The Wizard of Halloween

By Nolan Carlson

What is that eerie shrieking coming from Spider Hollow night after night? People in Logan cover their ears and tremble. Does it have anything to do with that old hermit and his band of cats living there? Rumors about the old man run rampant. No one has befriended him in all of the years he has lived in Spider Hollow. He was old when he entered the hollow and that was over seventy years ago. Only a boy named Ben Parsons knows the truth. He has befriended him. And because of this the old hermit revealed his secret and granted him happiness if only he truly believes. He has not revealed this secret during the one hundred forty years of his life. Ben is shocked and fearful at first, but the amazing events finally reveals the truth about the old man and his band of cats. The truth is that the old hermit is truly the Wizard of Halloween!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nolan Carlson
• Release date: Jul 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476054902

Nolan Carlson

Dr. Carlson has lived in Kansas all of his life except for two years in the military sericve. He was a teacher for 14 years and a school counselor for 10 years. He has written 27 novels and has had 17 published. His books have been published by Berkeley Publishing Group of New York. His books have been featured in the Troll Book Club and sold abroad. Recent books have been favorably reviewed in Book List in Chicago. His Summer & Shiner series have won numerous awards. He is now published by Vinspire Publishing in South Carolina. His latest book, The Wizard of Halloween, has been published by Smashwords and Create Space (POD). All of the Summer & Shiner books are in the accelerated reading program. Throughout the last 20 years he has visited over 200 schools in four states giving talks on his books, reading, and writing.

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THE WIZARD OF HALLOWEEN

By Nolan Carlson

Published by Nolan Carlson at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Nolan Carlson

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The person using the street of Logan was Lionel Harmer with his rat terrier, Bonny, at his side. Lionel roamed the streets no matter what the weather was like. He never seemed to suffer from the heat, as did everyone else. His hazy mind didn’t seem to notice. Ovals of sweat darkened his faded work shirt. He always walked slumped, peering at the ground, looking for the lost items of the townspeople. Bonny was growing old and gray hair sprinkled throughout the large black spots on her sides. Her eyesight was almost gone. If it were not for Lionel’s comforting, distinct smell, Bonny would have been lost.

***

And that night on the outskirts of Logan: A wispy veil of gray smoke filtered upward through the branches of Spider Hollow. An owl ruffled its feathers nervously swinging its head from side to side peering through glowing eyes. The wind swept through the treetops singing a mournful melody. A makeshift, clapboard shack of discarded wood leaned feebly to one side in a clearing of hard-packed earth. Dim candlelight peeked through spaces in the tarpaper and walls. A campfire setting a few yards from the door leaped and licked like bright tongues into the night. An unearthly shriek came from the shack slipping into the blackness. It cut through the night traveling to the hills beyond only to be heard once more in an echo. Shadows of swooping beings danced about the firelight. The shadows moved from side to side distorted, looming. The owl fell from its lofty perch its huge wings flapping. A jackrabbit sat frozen with fright its ears perked, its nose twitching furiously as the piercing sounds continued. A regal buck deer reared its head bolting in terror trampling the grass before it. The full moon sent shafts of light through the branched ceiling. It lit the tall grass moving and swaying in the light breeze.

The screams continued leaking from the tops of the branches, then settling back over the scene much like the smoke.

…And beneath the sound there was a raspy cackling of an old man…an old hermit…Moss Lathrop!

The townspeople of Logan peeked uneasily from behind drawn blinds looking toward the evil hollow in the distance. Shivers of terror trail up their bodies. They rub their arms feeling chilled. The night was hot and sticky. Some of them clamped their hands over their ears to stop the sound. Men turned up radios, rustled their newspapers, and rocked back and forth in their chairs. It hovers over all of them like a clammy blanket. The eyes of the town’s children are large as they huddle closer to one another for protection. They have all heard the ghostly tales ever since they were very young. The adults tell them: If they don’t behave, don’t go to bed when told to, don’t eat the rest of their oatmeal, the old hermit in Spider Hollow will come and get them. He will carry them away and they will never be seen again. The cries heard in the night are proof that some children are getting their just reward. How else could you justify such fearful sounds? This trick worked when warnings and occasional spankings failed.

Even though the children had never seen him they feared the crazy old hermit and his band of cats to the marrow of their bones.

No one knew exactly when he first came to live in the hollow. It had happened before any of them could remember. Grandparents had been told the tale from their parents. It went something like this: "One cold, blustery autumn day before All Saints Day better known as Halloween, when the clouds raced black and menacing overhead and a feeling of fear was in the air, Thomas Markley walked along the dirt road ‘southa town’. He looked up taking note of the threatening weather. At once he spied a feathery puff of smoke sifting gently through the tightly woven branches of Spider Hollow. At first, he thought it might be a hunter roasting a quail or pheasant. It was the season for such game, after all. Being a curious man he pushed back the high weeds bordering the road and went into the hollow. Darkness surrounded him. He felt the dampness of the soil soak through his boots and stockings. Boldly and foolishly, he trudged on stumbling now and then on a vine, stubbing his toe on a rock hidden beneath the tangle of tall grasses. After a walk of a mile he heard a gurgling of water. His eyes searched out a small stream winding its way through the hollow only yards from where he stood. The water was clear and shallow and ran sweeping and swift in tiny, cascading waterfalls.

The man wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand and leaned forward to drink. An ear-shattering scream exploded around him. He grabbed his ears.

Looking up, he saw a man so old he appeared ancient. Twenty or more cats surrounded him. They were lurking, slinking, cowering. Some were afraid, some attacked, and some remained cautious peering directly at him. The old man bent forward petting their bony backs. And then as the man watched, pressing his hands to his ears, he witnessed the strangest and most horrifying sight of his life.

The tellers of the tale, at this point, wag their heads solemnly for there is little left to tell. It seems that this first witness to Moss Lathrop was only able to come to this part each time before he started to tremble refusing to go on. And try as he may, Thomas Markley, through the passing of the years of his life, would never talk beyond this point. People who knew the man have told that it must have been a truly horrifying sight for the once happy man turned surly and withdrawn. He took on a strange nervous tic and his handsome raven-winged hair turned snow-white.

That happened over seventy years ago. The man went to his grave with the secret of Spider Hollow locked within his soul. From the day he had stepped foot into that hollow his life had been a terrible string of bad luck and heartbreak. He had a long series of crop failures even as his neighbors’ crops flourished healthy and productive. His pond’s water became stagnant and his cows dried up. The girl he was in love with and hoped to marry chose another. He spent the rest of his long life alone, bitter, and brooding. Some have even sworn that a black cloud hovered over his roof until the day he died.

What then of the old man in the hollow? If he were old when Thomas Markley discovered him and that was over seventy years ago how could he still be living? He should have died years and years ago. But the truth is, the gray smoke is still seen filtering out through the branches. Even today some have seen Moss Lathrop late at night beneath the full of the moon. His hair and beard are long and scraggly. He is seen rummaging through the town dump with a band of cats as companions.

And what about his name? How was he come to be called Moss Lathrop? No one has claimed to know neither him nor where he came from. The most common explanation is that his first name, Moss, was given to him because he lived in the damp bowels of the hollow where moss flourishes. And his last name, Lathrop, because he lived on Elijah Lathrop’s property. Old Elijah, in his last will and testament, wisely ordered that the old hermit be left alone on that property until his death. Elijah feared that any disturbance might cause doom for his remaining relatives and trouble for the entire town.

So it is that the old hermit was left alone with his cats to this very day. Perhaps, the old man’s long life would have ended quite naturally and uneventfully had it not been for a series of unusual events and a boy named Ben Parsons.

Chapter One

My name is Ben Parsons. On that hot summer day many years ago I pulled a forked elm limb behind me in the August dust. A trail of little ditches, never quite catching my heels stretched the five miles from home to Spider Hollow. Air hung in hot wavy patches ahead of me. Clouds of dust settled back to earth behind my dragging feet. A rabbit skittered across the road. A crow, picking peacefully at an ear of corn, flew to safety. The wind blew in hot puffs. Little whirlpools of dust danced about.

I was twelve years old back then and neither the hot sun nor the dust-filled air lowered my spirits. I was happy with the thought of a day with my friend, Moss Lathrop. I always looked forward to the trip to Spider Hollow where the trees’ branches wove together making a mysterious, webbed ceiling. The ground was cool and damp and the leaves grew green and lush. A stream twisted its way twenty feet from Moss Lathrop’s shack. I wanted to sink my bare feet into the cold running water.

I had told Ma I was going exploring today. It was a small, white fib. I never told anyone about my visits to Moss Lathrop’s shack.

My skin was brown because I loved the outdoors. During the summer I never wore a shirt or shoes. My hair was sun-streaked yellow. Shinnying up a tree was routine to me. Catching frogs, collecting rocks, twine and rusty nails were some of my interests. A pocketknife was kept sharp for whittling, cutting fish line and digging briars out of my hands.

I always explored alone. If I wanted to chase a frog, skip rocks in the creek, hunt arrowheads, smell a wild flower, read under a tree, or be a mutineer, I had only myself to convince.

I had found Moss Lathrop’s shack on one of my exploring outings. For years I had heard whispers from the townspeople about the scary old man who lived alone in Spider Hollow with no company except for stray cats. Stories went from him being a scratchy-voiced monster who stole bloodless corpses to a mad demon that stirred brews under the full moon.

At last, I came to a lane at the side of the road. It wound its way deep into the dark hollow. Dropping the limb, I was quickly swallowed up by the shrubs and plants. Spreading an opening with my hands, I walked toward the clearing. A cool breeze swept across my hot skin. The smell of greens came to my nose and I knew I was near Moss’s shack. I waded into the cold stream. Cupping the water in my hands, I splashed my arms and chest. Poking my head beneath the water, I drank with long thirsty gulps. Flinging my head out of the