, slowly, but surely consuming us from within—unless, of course, it’s let out, and put to bed six feet under.

No matter what or who you believe in, it does seem like mother nature provides us with a rather fitting stage to rehearse the most macabre scenes our fears create; not to mention she’s offered to clean up the cast party mess, taking it with her as the final flicker of late Autumn warmth yields to the bone-chilling will of frostbitten windows and cheek nipping weather. It’s like the last chance to look all the things that peck at your mind, like the incessant Raven from Poe’s poem –only repeating the same tired, worn out mantras of insecurities, regret, guilt, and hopelessness—safely with the lights still on.

After the spooks have retired to their haunts and the earth is frozen to the touch, we can breathe in cool, fresh, air, and soothe the haywire nerves our bodies dance to. In the darkness, under the ever-present gray of sky, grey of street, grey of snow by the highway…We shape and shift and collect again. Under the cover of the long winter months, we patch up the rooms in our minds, previously inhabited by our fears, coaxed out by October in a show of pumpkin lit porches and haunting tales. We rebuild, redecorate, slumber in safe hibernation; nagging terror stripped from its footholds in our hearts, bodies, and minds, by the brisk turn of the year, reliable and pleasant, whispering…” You shall never wake as you were—Nevermore.”

Come Spring again, you’ll yawn and stretch, feeling lighter for a bit, legs trying to carry the new weight of being. A birth of a new year, a birth of a new cycle; they demand we slumber, deliberate, and ponder. So, take a comfy seat, set up your choice of beverage, and dive into BTSB’s Halloween edition full of freaky, creepy, mystical, spooky, scare-goodness: If you’d like to get a dose of adrenaline going, we have a selection of unnervingly ominous poetry with Emma Mileva touching on panic, Anceliga Andström speaking sweetly to death, Anthony Herman raving on love (‘cause what’s scarier than love?), Sara Penttinen twisting with thoughts, and Henna Houttu resisting the urge to run. If short stories are more your cup of tea, worry not, as Annika O’Connor provides us with a tantalizingly blood-curling take on the hunter and prey, Anceliga Andström tells tales of light steps and creaking floorboards, Ilona Lähteenmäki shows us the terrifying loneliness of beginning again, and last but not least, Robi Vuokko serves up a good old villain origin story, but watch out for the twist! In addition to all this fiction, we’ve got something for those of you, who prefer a scary dose of reality as Henna Houttu writes thoughtfully about the nitty-gritty details involved in the marketing of Halloween costumes. If, on the other hand, you’d like to take this spooky time to introduce yourself to an often-misunderstood tool of divination, I welcome you to wander over to an article on Astrology by yours truly.

And if this October leaves your chill-seeking, thrill-craving, scare-loving soul yearning for more, there’s no need to fret. Next October will be here in a turn of the wheel, faster than you can say ‘Nevermore’.