If ever a night was made for witches and banshees it's tonight.
Beyond the safety of these four walls heavy clouds race across the sky - either driven by or fleeing from winds that roar of destruction.
Street lights are reflected a hundred times by puddles of water, puddles rippling with churning crests whipped by the same winds that chase the clouds.
Absent are the few creatures that venture forth in the night at this time of year. They have forsaken foraging and hunting in favor of the safe comfort of their dens. A wise move on their part for surely Death stalks in the shifting shadows of bending trees and flapping flags.
If ever there was a night to hang cloves of garlic in windows it's tonight.
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