Because here in the Land of the North, winter is always coming, a time that separates the boys from the men. We celebrate the holidays from The Old World in the same climate from whence they sprang.
In the swirling mists of our nights, there is a sense of spirits lurking around dark corners, casting long shadows. No one narrates those tales better than the voice of The Dark Lord, James Earl Jones.
I once read aloud tales by Edgar Allen Poe on Hallow's Eve at midnight on a graveyards' hillside that overlooks the same vistas in Providence that inspired him. The night was so thick it coated every surface in the same ebon hues that tinted his very vision hundreds of years prior.
While the mists danced on the cobblestone streets, we lost a sense of time between then and now. I didn't see any ghostly white specters like in the movies, but I felt his heartbeat and heard his footsteps as we trod the very same streets he wrote about, our footsteps echoing in the night, our hearts hammering in our chests.
Halloween is almost here.
