Halloween.
I slip out the back door, through the dark alley into the chill night, to prowl with ghosts, goblins, vampires and witches.

But they haven't come out tonight. The streets are bare as the October trees. No spirits flit between decorated houses; Jack-o-lanterns grin at nobody.

I pass by a cemetery, peering hopefully at the snow-covered graves, but they too are quiet. Even the moon has hidden.

The ghosts have stayed in their Gothic manors; the goblins remain in the caves of Mordor. The pale vampires refuse to quit their coffins, and no witches cackle aloft on wicker brooms.

For there is something worse abroad on this night. It comes on the wind, moaning and twisting in the trees, descending like darkness itself over the cold ground. The people know it lurks outside and shut their doors, but it enters, unbidden, seizing their hearts in its frigid grip. It is older than humanity, primal as love or hate, more evil than any Halloween nightmare. Its name is Fear.