Walking Home

Old Dan Tittelson had worked in Devon for thirty years and never liked a day of it. He loved his work at the mill but hated the walk home every night.

If Dan was goaded into having a pint at the Drunken Sailor, he regretted it when he finished and headed home.

Near the hangman’s tree, Dan swore unseen things would watch him. No matter how quickly he turned his head, Dan couldn’t quite catch a glimpse of them.

Dan would hear inhuman, unearthly sounds coming from beyond the hedge or the stone wall some nights. Other times, babies’ cries or baying hounds would float over the wall.

He always picked up the pace when he heard them but never ran. Running was the surest way to attract a Boggart or Whiffelbor.

Tonight was the worst of the year, All Hallow’s Eve. The veil was thin now; many spectators, ghouls, or fiends would roam the land.

Dorthy Ann would be waiting at the cottage door with a strong drink of whiskey and a loving hug, so Dan hurried the best his old, weary body could go.

Passing the hangman’s tree, the sounds grew louder than ever before, “The devil take you; leave my Christian soul alone and get ye back to Hell demons,” hollered Dan, trying not to sound terrified.

“Only if you come along, Dan Tittelson,” laughed a high-pitched voice. “There’s plenty of room there for the likes of you, so why not join us?” giggled another.

Dan began to recite an old prayer he learned as a child from his Grand. “Though the night is cold and dark, I fear no boggart, witch, or troll, for my soul belongs to the Lord who waits for it on the heavenly high.”

“Nice poem, Dan, but we’re none of those, so come along, won’t you,” said the voice. Dan heard the shuffling of feet in the leaves on the other side of the wall.

“I have an iron spike and silver cross. If you wish to take me, you will need to get past them first,” said Dan, whose voice was now visibly shaken.

“Well, lucky man, looks like you live another year, but we’ll be here, and when you forget your toys, we’ll take you down the coal shoot straight to Hell,” laughed the voice.

Dan clutched the cross and spike, thanking his wife, who always ensured they were placed in his right-hand pocket before leaving for work.

The remaining walk home was quiet, and Dan almost enjoyed the autumn night. However, the demon’s words “Straight to Hell” still rattled his mind.

Reaching his cottage, Dan gulped the whiskey, kissed his wife, and said, “I think we’ll be going to see the parson this Sunday if that’s alright with you, dear.”

“Well, I’ll be, I believe, and Angel just got its wings,” said his wife as she closed the door and served Dan his Halloween feast.