i drive slowly; although it's far from daylight, with the full moon low and near the horizon, it lights the road sides in an unearthly hue. the road is narrow and curvy, thick pine woods covering both sides. it is chilly for this time of year, and we have the heater on low: it is rather comfortable. harriet sips coffee from a china cup, she looks tired, her eyes ringed and heavy-lidded; her flight was lengthy, with a four hour layover in memphis; i picked her up at sandeford field in louisville. the road narrows even more as we come to the ferry. jason scruggs has the duty this morning, but he is on the other side, of course. jason is mentally slow, sluggish; he is twenty years old and works for $2.00 an hour. i turn my lights off and wait for him. the mighty green river is enveloped in thick fog, and we can barely see the water. as i roll my window down, the fog reminds me of smoke, which in turn reminds me how badly i want a cigarette.

"do you mind, harriet?" i ask.

"not at all love, be my guest." i lite up and inhale deeply. i blow the smoke out my window, but it barely makes a difference to the early morning atmosphere. i see something on the water, but it's difficult to make out; i expect to see a ghostly, gaunt man in rags poling his boat through the veils of mist on the river styx, saying "you are neeexxtttt, follow me..." instead, my senses are interupted by the creaking sounds of the cables as jason pulls his ferry across the river at this ungodly hour. the river is narrow at this point, seventy feet maybe. we hear and feel a thud as jason runs the ferry into the bank. birds fly up, big ones, geese probably, as he motions us aboard with his flashlight. i start the car, and roll gently onto the ferry.

"y'all headed for the big holloween shindig by the dam?" he asks. his voice is high pitched and a little nerve racking. he shines his light in my face. "er, morning miss carlee, i thought this was your car."

"hurry jason, we're late." i was out of sorts.

"yes'um. they announced 'last call for assignments' over the pa 'bout a half hour ago. i could hear it just as plain...." the cables sound like creaking doors, and the noise reverberates against the choppy surface of the river. jason has no idea what the announcements over the pa mean, i know that. i have been coming to this "shindig" for three years now. i generally come up the rochester side, but i took the long road today to impress my friend from london with the ferry ride: i don't believe harriet is impressed though. i know the 431 route is longer, but i have made us quite late. i flip my cigarette into the river: it doesn't catch fire, so we are secure.

when we land safely on the rochester side, i ease out of park and fish around in a pocket next to my seat for some money. harriet rolls down her window and thanks jason, who talks to her for a moment while i retrieve a five dollar bill.

"jason! here, take this for your trouble." jason grabs the money from my hand and stuffs it into the pocket of his jeans.

"thanks miss carlee." he whispers into my ear "your friend shore is purty, but she talks real funny." i smile at him, and he smiles back. jason is missing at least three front teeth.

"buy some soap with some of that money, you're smelly again."

"will do, y'all have a good time now."

"and you have a good day." harriet tells him. "talk funny do i?" we laugh. the hill leading up to the road to the dam is very steep. my car hesitates, and i shift into a lower gear. it coughs a little (its way of fussing at me) but we are on the road.

"oh, please stop, carlee." harriet says, staring out of the window. she has seen a large pontoon with "papa's playhouse" written on the stern. it is lit up well, like it wants to be noticed. "just like you described love, in your email. wicker furniture and all." she likes it, her enthusiasm evident in her body language. after a moment, we continue and head on down the narrow road, where she admires the expensive houses. "i like your house better carlee." this makes me smile.

i can hear the falls at the dam. either it has rained here recently or the dew is quite heavy. the haunted house at rochester is within our view, and there are a number of people there, though i can't make out how many yet. a huge banner is connected from the house to a utility pole near the locks, stating "welcome to the coven of ecstasy". people are in costume, mainly grey or black hoods, their heads hidden and mysterious. others are adorned with mummy costumes, the wolfman, dracula, the usual. a young girl runs to the car, and in her rush she steps in a puddle of water. i know her, isadora blankenship, she is twelve and dressed like tinkerbell. she hugs me and kisses me on the cheek.

"i was so afraid you weren't coming this year, carlee."

"oh, i wouldn't miss this for the world, issy."

"who's your friend?" she politely asks.

"meet miss harriet scott, issy, she comes all the way from london." issy smiles and reaches across me to shake harriet's hand.

"my grampa's from london, pleased to meet you harriet." harriet holds her hand and smiles.

"no issy, not london, kentucky, london, england."

"pleased to meet you issy." says harriet.

"gosh, you are from england." issy is excited and she calls to the others. "hey, carlee brought a friend from england!!"

we walk around, and i introduce harriet to all those i can recognize. the leader of the coven is a man of 48 years, dressed in a black hood. his name is j.p. mcstoots, and he takes the yearly coven event very seriously. as we continue our wandering, a person in a white hood hoves into view.

"holy shit, jim bob, what in the hell are you supposed to be, a ghost or the grand dragon?" someone shouts.

"this is daddy's costume!" jim bob shouts.

"well, i know his daddy, and the kkk he ain't." says j.p. "alright now, no more name calling and idle chatter, the power of christ compels! shouts j.p. "gather round for your assignments."

"that ain't right carlee." jim bob says to me.

"what isn't?" harriet asks.

"ain't."

"whatever." she smiles.

"it ain't 'the power of christ compels'. is it carlee?"

"i think it is, jim bob, but i 'm thinking j.p. is using it in the wrong context."

"what's kotex got to do with it, carlee?"

"context, jim bob, context."

"oh, you're so damn smart." he answers.

"and he wears a white sheet to a black mass? that ain't smart." harriet whispers to me.

"the inner circle sits here." j.p. says. the fire is burning brightly, and the inner circle sit beside it.

"the power of christ is compelling me to take a piss." harriet whispers in my ear.

"hang in there babe, and when this is over, we'll go back and just get drunk." she smiles at me.

"now, the extra circle stand behind the inner. stands jim bob, god damn it!" harriet jumps.

"are you ok babe?" i ask.

"i ain't sure."

"now each of you choose a partner."

"i choose you, harriet." i say, and she smiles again.

some of the assignments are ludicrous, some are bizarre, and when j.p. approaches harriet and me, he gives a preface. "in 1934, weaver morgan killed his entire family of nine. some say he was a cannibal, others, a monster; nine children are buried there, your assignment is to go to the old morgan farm, and dig around. you must bring back to the coven a human bone, before halloween ends at midnight. be careful too, they say that weaver morgan returns to that house he built so long ago, frequently, especially on halloween." harriet and i look at each other: pretty dangerous assignment, we seem to tell each other, telepathically.

"we can handle it, j.p.." we say in unison.

"j.p., dammit, i don't like my assignment!" everett shouts.

"what the fuck is wrong with it, everett?"

"me and josie are suppose to bring back a live catfish, now what's so fucking scary about a catfish?"

"what everett, don't you know the legen' about halloween and the catfish?"

"naw sir, i don't."

"well, ask josie, she'll know, they're very special on halloween."

"they are the food of the demons, harriet." j.p. explains. "harriet," he says, "we are honored with your visit from so far away."

"why thank you mr. mcstoots."

"i hope you and carlee make it safe and sound from weaver morgan's, some don't."

"he's just trying to scare you harriet." i say. and i wonder......

weaver morgan was a farmer, and an individualist. he and his wife and two small children came up from tenessee in 1922. they were poor, and said to be honest; they bought a piece of land near owensboro in the vicinity of what we now know as jackson flats. it was mostly woods then, still is, and the four of them managed to clear enough acreage to build a house and a large garden. over the years, they had seven more children, and had cleared enough land to call it a farm. weaver morgan did not read or write, and forbade his wife and children to learn either. there was no organized board of education to enforce schooling, but as time went on, the older children were approached about attending school. they were excited about it, but knew their father didn't approve. the next to the oldest girl, emma sue, defied her father and went. she showed up with bruises many times, and although the teachers questioned her, she remained silent.

later on, several of the other kids joined her. morgan was furious, and told his wife that he couldn't spare them, that they were needed on the farm, without them the family would starve. his wife, jennie, told him that the family needed to learn, and offered him no sympathy. she was killed, the legend goes, and served for dinner one october evening in the 1930s.

"'the power of christ compels', something about that ain't right."

"oh, put a lid on it, jim bob, for christ's sake." i say. "it doesn't matter."

"well, i ain't coming to this damn place next year, last year someone locked me inside a room in that old house, and that's where i spent halloween." he points to the haunted house by the dam.

murphy lansing says, "and someone just might do the same this year jim bob, if you don't stop that belly aching."

murphy is dressed handsomely as count dracula. he is in his late forties, and one of my most favorite people in the world. his tux fits perfectly, lots of rich red silk and medals above his jacket pockets, one of which says the u.s. chess federation. when he's not dracula, murphy teaches philosophy at the university chapter in owensboro. i introduce him to harriet and he kisses her hand.

"you don't mind, madam?"

"as long as it's not my neck" she says.

"you have pretty friends, carlee." he says, and harriet smiles.

murphy explains to us, and issy and little michael, that a gathering has met at rochester on this night for over twenty years. "we used to sit around and tell ghost stories, i suppose we heard them all over the years, and started doing other things. actually, "the coven" is as interesting as anything else that has been done.

harriet shows an interest in murphy. "mr. lansing, do you ever meet up and tell stories these days?"

"of course harriet, may i suggest that we do that at midnight on the 31st. i'll round up some more of the wordier folks and that's just what we'll do, if we all survive halloween." a werewolf suddenly comes up behind, and grabs me. all furry and ugly, it scares the shit out of me.

"groawllll." it says.

"lenny cravens!" i shout. the others have looks of horror on their faces.

"even he who is pure in heart, and says his prayers every night, is just as apt to get kneed in the nuts as anyone else!" i exclaim as i knee him.

"shit!, i'm a simple werewolf, carlee." murphy and the kids smile. lenny is simple, but nice, though he smells funny tonight. harriet and murphy and the kids and i walk around the coven grounds to take in the sights, in the process attracting a few more kids, a mummy, a power ranger and a duck. the duck is cute, but out of place. i take a closer look and see that it is petey blair, a darling 6 year old. he has called me fathey since he was three, and no one really knows why.

the "coven of ecstacy" grounds have taken on a carnival aspect this year. there are games, psychic reading booths and pony rides for the kids, all with halloween themes. the ponies belong to brett himes, a rather wealthy farmer who lives in rochester. they are adorned with harnesses containing mexican icons derived from their 'night of the dead' holiday. the icons comprise skulls and shrunken heads, and lots of colorful stuff: the mexicans celebrate their 'night of the dead' as a happy, joyful event. i feel a tug on my jeans, and look down.

"fathey, will you let me ride a pretty pony?"

"sure sweetie, if i have enough money." i tell petey. i have given my last change to jason and my jeans are "as empty as an old maid's heart", as mr. leisure would say. "well, maybe they'll give me credit, petey." i say, but harriet interrupts.

"i'll take care of it, carlee," she says and grabs petey's hand and walks him to the ticket booth. "how much?" she asks.

"three bucks." ace hepner answers. "hey, petey."

"hey ace." he says. harriet hands ace some money.

"what the fuck is this!"

"i think it's equivalent." she replies.

"shit, this is that damn yen money, ain't it, who's picture is this on the front?"

"the queen of england, i believe." she answers.

"i ain't taking it, it ain't american." he gruffly replies.

"oh hell, ace." murphy says. "here's your money, and you owe this nice english lady an apology. there's no damn sense in you getting all huffy at this once a year festival."

"for all i know she could be one of them terrorists, murphy."

"oh, chill out for god's sake, harriet's with us and we don't support terrorism."

"a man can't be too careful these days," ace says melodramatically.

"put the little boy on the pony, ace, i mean it, or i'll call brett." ace walks over to petey and places him on a very pretty pony. "will this do?" he asks.

"yep." petey answers.

"and i'm sorry, pretty lady, i really am," ace says to harriet. "here's your yen money back."

"i'm so sorry harriet, these people are much different than what you're used to; the world trade thing has everyone spooked plus the threat of further destruction, and..."

"enough carlee, please, i know, we're just as spooked in england, it's alright, people are scared everywhere, it's ok." i appreciate that. i've read a lot about england during world war 2, about the black outs and the bombing, about the anguish. but, harriet is a pretty pony of a different color, and she understands a lot of things. i wonder, then, if she would understand the horror of weaver morgan.

oct 29, 1935

we have five hours to complete our assignment the following evening: go to morgan's, retrieve a human bone, and return to the dam and the coven before midnight. frankly, just the drive to weaver's is terrifying enough. the trees are bare in jackson flats and look as if they are praying to a higher power. it is raining and there are occasional cracks of lightning: it is not a good night to be searching weaver morgan's property.

"god, this is spooky, carlee. what have you got me into?"

"i know harriet, it gives me the willies in the day time." as we approach the farm, the main house looms before us like something from the grave, groping towards us in the half-light of the evening. i am excited, scared and ecstatic, all at the same time. we stop the car in what remains of the drive way: weeds are knee deep, casting malevolently in the cool breeze as though whispering complicitly to one another. the grass is already wet. there is no light for twenty miles, and as darkness descends it seems to envelop us in a cocoon, drawing us in, separating us from the familiar, friendly countryside we have just left. a bolt of lightning shafts through the night sky, as though thrust by thor himself, revealing the house of horror as it really is: two ugly storeys of broken down lumber, dilapidated and sad, with at least four out buildings scattered around it, rotting and decayed.

"what are the other buildings, love?" harriet asks.

"i'm not sure. some say one's a tobacco barn, and another a kennel. i guess we'll just have to see."

as we trek to the main house, peering at the ground close to us, trying to follow the rapidly disintegrating track, we hear a rustle from the right, coming from the woods. they loom over us, heavy and impenetrable, a girdle around the clearing on which the house is set. another rustle, and another, and the trees shake and shimmy together.

"what was that?" harriet asks, sounding on edge, her voice breaking.

"don't know, maybe a 'possum or a dog."

a tumultuous clap of thunder booms over our head, breaking around us and reverberating through our bodies. my heart jolts, and a surge of panic threatens to overwhelm me for an instant, before i calm myself. i take harriet's hand, and we slowly walk around the outside of the house.

there is a doorlike structure on the ground, wooden shutters with old, rotting handles jutting out from the dirt surface. harriet grabs one door, and i tackle the other. at first, they won't budge, but eventually we feel them shifting slightly, and then, with an explosive crack which resounds around the clearing, the hinges snap open for the first time in many, many years. instantly, a musty, musky smell assails us.

peering down, we see dirt stairs, which descend so far we can't see the bottom.

"a basement?"

"probably a root cellar, harriet. the morgans lived here before refrigeration. people used to store stuff underground because it was cooler, potatoes and things."

"and bodies?"

i gulp. "i hadn't thought of that. kind of wish you hadn't mentioned it. do you have the shovel?"

harriet unfolds our girl scout, tri-fold shovel, and we look at one another, trying to instil in each other the courage to proceed. just as we are about to step onto the dusty stairs, another terrible clap of thunder explodes overhead, freezing us in our tracks.

"god!" i say.

"there's something squeaking, carlee!"

"i don't hear it."

"well, listen." she says sharply. i hate to admit it, but i do hear something. rats maybe, i think hopefully, and laugh at myself: it comes to something when you hope for rats.

we continue, and when we reach the basement, the earth is damp and slimy, and the air humid and putrid, a stale, dank aroma which fills our noses and makes me want to retch. the squeaking appears to have subsided, yet the sound is still in our minds, scrabbling and scratching, playing with our senses. the stagnant air is becoming overwhelming, overpowering, almost horrifying. it is cloying, wrapping itself around us, layer on layer, like old potatoes or tainted beef jerky, like rotten eggs, like decayed flesh.

i see something out of the corner of my eye, and in that instant i realise that i can no longer see harriet. suddenly, out of the gloom a little girl runs toward me, screaming and wailing, a piteous sound which simultaneously chills my marrow and breaks my heart. as she nears me, stiff-legged and pained, i see her properly and a sickening, hideous terror overtakes me.

one arm is missing and blood is fountaining out of her, spuming from a fearsome, bloody stump and raining on to the dirt in a heavy, deathly arc. her screams grow louder and louder, shrill and penetrating, the sound of despair, the sound of agony, and as she comes closer her body appears to be bathed in an incandescent light, glowing and pulsing in the rank darkness. my god in heaven, i think, my god in heaven, though whose salvation i am asking for, hers or mine, i cannot say.