⠀

October 1

Somewhere deep beyond the woods you know there stands a house that should not be there. Winds whip and whirl around it, surrounding the peculiar structure in a vortex of dead leaves and twigs and other things. The shutters clang against their windows. The house is entirely dark, save for a single flickering light in the topmost room. Inside the house that should not be there, someone is reading. ⠀

• • •

The emaciated figure looks up from its book. It turns its head towards the window, looking out into a dark, restless night. It gets up from the chair, filling the room with a dry, clacking noise. To the side, the crow that was perched on top of an old bookcase rustles its feathers at the sound, its meditative reverie broken. It turns one baleful eye towards the skeletal figure now standing in front of the window, against the darkness.⠀

“Can you feel that, friend Calcifer?” it asks, its voice barely above a whisper.⠀

“Can I feel what, Osseous?” asks the crow, somewhat testily. It had been thinking about the particularly satisfying breakfast it had earlier in the morning, and it didn’t appreciate the interruption.⠀

“The Changing,” Osseous says. “The Turning. The Darkening of the Year.”

The crow makes a small croaking noise before flapping towards the window. It pecks against the glass once, twice, thrice before looking out. “Seems to be arriving earlier and earlier each year,” it says. “Are you sure?”

“Oh yes,” says Osseous, long dead, keeper of this vast library of secrets and mysteries. “I can feel it in my bones.” ⠀

And its orbits light up then, shining like beacons in the night, welcoming whatever wanders within.

“It is coming.”

October 2

Deep within the wild, windswept woods, a man is walking. Bearded and bedraggled, his layered clothing ragged and torn in places, all indicative of a long and arduous journey. Still, the man’s pace is steadfast, his steps sure. He is walking towards a certain light.

• • •

Back in the house, the librarian searches for a book.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this far into the house before,” says Calcifer. It is perched on a bony shoulder. They have both traveled a long way.

“The house is as old and vast as tales are in the history of the world and the reckoning of time.”

“What?”

“The house is very large, yes.”

“Right.”

Osseous pulls out a thin volume from a shelf, making a satisfied noise. The book looks somewhat new, an odd thing given the other offerings of the house, which include tomes that may or may not be older than the known universe. It boasts a colorful cover that almost seems to blaze in the dim surroundings. It features two figures — a man and a woman — lying comfortably in a field.

“What’s that one about, then?” asks Calcifer.

“Love and friendship, mostly,” says Osseous, grabbing the lamp on the table and walking once more out of the room. “About missed moments and seized opportunities. The ever-changing seasons of life. About endings and beginnings.”

“Doesn’t sound all that gloom and doom, to be honest,” says Calcifer, taking flight once more.

“No, it’s decidedly not. But it’s never a bad thing to have a little light against the approaching darkness.”

“I guess.”

Lamp held up, the two figures make their way back through the shadows.

At the far end of the house, there is a knock at the door.

• • •

The librarian hands the man a cup of something warm. The man has cleaned up somewhat, but still looks tired and threadbare. “Thank you, Oz,” the man says. He nods his head towards the crow resting on its usual spot at the top of the bookcase. “So he’s new.”

“To you, maybe,” mutters the crow.

“What’s your name?”

“Calcifer.”

“Lucifer?”

“Calcifer,” corrects Osseous.

“Can I call you Cal?”

“Hell no.”

The man shrugs. An awkward silence ensues.

“Well, I’ve never been one for small talk,” says the man, standing up. “Lead the way, Oz,” he says, gesturing at the librarian. “I want to see Josie and Deja.”

October 5

Somewhere beyond the woods you know, in a room deep inside a house that should not be there, someone is cackling.

“There’s a noise I wouldn’t want to hear every day,” says Calcifer the crow, his dark, shiny feathers bristling at the noise. He’s settled on a ledge by a window. Heavy raindrops splatter against it, and the glass panes rattle, occasionally, when hit by sudden gusts of wind.

“I suppose I wouldn’t want to, either,” says Osseous. The librarian is sitting in a plump, somewhat shabby-looking armchair, reading a book. Their bony hands hold a steaming cup. They look quite comfortable.
“What’s he even reading up there?”

The librarian looks at the ceiling, inclining their head to the side as if in contemplation. If the librarian had eyes, their crow companion figures, they would be closed right now. But the librarian has no eyes, not in any biological sense. Has had none for millennia, now. “Currently,” they say, “a passage about a young boy being dragged into the darkness by malevolent forces.”

Calcifer simply stares.

“Fret not,” the librarian adds, as if reading his mind. “He should be leaving by the end of the month.”
“Should?” asks Calcifer, nettled at the prospect of a longer stay.

“These sorts of things take time, sometimes.”

Calcifer picks at his feathers. It realizes that it is getting hungry and resolves to think of what to have for supper soon. “Listen,” he says, before getting too distracted, “what exactly are we doing here?”

“I apologize,” Osseous says. “I forget you have not been here long. Have not been present for the Darkening of the Year.” They put their book and beverage on a table by the chair. “I assume you know of The Things in the Vicious Void? Of Those That Dwell in the Dark?”

“Of course I know the Maleficent Monarchs, Osseous,” the crow scoffs. “I live in the middle of a forest, not under a rock.” He thinks then of the particularly fat, juicy insects that can often be found under stones and fallen logs in the surrounding woods. He really is getting rather hungry. “Anyway, what do They have to do with anything?”

The librarian stares at the crow for a beat, skeletal fingers steepled. “The Veil thins during the Turning of the Year, Calcifer,” they say. “Passage between worlds is possible. Things can get in. Things can get out. And when the Things come out of the Dark—”

“— it’s all over,” Calcifer completes the refrain. He shudders.

“There are rituals, of course,” Osseous continues. “All throughout the hallow month, certain individuals practice their certain crafts, play their certain parts. There are those who, for unknowable reasons, work to pave the way for Their coming. And there are those who work to prevent the way from ever being opened.”

Calcifer casts a suspicious eye towards the ceiling. “So he…”

“Strives to keep the way shut,” the librarian assures. “As do I, in point of fact.”

“I don’t think I get it,” the crow says, flapping its wings. He’s hungry and thus growing increasingly impatient. “You’re just a librarian, and this is a weird, creepy library in the middle of the woods. And he’s just… just some strange guy.”

“I’m Keeper of Tales, Calcifer,” Osseous says. They glance at the ceiling. “He’s Reader. Listener. Devourer. Those are our roles.”

“But to do what?”

“Tell tales,” says the Keeper, simply. “Share stories to keep the darkness at bay.”

“I got a threshold, Osseous,” says Calcifer, through a gritted beak, “I got a threshold for the nonsense I’ll take.”

Osseous gets up from their chair and walks over to the nearest bookcase. They run their thin fingers across the spines of the countless books there. “Not nonsense, friend,” they say. “Magic. Old magic. Perhaps the oldest there is. Brought forth in the earlier ages of the world when folk gathered around campfires in the night, telling tales of warning and of warding. Of healing and heeding. What we do is in that same spirit and tradition.” They gesture to the many volumes that surround the room, that indeed cover the entirety of the house — this old, strange, boundless library deep in the woods. “We share stories. We shine the light. We stave off the dark.”

Calcifer hops from one leg to the other. “So to keep it all from ending,” he says, “some weirdo has to enjoy stories about kids being tormented.”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” Osseous says. “I would say that there are fewer things more powerful than stories of children fighting back against wickedness.” They tilt their cranium to the side — the contemplative motion again. “And he’s a Reader. They are intrinsically enthusiastic about stories. They cannot help but revel in the telling.”

“Oh ho ho,” again comes the man’s voice from somewhere up in the house. “All these kids are going to get eaten.”

Silence for a spell. “He may just also be an odd, morbid man,” Osseous says, with a shrug of bone shoulders. “I confess I’m not quite sure.”

• • •

Later, the man comes down from his chambers. He finds the crow resting on a windowsill, chittering contentedly after having enjoyed a particularly long, drawn-out meal. Their skeletal companion sits, as usual, on the armchair, a large tome in their hands. Both of them look up once he enters the room. The man’s eyes are slightly damp, and there is a satisfied smile etched on his face. He is holding a book against his chest. He walks over to a circular table in the middle of the room, on which many other volumes already rest. Slowly, almost reverently, he places his book on top of a pile. He gives them both a slight nod before retiring back upstairs.

Keeper and crow look at one another. “I believe the children have defeated the darkness,” Osseous says.

Calcifer caws.

Outside, for the moment, the night is quiet and still.

October 10

In the kitchen of the house that should not be there, Osseous builds a sandwich. Resting on top of the icebox, picking at a bowl full of grains, Calcifer keeps them company.

The crow considers his companion. “Hey, Oz,” he says, between morsels. “Can I ask you something?”

“By all means.”

“How do you—” Calcifer pauses, thinking of a polite way to ask. As with most things in his life, he opts for the most direct route. “How do you eat?”

“Ah,” says the skeletal librarian, with a tilt of the cranium. “That’s a bit too personal, I fear.”

Calcifer croaks. “Yeah, I guessed.”

The man stumbles in, then. He hasn’t been seen out of his chambers for days now. His beard is longer and wilder and the dark hair on his head sticks out in every which way. He opens a cabinet, taking out a handful of containers and jars before asking Osseous to pass a couple slices of bread. He makes a hasty, haphazard sandwich that he promptly scarfs down.

“Clowns,” the man mumbles, mid-bite. “It’s probably going to be clowns. Two tales with them in a row. Can’t be a coincidence. Best be on the lookout.”

Calcifer looks up from his bowl with interest, hoping either of them will elaborate, but the man offers nothing further and Osseous simply nods in understanding. Frustratingly, they have yet to take a bite of their sandwich — it sits whole on a plate in front of them. The librarian enjoys their meals in private.

The man makes another hurried sandwich before taking his leave, going back up the stairs, back into the deeper gloom of the house.

“What was that all about, then?” Calcifer asks.

“The month wanes and the veil withers along with it,” offers the Keeper.

“Osseous. Please. Talk prose.”

“Those in the Dark Beyond cannot yet pass,” Osseous says. “But the door is ajar enough that some of their apparent power is able to slip through, furiously intent on stopping those who work to prevent their arrival.”

“Stop us how, though?” asks the crow. Calcifer isn’t quite sure when he started to consider himself part of us, but he doesn’t particularly care to question it, either.

“These forces can take form, often particular to the craft they seek to crush. Those sent to hunt Readers may take the shapes of certain elements from the stories being engaged.”

“So,” the crow says, nodding upwards, “because he’s reading about maniac killer clowns we could, at some point, be stalked by maniac killer clowns ourselves.”

“That’s a little reductive,” says Osseous. “But yes, in essence.”

Calcifer sighs, covering his head with a wing. “Please tell me you’re joking, Osseous.”

“I fear not, friend.”

“Yeah, I guessed.”

“I retire to my meal,” Osseous says, picking up their plate. “There are mechanisms in place against attacks here,” the Keeper adds, pausing at the threshold. “I wouldn’t dwell on it too deeply.”

“Sure, sure,” Calcifer says, distracted. He’s looking out the kitchen window, not sure whether the shapes he now sees are real or the product of a stimulated imagination instead. He fluffs up and shakes his feathers. Bowl in beak, he flies out of the kitchen.

And so when the tall, gaunt figures with red eyes and clawed hands step out from behind the trees and start trudging towards the house, Calcifer doesn’t see.

October 16

Somewhere far beyond the galaxies you know, there is a crack in the wall of reality. Within, far past the realms of time and space, Things lie in wait. They have been waiting for a long time.

The crack is expanding. It is not yet large enough for the Things to pass through, but, by focusing their will, they are still able to send through some small portion of their power. A force sent to aid those who would pave the way for their release.

It is happening already. Something like a dark sludge begins to ooze slowly out of the crack. Once out, it will make its way towards our world, where it will finally take shape. The advance guard from the Void.

The Things in the Dark Beyond wait, patiently. They have been waiting for a long time. Somewhere deep inside, they begin to feel a terrible hope.

• • •

Calcifer is awoken from his slumber by a tapping noise. From his vantage point high up on top of the bookcases, he notes that he is alone in the study, and wonders vaguely where Osseous could be. He looks around, trying to find the source of the sound. The crow looks towards the window on the far right side of the room, expecting to see a branch from one of the neighboring trees scratching at the glass. Instead, Calcifer sees a face. It is split in a ghastly grin, full of sharp, pointed teeth. Its eyes are huge and set far apart, glowing crimson in the darkness. Around its mouth and eyes are red markings, haphazardly drawn, looking all the world like a macabre impression of a clown.

“Uh,” the crow says.

Tap tap tap.

It taps against the glass with elongated fingers that end in sharp, cracked fingernails. The figure is so large that it has to bend itself to look through the window. It waves at Calcifer when it realizes it’s finally been noticed. Its appalling grin grows wider.

“Y’all,” the crow croaks. “Oz! Guy!” He recalls Osseous’ affirmation of there being some sort of protection around the house, but still — the crow flaps his wings and readies to take flight.

The figure at the window stops waving at him and starts pointing with eagerness. It gestures at some point beyond the opened sliding doors of the study. Towards the stairs, Calcifer guesses. An assumption soon confirmed when the man suddenly comes flying down them.

The man crashes into the bookcases in the study, books cascading from the shelves, falling on top of him and scattering to the floor. Calcifer flies quickly down to his side. The man is bruised, but breathing.

“You’re okay!” the crow says. “What’s happened‽” Looking up, he notices that the figure is no longer at the window.

The man sits up, holding his sides. “They got in,” he says, through groans. “They got in through gaps in the windows.”

Before Calcifer can ask for elaboration, something comes down the stairs. At first, he can’t understand what he sees: a tall, gaunt figure, looking very much like the one outside the window, but this one’s eyes blaze violet. It is also, the crow observes with added confusion, entirely flattened. It makes its way down the stairs in an undulating gait that would be funny if it wasn’t such a surreal sight. It is being followed by two other such creatures.

“They changed shapes to get in,” the man says, chuckling. “Clever little demon things.”

Calcifer turns towards the man, whose eyes look blurry and unfocused. “Okay, so it’s time to get up,” he says. “Time to fight? I dunno.”

The man flashes him a weary smile. “That’s not my persuasion, little bird. I’m no Fighter. I’m a Reader.”

“Okay,” says the crow. “Okay, but unless you mean to throw some books at them, I don’t think reading them a story is the answer.” The figures were walking slowly, as if they were still getting used to their new, awkward forms. Their perpetual grins, however, made them seem like they knew they had all the time in the world.

“Salwaystheanswer,” the man says.

“What?”

“Reading at them. It’s what I’m supposed to do. That’s my role. My function.” The man gets up, still looking very much dazed. “Wheresmbook?”

“What?”

“I had a book. With me. I was Reading. Must have dropped it when I was dropped. Help me find it.”

The man gets up and, preposterously, begins to look around the mess of fallen books around him, as if otherworldly beings weren’t making their way towards them at the moment.

“Fine,” Calcifer says, exasperated, and begins to help the ridiculous man, who probably has a concussion and is going to die, look for his book.

Things happen quickly.

Calcifer spots the man’s book with little difficulty. He has no time to wonder how he knew which one it was, despite having never seen it at all. He flies over, pointing it out for the man.

At the same time, the flat, stumbling creatures get a sudden burst of energy. They fly down the stairs, flattened limbs flapping wildly, and lurch into the study.

The man picks up the book just as a ragged hand reaches over to him. A hand which Calcifer begins to tear into with his talons.

Another hand smacks the crow away, sending him crashing into a bookcase in an explosion of feathers and dust.

Calcifer falls to the ground. As his vision begins to blur, he barely sees Osseous as they come into the room, skeletal limbs raised. As the crumbled bookcases right themselves and rush towards the creatures. As the fallen books fly up into the air, forming a wall that starts to push back. As the man kneels beside the librarian, opens his books, and begins to read. As the flat creatures — the man’s book has the word “smashed” in the title, and Calcifer, light-headed, thinks it perfectly describes these weird things — burst through the wall of books and shelves.

As amber beams pour out of Osseous’s orbits. As Keeper, limbs raised, rises up into the air, their terrible blazing light shining directly on the invaders, causing them to cower and convulse before finally crumbling into clouds of cinder and ash.

Calcifer witnesses all of this happen in a bewildered haze, and then he blacks out.

October 22

Somewhere far beyond the woods you know, in a house that should not be there, a crow hops along the hallways. One of his wings rests inside a sling. The bird has been through a lot recently, and very much wants to know more about his present situation. And so he seeks knowledge. And also food. He is still on the mend, after all.

Up above, in the chambers of the house, a man rests on a bed. Books and clothes are strewn about everywhere, along with countless empty cups. Despite his supine position, the man looks tired and slightly anxious. He holds a book in his hands and reads into the night.

Outside, a skeletal figure circles cautiously around the old house. Sometimes a sudden blazing flash of light can be seen. It is often accompanied by sharp screams, although these are quickly cut short.

Let us leave them here to enjoy this moment of respite.

• • •

Out of the forest, back in the world you think you know.

In the city of witches, Count Orlok, who does not usually exist, leads a group of tourists through his gallery of nightmares, regaling them with stories of silver screens and the monsters within. The sightseers are not aware they are taking part in a ritual — are instead delighted by creatures of wax and resin and tales of human folly and triumph. Things from the Void occasionally wander into the Chronicler’s museum, although they leave just as quickly, dazed and confused.

All across the New World people sit before stages and screens. Witnesses to tales of macabre misdeeds, they become Watchers, and play their part.

Dancers everywhere gather in celebration and delight. In a bacchanalian storm of sweat and lights and music, they Dance in defiance of the dark.

Haunters set up their labyrinthine houses of horror and diversion. Things wander in, lured by the sound of laughter and screams, but they don’t come out.

Young Revelers decide on costumes and plan out their routes. They dream of treats and think up tricks. Things steer clear of them, frightened by their boundless energy and minds full of mischief.

• • •

Back in the house that should not be there, somewhere far beyond the woods you know, the Keeper does their rounds, casting wards of protection and banishment. Inside, the Reader browses through endless hallways full of books, looking for his next read. Perched on his shoulder is Seeker, who seems to have a knack for finding things in this strange, unfathomable house.

And thus we keep the darkness at bay.

October 27

Outside the house that should not be there, there is pandemonium. A vortex of vexations engulfs it, utterly. In furious desperation, Unspeakable Things try to get in and quickly find that they cannot. The Keeper’s wards hold. The darkness remains, for the moment, without.

Inside the house, in the eye of this peculiar storm, there is relative calm. The librarian, the man, and the crow are in the study. They form a lazy triangle: Osseous on the armchair, holding a cup to their skull; the man on the carpeted floor, resting against a bookcase, paging through a book; Calcifer on the windowsill, looking at the chaos outside.

Keeper. Reader. Seeker.

Calcifer is thinking of the conversation they had earlier in the night. Between Osseous talking in their esoteric, poetic style and the man just prattling on about how everything is a story and they were all just characters with roles to play, it turned out to be a rather vague and muddy affair.

“Roles in the Ritual are often nebulous, mercurial things,” Osseous had said. “By which I mean they are neither rigorous nor rigid. Take mine, for instance. I am Keeper. As a librarian, I keep books. As a householder, I keep this house. As caretaker, I keep my companions safe.”

“It’s wordplay, more than anything,” the man had said. “You are Seeker. It’s what you’ve been doing all along. Exploring the house. Asking questions. You want to know. You seek answers. Specifically, considering our persuasion, you seek out stories.”

A confusing, cryptic clutter. But it was that last thing the man said that made the crow reflect. Because, in a weird way it was true. Calcifer had left his murder behind because, while perfectly nurturing and comfortable, he wanted more out of his life than to sleep and eat and mess around with his many relatives. He wanted to light out into the unknown. He wanted some semblance of adventure. And what were adventures if not stories?

Calcifer fluffs up his feathers, shaking himself out of reverie. He had been around books and bookish people for too long now. He was also finding out that he did not mind that much.
“It’s best not to think about these things too deeply,” the man had also said. “Otherwise it will just seem like someone is making it up as they go along.”

So Calcifer doesn’t dwell on it for much longer. He figures, you figure out life as you live it. He figures, you figure out the story as you write it. He figures he is getting rather hungry.

• • •

Outside, headless horsemen charge into the night. Hooded executioners garbed in black sit on stumps and sharpen their axes. Fearsome flattened figures ooze out from behind the trees. Cruel clowns swing chainsaws through the mist. They can feel it, the waning of the month, the withering of the Veil. They can feel their dark, cruel masters reaching out from the Vicious Void. The house shall fall, they tell them. The walls will crumble. We will come out of the Dark and it will all be over.

October 30

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October 31

Somewhere deep beyond the woods you know there stands a house that should not be there. Reality shifts and shimmers around it, surrounding the peculiar structure in a vortex of interdimensional voids and cosmic fissures and other things. The shutters clang against their windows. The house is entirely dark, save for a single flickering light in the topmost room. Inside the house that should not be there, someone is reading.

• • •

The man closes the book with, he believes, a flourish. Outside, the winds appear to have subsided. The house has, at the very least, stopped shaking. The man sighs and gets up from the bed. He puts the book he has just finished on a side table already full of books and loose papers and empty mugs. He looks at the rest of the chaotic clutter that makes up his room with a slight look of shame. He catches his reflection in the mirror above the dresser. His hair has grown longer and wilder in the month that he has been here, not to mention his beard. He resolves to tidy up his appearance before leaving later on in the night. But, before he gets to that, he spots a book on one of the shelves that line the walls of the room — a book he has been meaning to read for the longest while. He grabs it, thinking that it would be nice to pick up something with no relation to arcane rites or rituals. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he cracks the book open and begins to read.

• • •

Calcifer, his wing all but healed, flies back into the house just as the man makes his way down the stairs. He has cleaned up somewhat, the crow notes, although to him he still looks like something you’d find out in the woods. Something dead and ravaged. He doesn’t voice this thought, however.

“I was just making the rounds outside,” he says instead, alighting on a pile of books on top of a table in the entryway. “All clear now. No weird things shambling about or cracks in reality or nothing.”

“You sound disappointed about that,” the man says, taking his jacket from the coat tree near the front door.

“No, it’s just,” Calcifer struggles to find the words. “That’s it? It’s over? We… we won?”

“Again,” says the man. “You sound disappointed.”

“No,” the crow says, glaring. “No, it’s just that it feels slightly anticlimactic.”

“Yeah, I get what you mean,” says the man. “A few of the books I read this season were like that. Ah, well. They can’t all be hits.”

“That’s not what I mean at all and you damn well know it.”

“Alas.”

“No, not— Nevermind.”

Osseous walks into the foyer then, a small stack of books in their skeletal hands.

“Thank you, Oz,” the man says, receiving the pile. He begins the complicated puzzle that is shoving a bunch of books into an already overstuffed bag. “Our feathered friend here was just complaining about how abrupt the conclusion to this whole thing was.”

“The Hallowed Ritual can feel like that, at times,” says the skeletal librarian. “It is a good thing. It means the other players played their parts well and without much trouble.”

Calcifer caws. “It’s not that I’m complaining or anything,” he says. “It’s just that, you know, it’s the Maleficent Monarchs we were talking about. Just thought it would, I dunno, involve more. Some epic battle or whatever.”

“I think he’s been reading too many of these books, Oz,” the man says with a grin.

The crow stares daggers at the man.

“Look,” the man says, while working on his storage conundrum. “You have to realize that despite the fact that Those That Dwell in the Dark are nigh omnipotent otherworldly beings, they also just happen to be a colossal bunch of losers.”

Osseous nods their skull in agreement. “The Ritual has been going on for a long time. The other side has yet to win.”

“That’s comforting, I suppose.”

“Yes, well, maybe you’ll get your fight to the death next time, Calcifer.”

The crow starts to preen his feathers, ignoring the man.

The man shoulders his bulky rucksack. “Friends, the lonesome October has finally come to a close. Now we get to relax and enjoy the fact that the world has not yet come to an end thanks in part to our humble efforts.”

The man opens the front door. Outside the house that should not be there, moonlight shines on the fall foliage of the surrounding forest, making it gleam in the night. “It’s been surreal, guys,” he says with a frivolous bow. “Until next time.”

The door closes and he is gone.

“Huh,” Calcifer says. “So that’s that, then.”

A knock on one of the sidelights flanking the door. “Oh and happy Hallowe’en and all that!” The man’s declaration sounds muffled through the glass. He gives a thumbs up and disappears once more, into the night.
The librarian and the crow stand quietly for a moment.

“Hey, speaking of which, Oz. Do we get any trick-or-treaters out here?”

“Sadly, no.”

“I guessed. Shame.”

“Yes.”

“At least things should be quiet for a while,” Calcifer says, after a beat.

“Yes,” Osseous says. Then: “Well, the ghosts do tend to get restless come Yuletide.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The ghosts.”

Calcifer sighs as a myriad of questions quickly come to mind. He knows better now, though. Knows that any answer he seeks he can find without much difficulty, here in this house full of secrets and stories. At the moment, however, there is only one question he wants answered.

“We got anything to eat?” the crow asks.

The librarian nods.

Inside the house that should not be there, somewhere beyond the woods you know, the two friends make their way towards the kitchens.

October 1

• • •

“Can you feel that, friend Calcifer?” it asks, its voice barely above a whisper.⠀

“Can I feel what, Osseous?” asks the crow, somewhat testily. It had been thinking about the particularly satisfying breakfast it had earlier in the morning, and it didn’t appreciate the interruption.⠀

“The Changing,” Osseous says. “The Turning. The Darkening of the Year.”

The crow makes a small croaking noise before flapping towards the window. It pecks against the glass once, twice, thrice before looking out. “Seems to be arriving earlier and earlier each year,” it says. “Are you sure?”

“Oh yes,” says Osseous, long dead, keeper of this vast library of secrets and mysteries. “I can feel it in my bones.” ⠀

And its orbits light up then, shining like beacons in the night, welcoming whatever wanders within.

“It is coming.”

October 2

Deep within the wild, windswept woods, a man is walking. Bearded and bedraggled, his layered clothing ragged and torn in places, all indicative of a long and arduous journey. Still, the man’s pace is steadfast, his steps sure. He is walking towards a certain light.

• • •

Back in the house, the librarian searches for a book.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this far into the house before,” says Calcifer. It is perched on a bony shoulder. They have both traveled a long way.

“The house is as old and vast as tales are in the history of the world and the reckoning of time.”

“What?”

“The house is very large, yes.”

“Right.”

“What’s that one about, then?” asks Calcifer.

“Love and friendship, mostly,” says Osseous, grabbing the lamp on the table and walking once more out of the room. “About missed moments and seized opportunities. The ever-changing seasons of life. About endings and beginnings.”

“Doesn’t sound all that gloom and doom, to be honest,” says Calcifer, taking flight once more.

“No, it’s decidedly not. But it’s never a bad thing to have a little light against the approaching darkness.”

“I guess.”

Lamp held up, the two figures make their way back through the shadows.

At the far end of the house, there is a knock at the door.

• • •

The librarian hands the man a cup of something warm. The man has cleaned up somewhat, but still looks tired and threadbare. “Thank you, Oz,” the man says. He nods his head towards the crow resting on its usual spot at the top of the bookcase. “So he’s new.”

“To you, maybe,” mutters the crow.

“What’s your name?”

“Calcifer.”

“Lucifer?”

“Calcifer,” corrects Osseous.

“Can I call you Cal?”

“Hell no.”

The man shrugs. An awkward silence ensues.

“Well, I’ve never been one for small talk,” says the man, standing up. “Lead the way, Oz,” he says, gesturing at the librarian. “I want to see Josie and Deja.”

October 5

Somewhere beyond the woods you know, in a room deep inside a house that should not be there, someone is cackling.

“There’s a noise I wouldn’t want to hear every day,” says Calcifer the crow, his dark, shiny feathers bristling at the noise. He’s settled on a ledge by a window. Heavy raindrops splatter against it, and the glass panes rattle, occasionally, when hit by sudden gusts of wind.

“I suppose I wouldn’t want to, either,” says Osseous. The librarian is sitting in a plump, somewhat shabby-looking armchair, reading a book. Their bony hands hold a steaming cup. They look quite comfortable. “What’s he even reading up there?”

Calcifer simply stares.

“Fret not,” the librarian adds, as if reading his mind. “He should be leaving by the end of the month.” “Should?” asks Calcifer, nettled at the prospect of a longer stay.

“These sorts of things take time, sometimes.”

Calcifer picks at his feathers. It realizes that it is getting hungry and resolves to think of what to have for supper soon. “Listen,” he says, before getting too distracted, “what exactly are we doing here?”

“I apologize,” Osseous says. “I forget you have not been here long. Have not been present for the Darkening of the Year.” They put their book and beverage on a table by the chair. “I assume you know of The Things in the Vicious Void? Of Those That Dwell in the Dark?”

The librarian stares at the crow for a beat, skeletal fingers steepled. “The Veil thins during the Turning of the Year, Calcifer,” they say. “Passage between worlds is possible. Things can get in. Things can get out. And when the Things come out of the Dark—”

“— it’s all over,” Calcifer completes the refrain. He shudders.

Calcifer casts a suspicious eye towards the ceiling. “So he…”

“Strives to keep the way shut,” the librarian assures. “As do I, in point of fact.”

“I don’t think I get it,” the crow says, flapping its wings. He’s hungry and thus growing increasingly impatient. “You’re just a librarian, and this is a weird, creepy library in the middle of the woods. And he’s just… just some strange guy.”

“I’m Keeper of Tales, Calcifer,” Osseous says. They glance at the ceiling. “He’s Reader. Listener. Devourer. Those are our roles.”

“But to do what?”

“Tell tales,” says the Keeper, simply. “Share stories to keep the darkness at bay.”

“I got a threshold, Osseous,” says Calcifer, through a gritted beak, “I got a threshold for the nonsense I’ll take.”

Calcifer hops from one leg to the other. “So to keep it all from ending,” he says, “some weirdo has to enjoy stories about kids being tormented.”

“Oh ho ho,” again comes the man’s voice from somewhere up in the house. “All these kids are going to get eaten.”

Silence for a spell. “He may just also be an odd, morbid man,” Osseous says, with a shrug of bone shoulders. “I confess I’m not quite sure.”

• • •

Keeper and crow look at one another. “I believe the children have defeated the darkness,” Osseous says.

Calcifer caws.

Outside, for the moment, the night is quiet and still.

October 10

In the kitchen of the house that should not be there, Osseous builds a sandwich. Resting on top of the icebox, picking at a bowl full of grains, Calcifer keeps them company.

The crow considers his companion. “Hey, Oz,” he says, between morsels. “Can I ask you something?”

“By all means.”

“How do you—” Calcifer pauses, thinking of a polite way to ask. As with most things in his life, he opts for the most direct route. “How do you eat?”

“Ah,” says the skeletal librarian, with a tilt of the cranium. “That’s a bit too personal, I fear.”

Calcifer croaks. “Yeah, I guessed.”

“Clowns,” the man mumbles, mid-bite. “It’s probably going to be clowns. Two tales with them in a row. Can’t be a coincidence. Best be on the lookout.”

The man makes another hurried sandwich before taking his leave, going back up the stairs, back into the deeper gloom of the house.

“What was that all about, then?” Calcifer asks.

“The month wanes and the veil withers along with it,” offers the Keeper.

“Osseous. Please. Talk prose.”

“Those in the Dark Beyond cannot yet pass,” Osseous says. “But the door is ajar enough that some of their apparent power is able to slip through, furiously intent on stopping those who work to prevent their arrival.”

“Stop us how, though?” asks the crow. Calcifer isn’t quite sure when he started to consider himself part of us, but he doesn’t particularly care to question it, either.

“These forces can take form, often particular to the craft they seek to crush. Those sent to hunt Readers may take the shapes of certain elements from the stories being engaged.”

“So,” the crow says, nodding upwards, “because he’s reading about maniac killer clowns we could, at some point, be stalked by maniac killer clowns ourselves.”

“That’s a little reductive,” says Osseous. “But yes, in essence.”

Calcifer sighs, covering his head with a wing. “Please tell me you’re joking, Osseous.”

“I fear not, friend.”

“I suppose I wouldn’t want to, either,” says Osseous. The librarian is sitting in a plump, somewhat shabby-looking armchair, reading a book. Their bony hands hold a steaming cup. They look quite comfortable.
“What’s he even reading up there?”

“Fret not,” the librarian adds, as if reading his mind. “He should be leaving by the end of the month.”
“Should?” asks Calcifer, nettled at the prospect of a longer stay.