All Hallows' Eve
by Publandlady
Copyright© 2026 by Publandlady
Supernatural Sex Story: Three hundred years separate the two events, but revenge and unfinished business cause them to collide dramatically.
Caution: This Supernatural Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Consensual NonConsensual Heterosexual Fiction Historical Horror Paranormal Ghost Demons Light Bond Gang Bang .
Just because you can’t contact somebody, it doesn’t mean they’re not dead.
October 1945 Puddletown, Dorset.
“I don’t know why you don’t have it.
“Your mother had it before she passed.
“And my Grammy was sure that your Grammy had it too. So I don’t understand why you haven’t got it,” badgered Sally Blacklock.
Polly Hawkins sighed deeply before saying, “I don’t have it because I don’t bloody want it.”
She tried to carry on with what she was doing but somehow she knew that Sal wasn’t going to let it drop that easily.
“I don’t want the hag-ridden nights that my mother had. Sometimes she feared the fall of darkness. I can live without all that,” she went on.
Sal didn’t let it drop. “We are friends, so you’ll forgive me if I say that it’s selfish to have a gift and not use it.”
“I’ll forgive you, not because we are friends but because we are both mothers. I know that you are desperate for news of your boy and that I feel guilty because my boy is safe and well and is living with that trollop in Dover.”
“I’m sorry.
“I’m sure that you do understand, I really am. When we were all jumping about and celebrating VE Day, I was pleased that your Bas would soon be demobbed and coming home. I was heartbroken for you when you got the letter saying that he’d met that widow, especially as she’s nigh-on your age.
“But I was envious too. At least you know that he is still alive.
“All I have is a telegram saying that my son is ‘MISSING IN ACTION’. Not ‘PRESUMED CAPTURED’ or even ‘PRESUMED DEAD’. All I have is uncertainty.
“When the Yanks dropped those gert big bombs on Japan, at first I was pleased that the war might be over. Then I thought, what if my Johnny was being held as a POW in Japan? He could have been blown away with all those Nips.
“All VJ Day meant for me was more worry. If you had the gift, maybe you could contact Johnny. At least that way I’d know he was dead,” said Sally.
“It’s not as easy as that. It’s not like using a telephone kiosk on the corner. You can’t just ask the operator to put you through to a person and not being able to contact someone doesn’t mean that they aren’t dead.”
“You do have it, don’t you?”
“No, but I think that I could have it if I wanted it, but I don’t want it,” admitted Polly.
“What makes you think so?”
Polly Hawkins sighed an even deeper sigh before saying, “Well, you know that this house used to be an Inn hundreds of years ago. Sometimes I think that I half hear things or half see things.”
October 1645 near Bere Regis, Dorset.
“Thank you for the loan of your wife,” said the trooper, “here is the tuppence we promised you. If you had been a Royalist, we would have taken her for free.”
“No, indeed, we are for Parliament and we are very grateful for your generosity,” answered the husband with a little too much enthusiasm.
His wife added, “Thank you, Sir, are you sure that you or your men don’t want another go before you ride on?”
“Don’t call me Sir,” instructed the roundhead, as he slit the leather thongs that bound the woman over the tree stump, “if we had our way, there would be no titles and no kings, no man would be above another and all would be equal.
“In the meantime we are doing our best to redistribute Dorset’s wealth by taking it from the rich and giving it to worthy people like your husband here.”
October 1945 Puddletown, Dorset.
“I feel sorry for Sal; it must be an awful trial for her not knowing. When I was in the trenches during the Great War, the mud and the blood and the shit was bad enough. If Johnny is not dead or captured by the Japanese, he could be wandering around the jungles of Malaya; personally I can’t see that that would be any better than the Flanders mud,” said Michael Hawkins, Polly’s husband.
October 1645 near Weatherbury Castle, Dorset.
What an evil thing is a Civil War. For a country to be divided against itself. It is odious enough when it is split along some physical line, even if that line only appears on a map.
This Civil War has no such boundaries, for the points of contention exist only in the hearts of men.
To the Royalists, the case is straightforward. The King should rule his people by divine right. Arranged against this, the Parliamentary forces have little agreement at all.
Some contend that King Charles should reign with the advice of the elected members of a certain class. Others have a republic in mind but with only the opinion of the wealthy taken into consideration. There are some voices that say that the old order should be swept away completely. Some folks refer to the latter as ‘The Levellers’. Between these extremes, every shade of opinion thrives.
“That is all very laudable,” said the corporal, “but I can’t claim to have such noble intentions.”
He and a trooper were walking side by side, leading their horses up a steep incline in the narrow lane. A second trooper followed closely behind them. They all wore the buff coat with leather bandoliers and lobster-tail helmet of the recently formed New Model Army. The corporal bore two scarlet chevrons on his arm. Both of the troopers displayed sprigs of sage on their coats, a sign that they were Levellers.
“My only goal is to make a little gold and get as much pleasure as I can,” he added.
The trooper continued the discussion, “I am convinced of the justness of our cause. Parliament must rule this land. We have a chance to right the wrongs of the past and sweep away all titles and privileges.”
“I don’t believe that that will ever happen. Our leaders are all rich men who will not give up such things easily.”
“I fear you may be right, Corporal. We may have to adopt your approach and take what we can from the Royalists. When this war is over I shall join with some like-minded men in going to the American Colonies. There we can live in a Commonwealth of equals. No man will be above another.
“Every few years we shall choose one of ourselves to govern in trust for all, not like a king nor with any title at all, but someone who will lead for the good of everyone and not just for himself and his friends.
“Thereby, no man shall possess more than his neighbour whilst another goes hungry.”
Whether such hopes were ever attainable need not concern us yet. What mattered was that the New Model Army had begun to gain the upper hand, and victory encouraged men to dream of the world that might follow.
October 1945 Puddletown, Dorset.
Polly was trying to wash up when Michael grabbed her from behind and slipped a hand inside her apron and squeezed her right tit.
“Stop that nonsense, you’ll get me going. You will have to wait until tonight,” she squealed.
Her husband backed off. Sitting down at the kitchen table, he allowed his wife to finish her task.
“Have you seen that old map of the village in the church? It’s true, this house is named as an Inn on it. Back then it was on the edge of the village, Puddletown has got bigger since. What’s more, marked right where this very spot is, it says ‘Dry Well’. I suppose it must be under these flagstones,” explained Michael.
Polly wiped her hands and said, “I must admit that I get a funny feeling in this room.”
“So do I but you told me to desist,” laughed Michael Hawkins.
Mid-October 1645 Milborne St Andrew, Dorset.
“Two more weeks and perhaps we should rejoin the Army,” suggested the corporal. Because of their knowledge of the Dorset area, the three men had been assigned the task of rooting out pockets of Royalist resistance. Well, that was the official version, anyway. In reality, the two troopers had been agitating discontent amongst the rank and file troops. While the corporal had been suspected, but never proven, to have pursued his own agenda when dealing with the civilian population, he had been chosen because he wouldn’t hesitate to use any means to obtain information. Their superiors thought it best that they were away from the main Army, and as the saying goes, out of sight, out of mind.
Mid-October 1945 Puddletown, Dorset.
“I’m not saying that you should do it, but if you did want to get the gift, which you don’t, how would you go about it?” asked Michael.
Polly took a deep, weary breath. “Well, my grandmother told me that you have to put a lighted black candle on either side of a mirror on All Hallows’ Eve.”
“When’s that?”
“The day before All Saints’ Day.”
“So, that’s not telling me much, when exactly is All Saints’ Day?”
“It’s the first of November, I think. We’re English so we don’t bother with all those old religious days anymore, although they still make a fuss in some more devil-worshipping countries. I think that they call All Hallows’ Eve ‘Halloween’ or some such thing. They get dressed up and do silliness,” said Polly, hoping that that was an end to it.
Michael laughed and said, “I can’t see that tosh catching on over here. We already have Guy Fawkes’ Night on the Fifth of November so we don’t need any more madness.”
“Mother was convinced that the exact date wasn’t that important. She said that back when the Yanks were still English, some Pope had stolen eleven days from us so the new days aren’t the old days anymore.”
“Anyhow, even taking in all that, it sounds a bit simple. What happens after the black candle thing?”
“I can’t say,” said Polly evasively.
“Did she not know?”
“She did, but I don’t remember,” said Polly, trying to dodge the question.
“What, none of it?” enquired Michael.
Polly conceded a little. “Well, I’m fairly sure that you have to have yourself reflected in the mirror.”
Her husband said nothing. He waited. He knew that she was thinking, unsure whether to say more.
Finally, Polly went on, “Now, that’s where it gets hazy. I think that you have to drop a silver sixpence in a glass. But I could be wrong.
“It wouldn’t hurt to try,” ventured Michael.
“But it might, it really might,” said Polly Hawkins, shaking her head.
Mid-October 1645 Athelhampton, Dorset.
One of the troopers laughed, “We both swived the woman and she still wouldn’t give up where her old husband was hiding. I think that she enjoyed the attention.
“The corporal had to threaten to bugger her before she said he was hiding behind the wainscoting. Even then the corporal was forced to break the fellow’s hand before he relinquished his grip on the bag of gold,” replied the other Leveller.
“If only he’d not been so stubborn, he could have saved his fingers,” suggested his comrade.
“Aye, and she would have saved her arse.”
Late-October 1945 Puddletown, Dorset.
“All the privations and shortages of the war years were bad enough, but this uncertainty is worse,” moaned Sally Blacklock.
She went on, “I’ve never had a husband to lose, so that hasn’t bothered me much, but my Johnny has always been my only joy. If you had the gift, you could contact someone on the other side to find out if he is alive or dead, I’m sure.”
“Yes, it is a shame,” said Michael.
“Will you two just give it a rest?
“You make it sound simple. Like I keep saying, it’s not like telephoning the operator and being asked to be put through to someone.
“If I had the gift, which I don’t, I would have no control over who talks to me. I could end up listening to Adolf Bloody Hitler for all I know; and I can’t understand a word of German.
“My mother said that they don’t care where or when they come across, once you start. She had a wife yabbering in the other ear about another woman wearing her fur coat one time, while she was on the privy.
“There was another embarrassing occasion that she didn’t want to talk about at all,” explained Polly.
All Hallows’ Eve 1945 Puddletown, Dorset.
Michael Hawkins was seated in just his shirt. He was ready for bed. He was doing one of his favourite things; watching Polly get undressed.
Off came her blouse. Even at forty-seven, she was a fine-looking woman with decent hips, a full bust and a definite waist. Years of rationing meant that she wasn’t as plump as Michael would have liked, but she wasn’t skinny.
Unbuttoning her skirt, she dropped it to the floor and stepped out. Michael smiled. One day soon he would buy her some new underwear but for the present her slightly grey girdle and long-line brassiere still looked sexy. Even now that the war was over, these things couldn’t yet be bought even on the black market.
The fact that Polly had been helping out at the Wednesday meeting of the Women’s Institute that afternoon was evident from the fact that she had browned her legs using cold tea and had drawn a line up the back of each of them to simulate nylons; she had even managed to emulate the stocking tops. He sometimes marvelled at the ingenuity of women to make do in a crisis.
Reaching behind her, his wife undid the clasps on her brassiere and allowed her ample tits to separate and spring free. She scratched absent-mindedly as she relieved herself of the restraint.
Polly unfastened the hooks and eyes that ran down the front of her high-waisted girdle. She sighed as it fell away from her.
As she seated herself on the dressing table stool in just her tap pants, Michael could see the pink indentations in her skin left by the foundation garments. He contained himself no longer. He rose from his chair and kissed his wife on the shoulder. She purred gently as he began to nuzzle her neck. Polly raised both her arms and touched his ears. He reached around and cupped her soft, creamy tits.
“Yes,” uttered Polly.
Taking each large nipple between a finger and thumb, Michael squeezed them gently in unison. His wife pushed her head back against his chest. This encouraged him to roll the firm dark-brown buds back and forth between the pads of his fingertips. Polly took a deep breath. After twenty-six years of marriage she knew what was coming next.
Michael squeezed each nipple hard and pulled it forwards, stretching the tits out into a point.
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