Tales for Halloween

The season changed quite suddenly. One minute, I enjoyed the summer sun, falling asleep on a warm beach to the sound of the ocean. The next minute the cold rains came, plunging the season into Autumn. My mental confusion at the abrupt change only catalyzed the shivering my body felt. Autumn pounced upon me like a black cat crossing my path—shocking—so many things to do.

But instead of working, the drop in temperatures and the calendar flip to October brought to mind frost on the pumpkin. The change in light illuminated spider webs in the corners of my porch. A black snake sunned itself on the sidewalk by my mailbox, giving me a fright and causing my skin to crawl. All of these events brought to mind Halloween, and my fancy turned to ghosts and goblins and all the spookiness in which we revel during October.

I did what every other boiled-wool-socks-in-trench-boots writer would do, I turned to the classics, reading The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle, both by Washington Irving, one of the earliest American writers to make international fame. The English especially liked his stories, but then his predecessors were famous English essayists. They championed Irving, perceiving him as their own. He lived from 1783 to 1859, a pivotal time when there were few benchmarks to meet and few competitors on the American literary landscape.

His stories must have been pervasive in American society because in my grandfather’s house, built around the turn of the 20th century, the tiles surrounding his hearth depicted the story of Rip Van Winkle. For me the story blends with my grandfather, who enjoyed an ale or two. I can easily envision him sitting by the fire, roasting chestnuts and telling stories. The tile artisans may have had that scene in mind.

Irving still lived in a time when story telling was a physical event, like a play, when a storyteller enthralled his audience with verse. And part of that pleasure was in building a story—slowly. He deviated from his plot and meandered, giving side notes and history of characters. The storyteller’s opinions snuck into the tale hinting at what might come. That slow build served a purpose, one we fail to value today. Storytelling has become a visual reading experience often enjoyed only by the solitary reader. There is no audience, no shared experience for the teller and the listener(s). Those of us who write short stories are instructed to—get to the point. Make the kill on the first page, don’t provide boring backstory and keep building suspense.

In moderation, some backstory adds to our plot. If we know little about the characters’ history, how are we to provide the reader with authenticity? How can readers enjoy that pivotal moment, when all that comes before are pivotal moments? Irving’s meandering serves a purpose I wish we appreciated. We must remember the physical aspects of storytelling; the pauses, the inflections, the raised eyebrows and hunched shoulders and when a finger to the lips and a whisper invoked a squeal from those listening.

When I think of stories read to others, the classics come to mind, like those who read “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” every year. But I think that there is a reason that we turn to the classics when we read aloud. Unlike today’s stories, they were written for that purpose. We must remember that there is no set of rules in creative writing. It just has to be a great story, and getting there can be an enjoyable meander.

Do you read stories to your children and grandchildren? What are your favorite Halloween stories and why are they your favorites?