Editor's note: Grade 8 students participated in a captivating short story unit featuring the haunting works of Edgar Allan Poe's The Raven and Shirley Jackson's The Lottery. Exploring these classic tales provided students with insights into the art of storytelling and the use of symbolism, foreshadowing and imagery. To apply these newfound skills, students crafted their own "spooky" stories, focusing on incorporating sensory details to create immersive narratives. The following was written by Vivian Matuch ’28.

Adeline tossed another log on the fire, gazing at the diminishing pile in the town square. The Samhain sky was dark and full of clouds, as though even the stars had hid themselves away. The children had long since come back from trick-or-treating, their costumes left in attics and cellars to gather dust and cobwebs for another year. Halloween - the gentle, juvenile rite - was over. It was Samhain that the Witch demanded.

           

“That’ll never last us the night,” Mrs. Philipa muttered. She turned to Addy. “Where’s your brother? Wasn’t he supposed to chop the wood?”

           

“Rowan’s not been himself recently,” Addy replied, hesitantly.

           

“When has Rowan ever been himself? That kid … Well, we’d best get it over with quickly.” The older woman pushed a curling lock of white hair behind one ear and brushed off her jeans. She lit a flashlight and strode to the old well, still standing in the middle of the square despite the hundred years of plumbing innovations. Above the well, a tarnished silver bell hung from an iron chain. Three times she yanked the cord, letting each ring resonate for a few seconds before sounding the next. 

           

As the last ring faded, she turned off the flashlight. Addy watched as every other electric light in the town was turned off. The town stood in an unnatural silence, like that of a cat before it leaps upon its prey. 

           

From the darkness surrounding the square, townsfolk entered one by one. Each carried a carven gourd - a turnip, as tradition demanded, rather than a pumpkin. Last of all, the ghostly figure of Rowan materialized from shadow, his auburn hair faintly visible. 

           

Mrs. Philipa was first, raising her turnip from where it lay on the cracked stone cobbles. With a single, adroit movement, she scooped the carven gourd through the tongues of flame. Fire leapt within it in a flash as the oil pooled within caught alight. As she stepped back into the shadow, her carven words were painted in flame: Mary Philipa.

 

Addy went next, nearly burning her hand as she lit her lantern.

 

The townsfolk followed, each alone, and soon the darkness was filled with burning names. Noah. Willow. Grace.

 

Rowan stood at the end of the line, holding his lantern aloft, above the flames. Addy waited for him to light it.

 

“What are we doing here?” he asked. His voice was soft, yet it echoed in the silence of the square. Addy glanced at Mrs. Philipa, fear shadowing confusion. No one spoke during Samhain. “Each lantern holds our names in flame, to frighten off the … Witch? Does anyone believe in this anymore?”

 

“What’s he doing?” whispered a child. “He’s not supposed to tal--” The boy clapped a hand over his mouth.

 

“Hmm?” Rowan asked. “Anyone? How many years have the Samhain fires burnt?” He was speaking louder now, his voice rising in the horrid stillness with a fluctuating cadence. “All scorn the Witch and all scorn her Circle, yet when last was either sighted? I say to you that the Witch is dead, and likely has been, for centuries.”

 

With that, he hurled his gourd into the flames.

 

It landed in the center of the fire, dampening it for an instant before it flared as the oil caught alight. Burning words, faintly visible, read the name of Rowan Rain.

 

Silent shock shook through the townsfolk. Addy pulled her own lantern closer to her chest, feeling herself fill with dread. “Rowan!” she called, barely knowing that she spoke. “Rowan, this is madness, the Witch will--”

 

Her brother, silhouetted behind the flames, looked at her as one newly awakened. “Oh, the Witch, you say? The Witch will get me?” With the last word, he grinned. “See if she does. See if she does, when you follow me to the Circle on this Samhain night.” He grimaced. “I wish it wasn’t you.”

 

He heaved the last of the wood onto the bonfire with a loud thump, sending sparks flying. The smell of smoke pervaded everything.

 

He turned, just as he had a thousand nights in this square, and sauntered slowly down the street. Addy stood, frozen, her name still burning in her hand. Her breath came quick and shallow, her feet desperately trying to meld with the cobblestone.

 

With an innocent silence, Mrs. Philipa nudged her after Rowan. This was Addy’s problem now. 

 

Adeline broke into a run, nervous energy charging her limbs. She wanted to run the other way, run far away, to where the electric lights still glowed and no one had ever heard of the Witch. But what could she do? “Rowan?” she called out. “Rowan!”

 

She was at the wall now; it wasn’t a large town, but it was famous for its wall. It had been built centuries ago, to keep out the Witch. 

 

It was as dark as pitch. Even the moon disappeared for Samhain. Addy held her lantern aloft, her burning words lighting the way. 

 

Rowan’s silhouette stood beyond the gate, waiting. Wind tossed his crimson hair, but made no sound in the branches of the trees. Addy crept forward, the rusty hinges complaining as she swung the doors shut behind her.

 

“Ah, Adeline. I knew you’d come around. I knew you’d follow me. This time.” He sounded calm. Too calm. 

 

“Rowan, I don’t know what you’re--”

 

“Come, take my hand. Let’s walk together, in the dark.” Rowan reached out a pale hand, bloodied with reflected firelight. He took Addy’s hand without waiting for her to respond, and took a step away from the town. 

 

His feet made no sound as they walked, hand in hand, down the cobblestone.

 

“We’ve done this before. Do you remember?” he asked.

 

Mute, Addy shook her head.

 

“Mother told us to gather wood for a campfire. We went out an hour before sunset, don’t you remember?” His voice was rising, now, getting louder and louder in the quiet, quiet wood.

 

Of course Addy remembered. For three months, her brother had not spoken a word. “No.”

 

“You were angry with me. I … what did I do? Ah, that was it. I made fun of your name. Add-a-line.”

 

Addy turned on him. “That was a long time ago. We were just kids. What does it have to do with tonight? Why would you bring the Witch upon us?”

 

“Ah, but it matters more than anything right now. I was lost in the woods. But I found something… important.”

 

A branch snapped beneath Addy’s boot and she realized they’d left the main road. Her head whipped around, fearing that on this night of nights he had led her miles, in his madness. But the road was right behind them, no more than twenty paces.

 

“You found the Witch, didn’t you?” she whispered. “You found the Witch.”

 

This far from the town, the wind regained its vigor. Branches rattled together; leaves hissed and whispered. Rowan switched on a flashlight as the town disappeared behind them, and Addy saw the crimson tail of a fox as it dove into the underbrush.

 

At length, Rowan replied. “Or the Witch found me.”

 

With that, he turned a bend in the darkness. The path tumbled steeply into a cliff, trees and shrubbery falling away like the shadows of the town. 

 

“Go on,” he prodded, pushing Addy with the same slight, authoritarian poke as Mrs. Philipa had. “I’ll make it as quick as I can.” 

 

Addy’s name disappeared into the wind as her lantern went out.