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Whilst waiting for Mirabilis to join her for the evening, Chloë excitedly donned her special unicorn outfit with its little matching mittens. She did so love unicorns! And this evening was a very special occasion—she was going to be helping at the PnF Halloween Night as an assistant to the Master of Ceremonies! Chloë hoped the event wouldn't be too spooky. But she could look forward to curling up in her cosy, warm basket at the end of the night, with perhaps a special Halloween biscuit and bowl of milk to help send her to sleep!

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Chloë and Mirabilis hurried down to the old PnF Castle, the starting point. The tour would take place outside, so she had put on a woolly jumper underneath her unicorn costume. The castle was eerily lit and Chloë was glad of Mirabilis’s company.
It was still early, but quite a few eager pets had already assembled, happily helping themselves to mugs of cinnamon spiced hot chocolate and cookies. “I’ll get us each a drink and biscuit,” said Mirabilis.
Looking round the busy room, which was getting more crowded now, Chloë started to worry a little. She had not yet been introduced to the Master of Ceremonies and was anxious to learn what her duties as assistant would be.

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She spoke to the pet nearest to her, a rattlesnake with a wry, slightly cynical expression, looking like he didn’t really want to be there. He was accompanied by a small raven, who was excitedly clutching a trick-or-treat bag under one wing, and with the other was trying to keep his tall costume hat in place. “Excuse me,” said Chloë. “I'm supposed to be helping the Master of Ceremonies tonight and I haven’t met him. I don’t suppose you know who it is, do you?”
The rattlesnake looked amused. “Our MC has been planning a very special entrance and is remaining out of sight until then. Don't worry, he’ll be looking out for you. How about Young Allan here fetches you some hot chocolate to keep you going in the meantime?”
Reassured, Chloë said, “It’s all right, thank you very much. Mirabilis is bringing me a drink.”

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Suddenly, the lights went out! There were some gasps of dismay as the room was plunged into pitch darkness, but then the pets realised that it was intentional—the event was starting! With a frisson of anticipation, the pets craned their heads in all directions in the total blackout, unable to make out a thing.

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Then a video started playing, projected onto a blank white wall. It was a raven, wreathed in wisps of black mist, standing on a leafless branch. It opened its beak and uttered “Caw! Caw! Listen all and hear ye well! Let it be known that the raven symbolises the inextricable link between the mortal and divine, between light and darkness, piercing the veil between the worlds!"
Then a spotlight clicked on, highlighting an imposing figure, familiar to those pets belonging to various PnF Societies—for Local History, Roundabout Appreciation, Apostrophe Preservation, Lamp Post Architecture, Rail Carriage Liveries, the Philately Club and last, but not least, the Lord of the Rings—as a frequent lecturer. On this occasion he was garbed in sombre black with a top hat, and was carrying a silver-mounted walking stick.
There were times when Genghis just couldn't help himself. “Oh, didn’t you hear, Eddie?” he called out. “They won’t be needing you after all—the doctor was able to pull him through!”
With regal disdain, Edgar took no notice of the irreverent comment. “I would like you all to welcome young Chloë, who will be assisting me this evening. Chloë, would you like to join me here?”

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Briefly wishing she could stay safely in the audience with Mirabilis, Chloë shyly hastened over to Edgar, who un­ceremoniously plonked a large, ornate old book in her paws. “Can you manage that?” Edgar queried. “I may need to refer to it during the course of the night.” Turning back to the audience, he struck a pose and declaimed: “Friends, neighbours, country-pets. Lend me your ears! Tonight we are going to examine some interesting customs of ancient Samhain and Halloween. If you would all be so good as to follow me outside, we will begin our tour. Chloë and I will lead the way, and for health and safety reasons the castle custodian will bring up the rear to make sure none of you get lost—or are snatched away by some ghostly creature on this night when the barrier separating the inhabitants of Heaven and Earth is said to become transparent.”
“What if the custodian gets snatched away, Eddie?” asked Genghis, hoping to wind his friend up a little. But Edgar merely chuckled darkly and said, “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” and moved towards the exit, gesturing to everypet to follow. Genghis, quietly muttering, “Oh, do stop showing off!”, and reflecting that if the audience should happen to dwindle, it might be for reasons other than supernatural ones, accompanied Young Allan outside.

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Edgar stopped at the castle gate and waited for them all to catch up. “Let’s have all the young­sters up here with me,” he said. “Well done for making an effort with your costumes! That’s the spirit! Don't eat all your Hallow­een sweets at once! Your mothers won’t want to be up all night looking after cases of tummy ache, will they? Now, do you know why I’ve assembled you young ones at the front?”
“So that we can see everything properly,” chirped Young Allan.
“Not quite. It’s so I can keep my eye on you all!” said Edgar with some­what ponder­ous jocular­ity, waggling a wing-tip at the group. Young Allan giggled happily, and after a moment, so did most of the other young pets.
But just then there was a piercing shriek from the polar bear cub, agitatedly pointing a trembling paw upwards. “It’s a g-g-ghost!” he whimpered.
Edgar hastened to reassure the fright­ened pet. “Don’t be alarmed—it’s just a special effect. There will be a few of those tonight! Why don’t you hold Chloë’s paw? She’ll look after you.” Chloë hurried forward, shift­ing the book into her left paw, and held out her right to the bear cub, who clutched it gratefully.
“I told you he was too young,” grumbled the cub’s Dad, at the back of the crowd. “There’ll be night­mares tonight.”
“Well, I don’t know—youngsters seem to enjoy the scarin­ess of Halloween,” responded Mama Bear. “It helps them cope with experienc­ing fear, in a safe environment.”

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Their next stop was outside a grave­yard. “Why I was given the honour of leading this special event?” Edgar cast a minatory glare in Genghis’s direction, but the rattle­snake kept his reflections about the inscrutable workings of committees to himself, and Edgar continued. “It is because the raven is an example of a psycho­pomp. Now, you’d need to be as well-read as I am to know what that means—”
“Psychopath, did you say?” queried Genghis innocently.
“Pomp! I said psychopomp!”
“Oh, as in ‘pompous’?”
Unexpectedly, Edgar said, “Yes. But it’s from the Greek psukhopompos—psukhē meaning ‘soul’ and pompos ‘conductor’. In Greek myth­ology a psycho­pomp is a conductor, or guide, of souls to the after­world. The animal king­dom is well represent­ed in literat­ure in this regard, particularly birds, and especially ravens.” Edgar paused. “And I suppose crows,” he added very quietly, and carried on immediately. “We are now going to enter the grave­yard.” He paused and whispered to the polar bear cub, “Don’t be alarmed—if you see something spooky, it’s because I'm making it happen at that point.”

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Edgar led the way onto a patch of bare land, decorated with fake grave­stones. “We associate full moons with the spookiest time of year, but the moon is full about only every 19 years at Halloween. The next will be in 2039!
“I have been researching popular culture,” continued Edgar. (From somewhere in the group of pets a snort was just audible.) “The 1962 song Monster Mash was banned by the BBC from being played on air in the UK because it was considered too morbid. It didn't become a ‘graveyard smash’ [you could almost hear the inverted commas as Edgar said this] until it was re-released in 1973.”
Edgar operated a hidden lever and the grave­yard transformed. A mist billowed out over the ground, and the earth on top of the graves trembled, then fell to the side as skeletal remains rose from beneath, slowly waving bony limbs. The pets gasped and recoiled at the realism. Chloë gave the bear cub a reassuring paw squeeze, but he seemed to have overcome his fear and was watching awestruck.

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They moved on to a spooky tunnel! Bats were flying over­­head, there were eerie groan­­ing noises and very large spiders would sudden­­ly des­cend from the roof!
“Samhain, which means ‘summer’s end’, was a pre-Christian Celtic festival over 2000 years ago," explain­ed Edgar. "The Celts, that is, people in lands that are now known as England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland and north­ern France, believed that the dead return­­ed to earth that night, and so they lit bon­­fires and donned masks and costumes to ward off the ghosts. The feast recognis­ed the last day of the autumn harvest and spirits cross­­ing over, since they believed the veil between the living and spirit world grew thin­nest at that time.
"The practice is therefore older than Christianity.
"Later in the mediaeval period, the customs of Sam­hain merged with All Saints’ Day (1st November) as this tied in nicely with some of the ghoul­­ish aspects of Sam­hain. The night before thus became known as All Saints’ Eve or All Hallows’ Eve.
"Today Samhain is still actively observed by neo-Pagans and Wiccans.

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“Black cats have always been a Hallow­een symbol—but why? In ancient Western culture it was believed that a witch could trans­­form herself into a black cat at will. In many countries they are thought of as bring­­ing bad luck. Even these days it’s more difficult for black cats to be adopt­ed than any other type of cat. But in some countries they are a mark of good luck and pros­perity. The ancient Egypt­ians wor­ship­p­ed all cats. In Japan, black cats have for centuries been a symbol for good luck. In the UK it is consider­ed a harbinger of good fortune if a black cat crosses your path, and in Italy to see a cat sneeze is also an auspicious omen.
"The word "witch" comes from the Old English wicce [pro­­nounced ‘witcheh’]. The plural of wicce is wiccan and both come from the word wiccian, mean­­ing 'to cast a spell'. Wiccan were seen in a posit­ive light, with their opinions being high­ly respected.
"The word 'wizard' on the other hand comes from Old English for 'wise', and it only became the male equiv­alent of 'witch' after 1825."

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“Did you know pumpkins are a fruit, not a vegetable?
"Illinois produces up to five times more pump­kins than any other US state.
“The world record for the fastest carving of a pump­kin face belongs to a human in New York with a time of just 16 seconds.
“The practice of carving root vegetables originat­ed in Ireland, where large turnips were used. The name, jack-o'-lantern, comes from an Irish folk­tale about a man named Stingy Jack, who invited the Devil to have a drink with him. Living up to his name for stingi­ness, Jack avoid­ed pay­ing for his drink by trick­ing the Devil into turn­ing him­self into a coin to be used to buy their drinks. But once the Devil did so, Jack put the coin into his pocket next to a silver cross, which stopped the Devil from chang­ing back into his real form.
"After further trickery, Stingy Jack died. God would not allow him into heaven. The Devil would not allow him into hell but sent him off into the black night with only a lump of burn­­ing coal to light his way. Jack put the coal into a carved-out turnip and, legend has it, has been roam­­ing the Earth with it ever since. The Irish referred to this ghostly figure as Jack-o’-Lantern.
“When immigrants from Ireland arrived in America, they brought the custom of making jack-o’-lanterns with them, and found the pump­­kin, native to the USA, was perfect for the job."

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"The world's heaviest ever jack-o'-lantern weigh­ed 2684 pounds [1217 kg], and was grown in Germany in 2021. It was etched with a face, stars and herald­ic scenes.
"In Germany, people hide their knives on Hallow­een night to stop injuries to return­ing spirits.
"A very old Halloween custom common in Britain was the ‘fire straw’. Farmers would waft about torches of straw whilst reciting spells to ward off evil spirits and keep the crops good. In Scotland, the spell was done by waving a lit stick in the air. The red end of the stick represent­ed the rowan berry, then thought to pro­tect against witch­craft, as was the colour red in itself.
Rowan tree and red thread
To gar the witches dance their dead:
a spell said to make witches dance to the death.”

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“The Celts thought the veil between liv­ing and dead was thin­nest at this time of year. They lit bon­fires and donned costumes and masks to trick the spirits into moving on.
“Bonfires are traditionally linked to Bonfire Night on 5 November, but are also common at Hallow­een, and their past is also a little spooky. The word ‘bonfire’ comes from late Middle English ‘bone fire’ as the Celts threw animal bones into the flames to ward off the evil spirits.”

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“Here’s an opportunity for you young­sters to have some­thing to keep you going! Now, why are black and orange link­ed to Hallow­een? Orange signals the autumn harvest, whilst black symbol­ises darkness­­—­­a remind­er that Hallow­een was a festival mark­ing the boundaries between life and death.
“Candy corn, a popular Halloween treat in the USA, was called ‘chicken feed’ when it first came out. The company sold it in boxes with a rooster on the front, to appeal to America's agri­cultural roots. The recipe has remain­ed largely un­changed since the 1880s.”
Edgar shuffled his notes around. “I’ve never seen this series of films because they sound remark­ably un­pleasant, but my research has shown that in the original film called Halloween the mask worn by the lead char­act­er has an interest­ing story. For the first 1978 film, two masks were bought from a magic shop: a clown mask and one of Captain Kirk of Star Trek fame. The clown mask was thought quite scary, but the Kirk mask, paint­ed white, with larger eye holes, was consider­ed chilling­ly perfect.”

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“We have reached the Haunted House!" announc­ed Edgar in sepul­chral tones. He ceased his ghoul­ish accent to continue with his talk. “A tradition­al Hallow­een bread in Ireland, barm­brack, is a sweet loaf con­tain­ing raisins, as well as a small hidden toy or ring. As with the classic king cake at Mardi Gras which con­tains a hidden plastic gift, and the silver six­pence in a British Christ­mas plum pudding, trad­ition dic­tates that the person who finds the item will come into good fortune. That’s assuming they don't choke on the trinket!
“Halloween was also known for centuries in parts of Yorkshire as Cake Night, as it was traditional, in Ripon in partic­ular, to make cakes on the last night of October.
“So, on we go, to the Haunted House!”

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“Apple bobbing (or dooking in Scotland and ducking in northern England) was a popular Halloween game in Britain from the time of the Roman occupa­tion. Come on, young­sters, give it a go! Alternatively, there are toffee apples hang­ing from a line: try and get a bite out of one.
“Women used to throw apple peels over a shoulder, hoping to see their future husband’s initials in the pattern they made when they landed. More spookily, women would place a candle in front of a mirror in a dark room, and while eating an apple, look for their future husband’s face to appear in the glass. Now, Robert Burns in 1785 wrote a 28-verse poem called Halloween.” Edgar’s auditors grew very appre­hens­ive as he shuffl­ed his papers to find the one he wanted. “He refers to this practice :
Wee Jennie to her grannie says,
"Will ye go wi' me, grannie?
I'll eat the apple at the glass
I gat frae Uncle Johnnie.
“So—ladies,” continued Edgar, “if you’ve given up hope of finding romance in your life­—­and you do of course need to make an effort to make the most of yourself­—­perhaps try a new fur-style, spruce yourself up a bit, maybe take a course to improve your cooking­—­but if all else fails, you could try the apple peel thing or the mirror thing.” Oblivious to the dagger glares from the female pets present, which, if looks could kill, would have felled Edgar on the spot, the raven indicated that they would move on.

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Edgar led the group into a dark room, lit only by a couple of small coal fires and a few jack-o’-lanterns. “It was very differ­ent before TV. People enter­tained at home. In the early 1900s USA Hallow­een cards to friends and relatives were sent to the same extent as Christ­mas cards were.
“In middle class Victorian England, a pump­kin would be left on a friend’s door­step­—­carved and lit—as part of an elab­orate invitation to a Hallow­een party. These parties would be totally differ­ent from ours today. In the late 19th century, Victorian England, from Queen Victoria down, was hugely interest­ed in psychic phenom­ena, the super­natural and spiritual­ism. Hallow­een parties were whim­sical but could also be very dark events.
“Guests arriving at the host’s home would find the house in black­ness apart from a few low-burning fire­places and jack-o’-lanterns. Metal snakes position­ed over fires would appear to be dancing. As part of the proceed­ings, a seance might be held. At the start of the party, the host and host­ess might stay conceal­ed in the dark­ness for a time, dressed head to toe in black cloaks. On emerging, hosts might scare their guests by offer­ing them a fake hand to shake. Imagine that—” Edgar held up a glove tightly stuffed with saw­dust, then pretend­ed to shake hands with it using his walking stick. To his shock, the glove exploded! His audience assumed this was part of the “act” and the young­sters cheered loudly. Edgar patted down a few singed feathers and, a little put out, gestured to his auditors that they would now move on.

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Edgar led his audience underground. "Where did trick-or-treating start?" he enquired at large.
"America!" came back in a chorus.
"Actually, no," said Edgar. "It isn't uniquely American. Trick-or-treating has exist­ed since media­eval times in Britain in the form of guising, mumming and souling.
"For centuries a popular Hallow­een trad­ition across Britain was ‘souling’. Young people went from house to house and would promise to pray for the family's deceased loved ones in exchange for an especially-made spiced cake­—­a soul cake.
"In the Middle Ages, 'mummers' dressed up as ghosts and demons, went door-to-door perform­ing songs and scenes from plays in exchange for food and drink. This custom is also believed to be a pre­cursor of trick-or-treating.
In mediaeval times a practice still known as 'guising' in Scotland involved young people dress­ing up, or disguising in costumes going door-to-door for food or money in exchange for per­form­ing songs, poems or other 'tricks'.
"Sweets, chocolate or candy were not given to trick-or-treaters until the 1950s. Before then, child­ren would be given cake, fruit, nuts, coins and little wooden toys. But mid-1950s, candy makers realised this could be some­thing big, and made a concerted market­ing effort for Halloween, now the high point of their year."

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Edgar led the way to the foot of the stairs. “There are three flights of stairs with a land­ing between each one. I’ll lead the way. Expect the un­expected!” He started up, and cautiously, some hold­ing paws, the pets proceed­ed in his wake.
The lights went out! A collective gasp went up as the pets shudder­ed in appre­hension in the darkness.
A ghoul, highlighted by a spotlight, rear­ed up against the balusters to the side making loud groan­ing noises. Scream­ing and moan­ing was coming from all directions and the lights would inter­mittently come on very low, then go out again.
Urged on by the custodian, the pets continued slow­ly up the stairs. In the spells of dark­ness they would feel things brush­ing against them or they would be touch­ed on the head or paw by some­thing unseen! Large spiders would descend rapidl­y from the ceil­ing, then ascend again, or a bat might lazily flap very close to them. There were sighs of relief when they reach­ed the first landing, but further shocks were in store! At the end of the land­ing each little group of pets got a fright when some figures appeared to jump out at them but then they realised they were seeing them­selves in a mirror!
Everypet started warily up the next flight of stairs. All at once there was a rushing whirl­wind and a large fierce bat came shriek­ing out of the vortex!

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The pets started up the final flight of stairs, enjoy­ing the lovely horrors but on tenter­hooks about the frights in store!
A ghost wafted across the top of the stairs, then dis­appeared in a z-z-zap of energy, leaving discs of light float­ing in the air.
At the end, Edgar said, "Is everyone still present and correct? Good, good. It's now time to go back to the castle for hot choco­late and bis­cuits to wind down. Thank you for coming, everypet!"

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Safely back at the castle, Edgar retriev­ed his book and thank­ed Chloe for her kind help.
“Yes, well done, Chloé. And well done, Eddie,” said Genghis. “That was—” he stopped him­self just in time from say­ing “better than I expected” — “interesting. Food for thought. I saw you in a whole new light. You were very good with the younger element.”

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“Anyway,” remarked Edgar, “I saved the best till last. My research high­lighted something of interest for you, Young Allan. For centuries in the ancient towns and villages of Corn­wall in south-west England, they had a trad­ition of ‘Allan Day’. It was a region­al name for All Hallows’ Eve. Allan apples were large, red apples purchas­ed from the market, polish­ed to a shine and then given to family and friends as a good luck token. It was deem­ed a high treat by child­ren. Allan­tide was the feast day of St Allan of Quimper in the 6th century CE.”
His young nephew was thrilled, and hopped up and down, flap­ping his wings and almost up­setting his trick-or-treat bag. “I have my own day!” he chirped.

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“By the way, thank you for sparing us the rendition of the 28-verse Burns poem,” said Genghis, with genuine gratitude.
“Oh, that,” said Edgar. “I would have read it, but it was practic­ally all in the Scots tongue and I could barely under­stand it. Burns didn’t half go on at times! A much more fitting Hallow­een poem in my humble opinion is—”
“We know!” interrupted Genghis. The ‘best poem ever written’! Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore——”
Young Allan giggled.

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Chloë and Mirabilis happily made their way back clutch­ing very full trick-or-treat bags and look­ing for­ward to telling anyone who hadn't been to the Event how amaz­ing it had been.
"The best part was the exploding glove," said Mirabilis.
"Poor Edgar!" said Chloë. "Don't tell anyone, but some­pet con­fess­ed to me that it was a practical joke that went a bit wrong!"
"Who dunnit?" queried a grinning Mirabilis, and Chloë whisper­ed a name in her ear.
It had been quite a tiring evening and Chloë was look­ing for­ward to curl­ing up in her basket that night!
Mirabilis has eaten her fill of treats! Please select another pet as visitor, so it can scrounge lots of kookies!