Halloween Witch Quotes

I was born on the night of Samhain, when the barrier between the worlds is whisper-thin and when magic, old magic, sings its heady and sweet song to anyone who cares to hear it.

Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,— For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

Real life... Witches: Wiccan practitioners. Werewolves: rare strain of rabies. Zombies: Prions/Plague. Vampires: Hemophilia/Porphyria

Haunt an old house. Ask for a treat. Laugh like a witch. Lick something sweet. Offer a trick. Wander a maze. Echo a boo. Exclaim the phrase— Normal's unnatural on Halloween!

I feel the nights stretching away thousands long behind the days till they reach the darkness where all of me is ancestor.

Halloween shadows played upon the walls of the houses. In the sky the Halloween moon raced in and out of the clouds. The Halloween wind was blowing, not a blasting of wind but a right-sized swelling, falling, and gushing of wind. It was a lovely and exciting night, exactly the kind of night Halloween should be.

...just because I don't have on a silly black costume and carry a silly broom and wear a silly black hat, doesn't mean that I'm not a witch. I'm a witch all the time and not just on Halloween.

Treats and tricks. Witch broomsticks. Jack-o-lanterns Lick their lips. Crows and cats. Vampire bats. Capes and fangs And pointed hats. Werewolves howl. Phantoms prowl. Halloween’s Upon us now.

Jagged needle, wicked lies From under the skin, pluck evil eyes. Destiny change from pain and cold Now that you pay in blood and soul.

It is Halloween,” he explains coyly. “I wanted to come out as something beautiful. None of this witch stuff for me. My God, don’t we spend our whole life as witches?

Most people live their lives laying prostrate before a false god, waiting for a cue to rise. There are no cues, only decisions. Shall I have dessert? Shall I have the best of the wine? Shall I love the person next to me? They can all be brought to your table. Rise, I say, rise and look within to the truth, to the light, and tell it your decision.

Mr. Crossley suddenly wondered why he was why he was worrying about the note. It was only a joke, after all. He cleared his throat. Everyone looked up hopefully. 'Somebody,' said Mr. Crossley, 'seems to have sent me a Halloween message.' And he read out the note: 'SOMEONE IN THIS CLASS IS A WITCH.' 6B thought this was splendid news. Hands shot up all over the room like a bed of beansprouts. 'It's me, Mr. Crossley!' 'Mr. Crossley, I'm the witch!' 'Can I be the witch, Mr. Crossley?' 'Me, Mr. Crossley, me, me, me!

Halloween colors, less or more, are pumpkin, witch, and bloody gore.” “You must mean orange, black, and red.” “Indeed, that’s what I said.

But, stop and think. What does the word ‘witch’ truly mean?” “Why—” said Tom, and was stymied. “Wits,” said Moundshroud. “Intelligence. That’s all it means. Knowledge. So any man, or woman, with half a brain and with inclinations toward learning had his wits about him, eh? And so, anyone too smart, who didn’t watch out, was called—” “A witch!” said everyone. “And some of the smart ones, the ones with wits, pretended at magic, or dreamed themselves with ghosts and dead shufflers and ambling mummies. And if enemies dropped dead by coincidence, they took credit for it. They liked to believe they had power, but they had none, boys, none, sad and sorry, ’tis true. But

I think what you wear on Halloween is important. It says something about you--who you are and what you want to be. There's got to be a reason so many girls go around dressed as princesses and witches.

Halloween is controllable horror.

Keep calm and carry a wand.

Halloween season. The season of the witch, so many thought. And, in legend, the night when souls could return to earth... And try to linger on. But the dead weren't really returning, the living created evil.

For a witch, you certainly don’t know much about how hauntings work.

My stubborn little witch,” he said softly. “Don’t believe for a clockwork minute that you are unlovable. If I were a mortal, a man not doomed to walk the earth as a haunted specter, I would be the first suitor in line. Please believe that.” She hiccupped. “You… you’d want to court me?” Jack laughed. “Court you? I’d follow you around like Finney and stare at you all moony-eyed. I’d spend my days fending off your other would-be suitors, my evenings charming Flossie, and my nights stealing kisses at your window.

But stop and think. What does the word with truly mean? Wits, intelligence. That’s all it means. Knowledge so any man or woman with half a brain and inclination toward learning had his wits about him, ey? And so anyone too smart who didn’t watch out, was called a witch.

On Hallows Eve, we witches meet to broil and bubble tasty treats like goblin thumbs with venom dip, crisp bat wings, and fried fingertips. We bake the loudest cackle crunch, and brew the thickest quagmire punch. Delicious are the rotting flies when sprinkled over spider pies. And, my oh my, the ogre brains all scrambled up with wolf remains! But what I love the most, it’s true, are festered boils mixed in a stew. They cook up oh so tenderly. It goes quite well with mugwort tea. So don’t be shy; the cauldron’s hot. Jump in! We witches eat a lot!

It's Halloween! It's Halloween! The moon is full and bright and we shall see that can't be seen on any other night skeletons and ghosts and ghouls, grinning goblins fighting duels, werewolves rising from their tombs, witches on their magic brooms. In masks and gowns we haunt the street and knock on doors for trick or treat. tonight we are the king and queen, for oh tonight it's Halloween!

It was a strange experience to be looking out the window of an eighteenth-century Chinese house at a seventeenth-century colonial graveyard full of people in twenty-first-century Halloween costumes. Salem, guys.

Witches cackle. Goblins growl. Spectres boo, And werewolves howl. Black cats hiss. Bats flap their wings. Mummies moan. The cold wind sings. Ogre’s roar. And crows, they caw. Vampires bahahahaha. Warlocks swish their moonlit capes. Loch Ness monsters churn the lake. Skeletons, they rattle bones While graveyards crack the old headstones. All the while the ghouls, they cry To trick-or-treaters passing by. Oh, the noise on Halloween; It makes me want to scream!

And yet there is something oddly attractive about the crowded shop window with its piles of boxes and tins, and its Hallowe'en witches in darkest chocolate and colored straw, and plump marzipan pumpkins and maple-candy skulls just glimpsed beneath the half-closed shutter. There was a scent too- a smoky scent of apples and burnt sugar, vanilla and rum and cardamom and chocolate.

Bwahahahahaha! Happy Halloweeeeen!” I turn away from the closet—where I was just in the process of trying to find a Halloween-esque outfit that’s not a costume because I fucking hate dressing up—and gawk at the creature gracing my doorway. I can’t make heads or tails of what Allie is wearing. All I see is a skintight blue bodysuit, lots of feathers, and…are those cat ears? I steal Allie’s trademark phrase by demanding, “What on God’s green planet are you supposed to be?” “I’m a cat-bird.” Then she gives me a look that says, uh-doy. “A cat bird? What is…okay…why?” “Because I couldn’t decide if I wanted to be a cat or a bird, so Sean was like, just be both, and I was like, you know what? Brilliant idea, boyfriend.” She grins at me. “I’m pretty sure he was being a smartass, but I decided to treat the suggestion as gospel.” I have to laugh. “He’s going to wish he suggested something less ridiculous, like sexy nurse, or sexy witch, or—” “Sexy ghost, sexy tree, sexy box of Kleenex.” Allie sighs. “Gee, let’s just throw the word sexy in front of any mundane noun and look! A costume! Because here’s the thing, if you want to dress like a ho-bag, why not just go as a ho-bag? You know what? I hate Halloween.

How can you make a witch itch? A: Take away her W!

An apple or two should be left on the ground, under the apple tree, to feed any wandering spirits on Halloween night.

Everything's dark, nothing is bright," the child sang, "No one can stop us on Halloween night." Evelyn smiled. "This is our night, this is our street, give us some money, or candy to eat." The

It wasn't only the boosted experiences that bothered Rant. It was dipshit kids done up as soldiers and princesses and witches. Eating cake flavored with artificial vanilla. Celebrating a harvest that didn't occur anymore. Fruit punch that came from a factory. A ritual to placate ghosts, or whatever bullshit Halloween does, practiced by people who had no awareness of that. What bothered Rant was the fake, bullshit nature of everything.

The night air gusted against my face, smelling like an absolute of fall; woodsmoke and dying leaves and the faintest bracing hint of future snow. And right below that was the scent of Thistle Grove magic, which I’ve never come across anywhere else. Spicy and earthy, as if the lingering ghost of all the incense burned by three hundred years of witches had never quite blown away. A perpetual Halloween smell, the kind that gave you the good-creepy sort of tingles.

Supernaturals is a broad term used to classify beings that include Elementals and numerous other creatures. Like what? The list is endless. Witches, Demons, Spirits, stuff like that. Wow, I commented dryly. It's like a giant Halloween party isn't it?

...As a child he had gone out for Halloween as a mummy, a vampire, a blue-and-green-swolen drowned boy, all kinds of sufferings and mutilations and perversions represented by his costumes; and looking around him he saw witches and Frankenstein monsters and scarred warty masks of all the kids running around asking for candy in the dark; and he wondered: Why must we hurt ourselves and drive stakes through our hearts and drown ourselves in order to get candy? Why couldn't we just go out and ask for it?

Halloween children bear the blessing and curse of seeing through the veil separating the visible and invisible worlds. We recall with vivid clarity the sweet embrace of that which made us. We carry it with us even when we are told by others to fear it.

permanently cobwebbed lamp posts, Nocturne Falls made no bones about what happened here. I was a little in love already. There were even old-school Halloween characters walking around taking pictures with people. I passed a witch before I’d been on the street for ten minutes.

Finney asked everyone to carve pumpkins and light them to mark the path from the crossroad to the town. The tradition caught on, and soon crossroads all over the world opened on that one night and the mortal realm was haunted by ghosts, goblins, witches, werewolves, and vampires.

When what to their curious eyes should loom, but a wicked old witch holding a broom. Her cape—how it shimmered! Her face—oh, how scary! Her hat was so pointy, it frightened the fairy! The wicked witch said, “Welcome. We have a surprise.” And the children yelled, “Run! It’s not a disguise!

had to look the word up. The definition had delighted her, and she’d hoped the girl was correct. The four Padavano sisters dressed up as witches for Halloween that year, and Charlie gleefully quoted Macbeth at them. Julia, in the height of her girlhood, with a pointed black hat on her head, knew that they were a coven of witches,

Halloween?” Sabrina Mason asked. She moved her fork around in the bright yellow macaroni on her lunch tray but didn’t take a bite. Carly Beth Caldwell sighed and shook her head. The overhead light on the lunchroom ceiling made her straight brown hair gleam. “I don’t know. A witch, maybe.” Sabrina’s mouth dropped open. “You? A witch?” “Well, why not?” Carly Beth demanded,

Look,” cried Buster. “Arthur just went into the witch’s house!” “She’ll probably put Arthur and D.W. into her oven, just like Hansel and Gretel,” said Sue Ellen. “Maybe she’s using them for weird scientific experiments,” said the Brain. “I bet she locked them in the cellar to starve,” said Buster. “Maybe we should follow him,” said Francine. “Maybe we should call the police,” said Muffy. Everyone was too scared to move.

In the history of terrible holidays, this ranks as the worst ever. Worse than the Fourth of July when Granddad showed up to see the fireworks in a kilt and insisted on singing "Flower of Scotland" instead of "America the Beautiful." Worse than the Halloween when Trudy Sherman and I both went to school dressed as Glinda the Good Witch,and she told everyone her costume was better than mine,because you could see my purple "Monday" panties through my dress AND YOU TOTALLY COULD. I'm not talking to Bridgette.She calls every day,but I ignore her.It's over. The Christmas gift I bought her,a tiny package wrapped in red-and-white striped paper,has been shoved into the bottom of my suitcase.It's a model of Pont Neuf,the oldest bridge in Paris. It was part of a model train set,and because of my poor language skills, St. Clair spent fifteen minutes convincing the shopkeeper to sell the bridge to me seperately. I hope I can return it. I've only been to the Royal Midtown 14 once,and even though I saw Hercules, Toph was there,too.And he was like, "Hey, Anna.Why won't you talk to Bridge?" and I had to run into the restroom. One of the new girls followed me in and said she thinks Toph is an insensitive douchebag motherhumping assclown,and that I shouldn't let him get to me.Which was sweet,but didn't really help.

No one religion is right for everyone, and no religion—whether it be Wicca, Buddhism, Judaism, Catholicism—is more valid than any other. Religious diversity is something that needs not only to be tolerated, but also celebrated. The good that religion was designed to teach and maintain inevitably turns to harm when one religious group claims superiority over another or tries to deny others of their constitutional right to believe in and worship the god or goddess of their choice.

He walked steadily, feeling them behind him. His stride did not falter; he pretended they weren’t there. He pretended that all was well—that those hideous things knew nothing about what he had done earlier in the night. But each pumpkin he passed nearly leapt off its porch or railing or wooden chair, expanded and morphed and throbbed as if in a funhouse mirror, and joined the procession behind him. The wind picked up, suddenly and fiercely, and construction paper decorations adorning the houses that surrounded him flapped helplessly against their doors and windows. The man ducked against the cold wind, and from the pursuing army of the jack-o’-lanterns behind him. Cardboard skeletons with fastener joints and witches with shredded yarn hair and ghosts with cotton ball sheets and black crayon eyes escaped their thumbtacks and scotch tape and newspaper twine and they flashed and danced in his face. He brushed at them desperately with his hands, attempting to tear a hole through them and escape.

I've worn a mask most of my life. Most people do. As a little girl, I covered my face with my hands, figuring if I couldn't see my father, he couldn't see me. When this didn't work, I hid behind Halloween masks: clowns and witches and Ronald McDonald. Years later, when I went to Mexico, I understood just how far a mask can take you. In the dusty streets, villagers turned themselves into jaguars, hyenas, the devil himself. For year,s I thought wearing a mask was a way to start over, become someone new. Now I know better.

Moundshroud led the Team down on their brooms over the farms where witches dropped frogs in cauldrons and stomped toads and snuffed mummy dust and cavorted in cackles. "But, stop and think. What does the word 'witch' truly mean?" "Why--" said Tom, and was stymied. "Wits," said Moundshroud. "Intelligence. That's all it means. Knowledge. So any man, or woman, with half a brain and with inclinations toward learning had his wits about him, eh? And so, anyone too smart, who didn't watch out, was called--" "A witch!" said everyone.

[on Halloween] Shaya could hear the clump-clump-clump of their mother's feet on the stairs. When she appeared in the living room doorway, neither Shaya nor Dev could speak. "Oh, gosh," Shaya finally said. "Well? What do you think?" Shaya's lips moved, but she couldn't find the words. Finally Dev uttered, "Mom, you're a… cow." "Right! So that Shaya and I could do a theme." At their blank expressions, she said. "Get it? Cowgirl… cow." Shaya finally found her voice. "Mom, you're… huge. You're huge and black and white and you have an udder.

And so, with their first public action on Halloween of 1968, the feminist activist group called W.I.T.C.H. was born. Its members donned witch costumes, replete with brooms and pointy black hats, and did a public ritual performance of hexing the New York Stock Exchange. Did it work? Well, as Gloria Steinem wrote about the incident in New York magazine, “A coven of 13 members of W.I.T.C.H. demonstrates against that bastion of white supremacy: Wall Street. The next day, the market falls five points.” (The glue that the witches added to the locks of the NYSE doors also added a bit of whammy, no doubt.)

When it came time to go trick-or-treating Buster knew which houses to skip. “Don’t go there,” he said. “They only give apples.” “Gross,” said Francine. “And don’t go to the big house on the corner,” said Buster. “That’s the witch’s house.” “My brother saw someone go in there last Halloween and he never came out.” Arthur tried not to look afraid. Arthur and his sister had trouble keeping up with the others. First D.W. got her tail caught. Then her bag broke. “You’re such a pain in the neck,” said Arthur. “D.W. must be short for Dim Wit.” But D.W. didn’t answer. Arthur turned around just in time to see her disappear into the witch’s house.

I thought of the words the old witch had used to summon the sword on previous occasions. While stepping backwards with the intent of putting the table between Thaddeus and myself, I voiced the spell aloud. “Grim dettarias, ee Duvalla swen areir!” My trusted weapon appeared from out of nowhere, the hilt grasped tight within my fingers. Without delay, I pointed the tip of the blade at my enemy. “Move away from the door and let me leave this place.” “Oh, Catherine…” “Don’t breathe that wicked name again!” I angrily ordered. Thaddeus closed his mouth, and his eyes scrunched the slightest bit, never shifting from me. “I’ll cut out your tongue if you mutter that awful name one more time,” I threatened. I interpreted his frown as a sign that he believed I would make every effort to carry out that threat.

Her new fever, her anxiety which changed itself to anger was even more of a toy to him. A part of his attention, secret until now, leaned forward to scan every pore of her Halloween face. Somehow, irresistibly, the prime thing was: nothing mattered. Life in the end seemed a prank of such size you could only stand off at this end of the corridor to note its meaningless length and its quite unnecessary height, a mountain built to such ridiculous immensities you were dwarfed in its shadow and mocking of its pomp. So with death this near he thought numbly but purely upon a billion vanities, arrivals, departures, idiot excursions of boy, boy-man, man and old-man goat. He had gathered and stacked all manner of foibles, devices, playthings of his egotism and now, between all the silly corridors of books, the toys of his life swayed. And none more grotesque than this thing named Witch Gypsy Reader-of-Dust, tickling, that’s what! just tickling the air! Fool! Didn’t she know what she was doing!

Her new fever, her anxiety which changed itself to anger was even more of a toy to him. A part of his attention, secret until now, leaned forward to scan every pore of her Halloween face. Somehow, irresistibly, the prime thing was: nothing mattered. Life in the end seemed a prank of such size you could only stand off at this end of the corridor to note its meaningless length and its quite unnecessary height, a mountain built to such ridiculous immensities you were dwarfed in its shadow and mocking of its pomp. So with death this near he thought numbly but purely upon a billion vanities, arrivals, departures, idiot excursions of boy, boy-man, man and old-man goat. He had gathered and stacked all manner of foibles, devices, playthings of his egotism and now, between all the silly corridors of books, the toys of his life swayed. And none more grotesque than this thing named Witch Gypsy Reader-of-Dust, tickling, that’s what! just tickling the air! Fool! Didn’t she know what she was doing!

Witch Mildred was invited to the wondrous Witches’ Wobble, a Halloween festivity where witches go to gobble. Her snakeskin invitation read: Feasting Starts at Eight! A Grand Buffet (with Skunk Filet!) Hopping on her broomstick, She took off from a thicket. She raced along the back roads to dodge a speeding ticket. A skeleton soon hailed her. (His bones could use some meat!) He pled, “Please! I’m so hungry, I rattle head to feet.” A jack-o’-lantern hollered, “Please take me from this wall, for some, I dread, might use my head as a soccer ball.” Soon the three encountered a ghost who was in tears. “Please take me from this graveyard. It’s much too spooky here.” A shaky, quaky mummy called, “I’m ready to collapse. Please find me a warm hearthside, for I forgot my wraps!” A bat swooped down upon them. He squeaked, “Please wait for me! I’ll go batty when the sexton bongs the bells in my belfry.” A black cat yowled, “Please take me. I need some company, for when I cross their pathways, people run from me!

I’m sorry,” said the kitty. “I’ve wrecked your broomstick ride.” “No matter,” said Witch Mildred. “We’re here. Let’s go inside!” The clock atop the castle read twenty after eight, but the promised buffet table held only emptied plates! “No eye or newt? No sautéed slug? No pickleworm pate? No casserole of cockroach! No spiderweb soufflé! Those greedy gobbling goblins left zilch for us to eat.” Said the starving skeleton, “Why don’t we trick-or-treat?” They passed a lighted cottage, from which rose song and laughter. The mummy boldly rang the bell, All others traipsing after. The children squealed and giggled as they greeted their new guests, for of all the trick-or-treaters, these costumes were the best! The hostess asked the callers to join them at their party. “Check out this spread!” the mummy said. The hostess said, “Eat hearty.” “Taffy apples! Candy corn! Purple punch, ice-cold! My tongue’s not touched such tastiness since I was six years old!” In the corner of the kitchen Witch Mildred found a mop. “I think this will do nicely while my broom is in the shop.” “May I, please?” asked Mildred, and seated her new friends. With a loud “Thank you!” away they flew, in loopy swoops and bends. That night Witch Mildred dreamed of cakes and lemonade, but far more sweet than party treats were the friendships she had made!

I think what you wear on Halloween is important. It says something about you--who you are and what you want to be. There's got to be a reason so many girls go around dressed as princesses and witches.

In 2016. We have robots on Mars and supercomputers in our pockets, and people are still afraid of the hoodoo. Yet

The ingredient list for a spell is much less interesting than the effects of the spell itself.

It would be hard to determine whether humans or non-humans have more fun at Halloween. For humans, they get the chance to dress up like vampires and werewolves, angels and devils, faeries and witches. For non-humans who are those things, they get to dress up however the hell they want.

Hurry up!” said a ghoul who started to yawn. “There’s so much to do before bedtime at dawn.” So the witches brewed up a magical potion, which set every monster and goblin in motion. They blew up balloons, and hung streamers and lights, and decorated till the wee hours of night.

They walked down each lane, avenue, and street, rang every doorbell and said, “Trick or treat!” But just when the children thought they were done, the princess said, “We’ve forgotten just one.” So they walked to the house at the top of the hill, which gave all the kids a spine-tingling thrill. They stood on the porch and were ready to knock, when they heard heavy footsteps, and a turn of the lock. When what to their curious eyes should loom, but a wicked old witch holding a broom. Her cape--how it shimmered! Her face--oh, how scary! Her hat was so pointy, it frightened the fairy! The wicked witch said, “Welcome. We have a surprise.” And the children yelled, “Run! It’s not a disguise!

They stood on the porch and were ready to knock, when they heard heavy footsteps, and a turn of the lock. When what to their curious eyes should loom, but a wicked old witch holding a broom. Her cape--how it shimmered! Her face--oh, how scary! Her hat was so pointy, it frightened the fairy! The wicked witch said, “Welcome. We have a surprise.” And the children yelled, “Run! It’s not a disguise!” The monsters were sad when the kids ran away. They wanted the children to come in and play. The wicked witch said, “We can have our own fun! Come on, little monsters, the night’s just begun!” The monsters all cheered as they danced with delight, “Happy Halloween to all-- and to all a fright night!

Why was she going to dump Tyler?” “She found out he was cheating on her with his ex.

Maya stopped briefly to light a gas lantern. As the wick flickered to life and grew bold, they crossed the parking lot and entered the forest. Dark cloaks and gas lanterns at 3:00 am. Did Halloween come early this year?

When witches go riding, And black cats are seen, The moon laughs and whispers, 'Tis near Hallowe'en. Anon.

My daughter and I can have real conversations now. I told her that I didn’t like it that the mommy in the book was a witch. That it hurt my feelings. And she looked at me matter-of-factly and said, “Mommy. I can’t read. I thought it was a Halloween book.

The whole spirit of Hallowe'en is, of course, one of "spooky" gayety and light-hearted ghastliness. Witches and ghosts run riot; corpses dance and black cats howl. "More work for the undertaker" should be the leitmotif of the evening's fun.

Scary Noises On Halloween my brothers argued about what noise would be the best for scaring trick-or-treaters. I said, “That’s easy. I can make a noise that will have them running away screaming.” My brothers all rolled their eyes and said, “Sure, Reggie. Whatever.” I said, “I can so too.” My brothers said, “Reggie, there’s no way you can make a scarier noise than us.” I said, “I bet you the last chocolate muffin I can.” They said, “You’re on.” We hid in the bushes out front. A group of trick-or-treaters came to the door. Jon said, “Mwah, ha, ha, ha!” Nothing happened. Con gave a loud witch’s cackle. Nothing happened. Don rattled a chain. Nothing happened. Lon moaned loudly. One of the trick-or-treaters looked at his watch. Ron made a creaking-door noise. Nothing happened. I farted loudly. Nothing happened. Jon said, “Is that the best you’ve got? Too bad, Reggie.” I said, “Wait for it.” Then the smell hit them and they ran away screaming (brothers AND trick-or-treaters).

Five little pumpkins sitting on a gate. The first one said, ‘Oh, my, it’s late.’ The second one said, ‘There are witches in the air.’ The third one said, ‘But I don’t care.’ The fourth one said, ‘Let’s run, let’s run!’ The fifth one said, ‘Isn’t Halloween fun?

Hey!” said Sister. “This is Crooked Lane!” “That’s right,” said Too-Tall. “We’re gonna play a few tricks on old Witch McGrizz.” “W-what sort of tricks?” asked Brother. Her gnarled, twisted old tree house loomed ahead. “First,” whispered Too-Tall, taking a roll of toilet paper from his jacket, “we’ll decorate her house with a little of this. Then maybe we’ll tie a few knots in her clothesline. Then smear some honey on her broomstick so she’ll stick to it when she tries to fly.” But before Too-Tall and his gang could start their mischief, the front door opened and a bright yellow light stabbed the darkness. And there in the doorway stood the frightening figure of old Miz McGrizz! “Aha!” she said in a gravelly voice. “I’m ready for you!” She then led the terrified cubs into a cozy living room. To their great surprise, there was a big tray of beautiful candy apples all prepared for Halloween visitors. “Mama was right,” whispered Sister to Brother. “Miz McGrizz really is a sweet, kind old person!

Shattered Silence" (aka "When Michael Calls") for that early 1970s Halloween school carnival feel. It stars a young Michael Douglas and has decidedly autumnal feel. The nostalgic/vintage Halloween also includes the classic elements of the season from ghosts made of sheets and witches flying on broomsticks to pumpkin patches, corn mazes, apple cider, apple bobbing, fall leaves, Sleepy Hollow, and the like. You might start getting inspired with some candy of your childhood with candy crate collections – 1950s, 1960s

The caterer would like to use your sideboard buffet for the skull platters, raven plates, and broomstick-style forks. The florist will provide a bouquet of black roses. The cauldron punch and batwing cups will go on the dining room table." "Menu?" Amelia requested. "We'd discussed finger food last week. What did you finally decide?" Grace ticked off the items. "All the food is easy to eat while standing," she assured Amelia. "Chicken-witch fingers, miniature goblin burgers, chocolate crescent witch hats, ghost sugar cookies, pumpkin Bundt cake, sliced caramel apples, small popcorn balls, and a big bowl of candy corn.

The theme of witches and witchcraft for me often has more to do with women’s history than with spells and magic. That women have drawn strength from controlling health—medical issues, birth issues—has also made them threatening. The same is true for “witches”—strong women in touch with the natural world. Women who can’t be controlled are often viewed as dangerous. I always find it amusing to see, even still, how many little girls dress up as witches on Halloween. There’s a pull to “our” history: brave, mysterious, powerful.

Don't have a cup of coffee this Halloween. Have a cauldron of coffee instead.

Nothing could be more agreeable than a juicy English apple- and yet here were apples mixed up with broom sticks, and witches, and old fashioned folklore and a murdered child.

It was a beautiful fall day at the soccer fields when I met Stacy for the first time. The game had just begun when she arrived carrying homemade pumpkin spice muffins with cream cheese frosting for everyone, photos of the jack-o’-lantern she had elaborately carved earlier that morning into the shape of a witch stirring a bubbling cauldron with the rising steam spelling out the word “Boo,” enough material and glue for each of the siblings not playing soccer to make adorable “easy no-sew” bat wings as a fun craft to fill their time, as well as little gift bags for every mother full of Halloween-themed wine charms and sleep masks that were embroidered with “Sleeping for a spell.” Besides her generous gifts, she also looked terrific. She was wearing the perfect fall outfit with just the right number of layers and textures and cool boots. Her hair was beautifully twisted into a loose braid casually thrown over one shoulder. While everyone sat in their lawn chair and screamed at their kid to “attack the ball,” Stacy ran up and down the sidelines taking (no doubt fabulous) photos of her son and overseeing the siblings’ craft bonanza. At this point I should also mention, in case you don’t feel bad enough about yourself, that Stacy has a full-time job outside the home. Like a really important one. I’m not sure what she does exactly, but from the thirty seconds that she slowed down long enough to talk to me, I learned that she works fifty hours a week or so and travels around the country every few days and then comes home and makes her kids pancakes in the shape of clovers for breakfast, because it’s International Clover Day or some shit like that.

It’s Halloween on Bourbon Street, and white witch Jade Calhoun is ready to party. But when a sexy spirit traps everyone in the past, she’s forced to forgo the cocktails in order to save those she loves...again.

McNaughtlebean. In truth, she only came to mind when riding our bikes past her house or at Halloween. Could I have been the first person to think of trick-or-treating at her house, dare or not?

Then there was only the sound of the rain outside in the endless blackness of the long night and, presently, the rising tones of a pitiful wailing within and without, spreading across the station, the town, and the land without end.

On the night of All Hallow's Eve party, I sew my own black gown using the Witch Sisters' chiffon fabric, and a crown made of forged iron and dove feathers from Valentine's Town. I stand at the mirror, pressing down the silky fabric along my ribs, still feeling like myself--like a rag doll, who is also a queen. Instinctively, I tug at the thread on my wrist, but beneath the seam, I feel the softness of cotton, not the crunch of dead leaves. When I was born, my insides were filled with air-puffed cotton--Dream Town cotton. But when Dr. Finkelstein kidnapped me, he replaced the cotton with dead leaves; he wanted no reminders of where I was really from. But now I have filled myself with both: cotton and dead leaves. Because although I am the queen of Halloween Town, I am also a daughter of Dream Town. Made of nightmares and dreams. A little of both.

The origin of Halloween can be traced back to the Celtic festival of Samhain. It’s a tradition held at the end of summer when sacrifices were made to the gods in Druid tradition. The adherents believed that Samhain, the god of death, scattered evil spirits during this time throughout the world to attack humans. These evil spirits play nasty tricks as soon as the dark winter and the waning of the sun set in. To escape the attack, humans would assume disguises and make themselves look like evil spirits, too. Halloween is also the favorite time of year for witches, or the advocates of Wicca. Wicca is the official religion of witchcraft. Wiccan adherents believe that on the night of October 31, the separation of physical and spiritual realities is at its thinnest and least guarded. And so, it’s the best time for those who have necromantic abilities to speak to the dead.

It must be fun being a witch,” I said. She giggled. “It definitely is. Though, anyone who identifies as a witch is one in some way. You just have to find your thing. Maybe you always find the best deals thrifting, or the weather is always nice when you make plans. Magic is everywhere. Us witches just notice it more. We harness it.

The sabbats mark the Wheel of the Year, the turning of the seasons. For Wiccans and Pagans of some other traditions, these are the spine of the Craft, and some fall on dates that are closely aligned with those of major Christian holidays: Yule, the winter festival from which we get the Twelve Days of Christmas; Ostara, the spring equinox and the source of Easter’s fertility symbols (the rabbit, the egg); Samhain,3 the time of communion with the dead, dressed up in mainstream culture as Halloween.

Each year, the church hosted a Family Fun Night in the fellowship hall as a trick-or-treating alternative for kids. Superheroes and fairy princesses were encouraged; goblins and zombies were not allowed through the doors. Bernice didn't know when it had happened, but evidently, many of the church folk in Savage Crossing believed Halloween was the gateway to Hell.... Bernice looked forward to giving candy to the cute neighborhood kids dressed as green-faced witches and vampires wearing plastic fangs. Kids (and church people) would be better off if they understood superheroes weren't real, and monsters often lurked in unexpected places.

I'll take you and BAKE you. A witch came sneaky~sneaky~sneaky. "I'll take you and bake you," she said. And she gave it a pat. The pumpkin tried to look very scary. But it just looked big and FAT. The witch reached for it. But--she hid instead. Girls and Boys--- searching, seeking, peeking.

They’d heard it all, the dead: crying children, wailing widows, confessions, condemnations, questions that they could never answer; Halloween dares, raving drunks—invoking the ghosts or just apologizing for drawing breath; would-be witches, chanting at indifferent spirits, tourists rubbing the old tombstones with paper and charcoal like curious dogs scratching at the grave to get in. Funerals, confirmations, communions, weddings, square dances, heart attacks, junior-high hand jobs, wakes gone awry, vandalism, Handel’s Messiah, a birth, a murder, eighty-three Passion plays, eighty-five Christmas pageants, a dozen brides barking over tombstones like taffeta sea lions as the best man gave it to them dog style, and now and again, couples who needed something dark and smelling of damp earth to give their sex life a jolt: the dead had heard it.

Switch Witch. Distant cousin of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, the Switch Witch comes to children’s houses on the night of Halloween and turns their candy into toys. We told Jonas he could keep his five favorite pieces of candy but should put the rest by the fireplace so that the Switch Witch could perform her magic as he slept.

She glanced at Stanhill, eyes shining with bright desire and unbridled joy. “My fiancé and I have some more kissing to do.

Being a rook meant Stanhill had the immortality of a vampire with a half measure of a vampire’s strength and speed, but it also meant he couldn’t be

too far from Hugh. Any distance too great and they would both suffer.

Love is an awful thing, isn’t it?” “Not for you, you fanged muppet. You’re blissfully happy with Delaney.

Do you remember that I’m a rook?” “No, but that would mean you’re practically a vampire.” He nodded. “Correct. And as such, I am very old. Nearly four hundred years.” He continued. “My entire life, both as human and rook, has been spent in service. I was Hugh’s valet before he turned me.

You are the best man I’ve ever known, Stanhill. It would be my great honor to marry you.

Word was, her power was old and ancient and derived from the lives of her sister witches lost in the Salem trials. Alice was the sole survivor, thanks to Elenora’s intervention.

you don’t suffer fools lightly, and it’s one of things I adore about you the most.

I don’t know what’s going to become of us after tonight, but if our time together ends this evening, I will still consider myself the luckiest man alive to have had you in my life for this long.

You kissed me three times and after each time, I forgot what had happened?” “That’s exactly right.” She nodded. “I’ll tell you what happened. Love’s true kiss in its most powerful number: three.

He took her hand, his body numb with the realization that his beloved no longer knew him.

Still, service is service.” “It is indeed. And because of that, I learned early on to watch my words. To temper my moods, to be careful in my speech. It shaped me. Hugh was never an exceedingly hard lord to serve, but we were from two different worlds. He was a peer. I was a commoner. Now that gulf between us is gone, but I cannot change the man I am.

Proctor’s body was thrown in the crevice on Gallows Hill like the rest of the victims. Also, like the bodies of many of the victims, his was supposed to have been rescued under cover of night by family to be buried anonymously and respectfully on his own land. Which today is a median on an off-ramp.

Do you know what surprised me most when I came to this country? The way witches are glorified. People here dress up as us for Halloween. They fill their TV shows and social media profiles with our aesthetics. It's like they've forgotten that, for most of human history, witches were something to mutilate, not emulate. Women who were seen as outcasts—too queer, too brown, too unwell...Any one of us on the margins was a target. To me, a pointy hat and a broomstick are not a cute costume; they are a reminder that, for centuries, people were brutalized under the mere assumption they might be what we actually are.