Chapter 5: Halloween

By seven‑thirty, the Pickering manor had ceased to resemble a mere dwelling.

It seemed to have been waiting—patient, hungry—for Halloween for a full century.

The first guests, soon to arrive on the winding drive, would already sense the house’s transformation. Towering ancient trees arched overhead, their limbs interlaced like a vaulted canopy. Leaves had burned to copper, bronze, and deep crimson, while hundreds of miniature lights were coiled around trunks and lower boughs, giving the impression that the trees themselves glowed from within.

The mansion was lit almost exclusively from below. Concealed uplights nestled among the shrubbery cast dramatic, elongated shadows across the stone façade, sharpening every turret, gable, chimney, and the narrow Gothic windows that punctuated the walls. Inside, tall windows burned amber, whereas several upper panes were left deliberately black—those dark apertures resembled hollow eyes watching the night.

A few bare branches had been coaxed to frame the entrance, and massive black‑iron lanterns flanked the front steps. Their glass panes flickered with amber light so steady it could be mistaken for real candle flames.

No plastic skeletons swayed in the breeze. No inflatable ghosts bobbed above the lawn. No garish orange‑and‑black paper streamers cluttered the scene. My mother deemed such baubles beneath the dignity of the estate. Instead, every ornament had been chosen to look as if it had always belonged there—timeless, inevitable.

The front doors stood ajar beneath an enormous wreathe of dried twigs, black roses, deep‑red foliage, and soft feathers. Antique‑style lanterns dangled from the porch ceiling, and a pair of carved pumpkins guarded the threshold. Their faces were no cartoonish grins; they were severe, almost human, etched with solemn lines that hinted at ancient rites.

Inside, the entrance hall took breath away.

The mansion’s original architecture did most of the work. A soaring ceiling rose two stories above polished marble, intersected by immense dark beams. A sweeping staircase curled upward along the far wall, its gleaming banister disappearing into shadow on the second floor. Portraits of long‑dead family stared from their gilt frames, silent sentinels of lineage.

For Halloween, each portrait received an unsettling new detail: a thin black ribbon knotted around its frame, as if mourning the living. Somewhere above the staircase, an unseen speaker poured slow, melancholy classical music into the air. The melody was not frightening; it was achingly beautiful—and that very beauty made it feel more ominous.