The witching hour, somebody had once whispered to her, was a special moment in the middle of the night when every child and every grown-up was in a deep deep sleep, and all the dark things came out from hiding and had the world all to themselves.
When it draws near to witching time of night.
There is a dead spot in the night, that coldest, blackest time when the world has forgotten evening and dawn is not yet a promise. A time when it is far too early to arise, but so late that going to bed makes small sense.
For me, writing something in the spirit of Halloween is like Mother Teresa writing on charity and sacrifice. It's just second nature to me.
'Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright. And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen- For what listen they?
Midnight,--strange mystic hour,--when the veil between the frail present and the eternal future grows thin.
It was three o'clock in the morning – the wisest and most accursed hour of the clock. But sometimes it sets us free.
Sleeping with a witch would probably be pretty interesting. I hear that, and I understand that.
