I watched his long shadow disappear into the evening gloom.  Curled oak leaves, disturbed by his passage,  leapt upon the October air and followed him into the night like plague-ridden rats and children - behind a piper intent on collecting an immense unpaid debt.

     A chill passed over the somber Victorian porches of lower Poe street and scorched a wintry promise into my unshaven face.  I struggled to decipher his message without exhuming painful memories.

     "No." I whispered to myself, "He is no preacher."  Though somehow his black overcoat and somber formality had channeled him into one of my many prejudices.  But who was he?  Why was he so interested in my Scottish roots?  How could he know of my children and my terrible sins?  Sinister.   I must find out more.

     A cloud-shrouded moon rose over the foothills as I walked briskly towards the public library, tears running down and burning my raw face.  It was nearly closing time, but I skirted the edge of Cillin cemetery instead of taking my usual shortcut between the pioneer gravestones.  Even so, the mist and shadows darkened my soul more completely with each step.  A bloated rat crossed my path and stopped directly in front of a weathered slab.  The rounded stone appeared to be a natural geological formation, except that the moonlight revealed the crude outline of a face and a vertical pattern of scratches.

    It was 10 minutes past closing time when I arrived at Hawthorne memorial library, but I had to know. "Please!"  I mouthed to the Librarian as I rapped on the oak door.

    "What do you need?  We're closed!"  She shouted through the glass.

    "Please."  I pleaded, "I need a book about Scottish Immigrants and I need to know about Halloween.  It's sort of.. an emergency."

    Ms. Klemp opened the door  a crack and whispered, "I  really shouldn't let you in this late Mr. Bandruidh, people will talk!"

    She pulled the creaky door open and motioned for me to come in.

    "It's funny you should ask", she smiled, "I was going through the stacks a few minutes ago and this fell out from behind some books in the children's section."  She produced  a musty leather-bound volume.  The cover was torn off.  But recalling Ms. Klemp's explanation of the title page still gives me the shivers.

    "But what does that have to do with Halloween?"  I had asked, impatiently.

    "Samhuinn is Scotch gaelic for the festival which marked the division between summer and winter, dark and light, good and evil.  Fires were lit to guide spirits of the dead through the transition.  It was such a deeply celebrated pagan holiday that the Roman Catholics couldn't crush it, so they adopted it a 'All Souls Day' and what we now know as Halloween.  Christian fires burned on hilltops where pagan fires had burned for 1000 years.  The Irish made lanterns out of turnips to guide  'Jack' and other wandering souls caught in this netherworld.  But Scottish and Irish immigrants couldn't find turnips here in America, so they used pumpkins.  Hmm."  She squinted at the title page, "This author's name is strange too.  I don't know about the middle name here, but "Dunkin Sagart" means 'Dark warrior priest'.  Anyway, you can have this book since I don't know where it came from.  I've already checked our card catalog."

    I was far too terrified to be embarrassed by the cold sweat pouring down my face.  I managed to squeak out a hoarse "Thank you." before I grabbed the book and burst out of the door.  The smell of woodsmoke and ash singed the air.  The wind held me back as I struggled towards my house.  Icy tears blurred my vision of a blood colored moon.  I wanted to avoid Cillin graveyard, but the wind, that terrible wind was pushing me back towards it.