Cider Folk
FROM TOBIAS TO THE REVEREND
September 27, 1935
I trust this letter finds you well and that Mrs. Halloway remains content in the comforts of her own pursuits, leaving you to your solemn deliberations. It is, I must confess, a system I very much envy, for in my own household, decisions are not so easily made nor burdens so freely unshouldered. Eliza, ever steadfast in her resolve, has a will strong enough to bend steel, though I cannot say the same for the bonds between us. We move in tandem, as duty dictates, though rarely in harmony. Still, I make the necessary sacrifices, as any man ought, for the preservation of all that appears good and righteous in the eyes of the choir of mundane townsfolk. If she requested that I place my head beneath an enormous stone while her hateful mother held it up unwillingly, I suspect I would oblige, for I see no other way forward.
On this crisp autumn afternoon, with the wind singing through the oaks and the amber sky casting long golden fingers upon the earth, I find myself drawn to write to you once more. There is something about the season, something that reaches into a man’s very insides, stirring thoughts both strange and comforting. The falling leaves move in a rhythm that is almost musical, a cadence that speaks of the old ways of a forgotten world- well forgotten by most. It dares me to think of things I’d rather not speak aloud. Perhaps it is the way the air itself carries the scent of smoky wood and distant harvests, the way the shadows stretch long in the fading light, feeling like they stare back. But I digress.
The reason for my letter, beyond the pleasure of discourse, is to share with you a most grand and peculiar undertaking. I have pushed, well convinced, the festival committee to create a spectacle unlike any seen before in our God fearing county. A great lantern, no mere candle lit gourd upon a stoop, but a towering jack, a behemoth of paper and timber, its wicked grin to loom over the town not unlike some ancient sentinel of the harvest. Eliza, the boys, and the locals from the mill have gathered the necessary scraps and paste, and work is well underway. Each day, I will stand among them, my hands as busy as theirs. I thought you might find some curiosity in it, if not absolute amusement in imagining me breathless, slumped over, trying to punch an eye into a jolly lantern.
We mean to light it following the town’s cider gathering, when the children parade in their disguises and laughter rings through the square. It is a tradition, one we cherish, a moment where we let our burdens slip, if only for a night. I have heard some stories, Reverend, of what came before us, of the ancient rites that were cast aside, this pales in comparison but we do our best.
I would ask, dear Reverend, that you lend your blessing to this endeavor. It would do us all good to have the favor of the Almighty upon it. And if, perhaps, you too have felt it, that quiet stirring, that strange pull in the marrow of your bones, then I should like to know your thoughts, though we must speak of such things carefully.
FROM THE REVEREND TO TOBIAS
September 30, 1935
Your letter finds me in the late hour, where the silence of the parsonage presses heavy upon me, broken only by the ticking of the clock upon the mantle and the occasional shifting of wind against the sultry windowpanes. Mrs. Halloway is long abed, as is her way, leaving me to my thoughts and, at times such as these, to the solemn company of your words. I find myself grateful for them, for though we must, by necessity, temper our correspondence with the proper restraint, I take great comfort in your letters. They remind me that in the quiet spaces of this town, amid the careful but heavy masks we wear, there still exists a place where honesty might be exchanged. I read your words again and again, lingering for too long where you allow your inner horses to run free and slip between the lines. I do the same in return, though we must always be cautious.
The shifting air, thick with the scent of leaf rot and chimney smoke, carries with it a weight of memory, of things half remembered yet never truly forgotten. Your talk of the festival’s grand lantern does stir something in me, though I confess it is not admiration alone. I have heard whisperings of such things in days past, similar but of different intent.
I do not mean to dissuade you from your task, nor do I wish to burden you with my own unrest, but I feel compelled to share my concerns in the manner I am able. There are echoes in this, Tobias, echoes of older things, of traditions unspoken yet persistent, as though they have woven themselves into the very fabric of our existence. You must understand, I am not a superstitious man. I have built my life upon the foundation of scripture, upon the unwavering belief that faith must prevail over fear. And yet, faith has taught me also that one must know the nature of what they bless. A man does not put his hands upon a thing without first knowing whether it bears goodness or ill intent, or worse, whether it bears both at once.
You request my blessing upon this great lantern, this towering effigy of fire and timber. I will grant it, though not lightly. When the night comes and the flame is set, I will stand among our people, and I will raise my voice in prayer. But I ask you, as a friend and as a man I hold in deep regard, to watch and to listen. Not only to the laughter of the cider folk, not only to the rustling of leaves beneath children’s feet, but to the quiet beneath it all. To the spaces between sound, to the breath of the air itself.
And Tobias, I must say this, though it pains me to do so in writing. In your letter, you spoke of duty, of keeping it all together, of Eliza and what she requires of you. I read your words, and though you did not say it outright, I know the shape of your sorrow. I have long known it, for it mirrors my own. If you must carry this weight, then know you do not do so alone. I stand with you, even in silence, even in the dark. And though I am a man of the cloth, I would be lying if I said I have not questioned why He saw fit to weave our lives together in this way. Some would call it providence. Others might call it temptation. Perhaps it is both.
I find myself rambling, as I often do when the hour is late and my mind wanders where it ought not. I should end this here before I say something that cannot be unwritten. But I will ask one last thing of you, Tobias. When the fire is lit and the night is thick with laughter and song, look for me among the crowd. And if you catch my gaze in that flickering light, know that I am thinking of you. Know that, despite everything, I am glad you wrote to me.
Until then, my dear Tobias, I remain ever your friend and your servant in faith.
FROM ELIZA TO MARGARET
October 15, 1935
I hope this letter finds you in good health and good spirits sister. The season has turned, and with it, the crispness of autumn settles into our bones. The leaves outside the parlor window catch the afternoon light in a way that almost makes me forget the unease that has settled over our home. Almost..
Margaret, I do not mean to trouble you, but there are things I must confide in someone who will understand. Tobias has always been a quiet man, thoughtful in his way, but lately, there is something about him I cannot place. A distance, a restlessness in his eyes, as though he is searching for something just beyond his reach. When I speak to him, he hears me, but I do not believe he listens. His mind wanders, and there are moments when I feel as though he is more a ghost in our home than a man of flesh and blood.
It is not merely his distance that troubles me. There is something else, something darker. He has taken great interest in the festival preparations, particularly in the grand lantern they are building for the celebration. The way he speaks of it, Margaret, admittedly sends a shiver down my spine. It is not excitement or enthusiasm I hear in his voice. It is something else, something I’d rather not name right now.
At night, when the house is quiet and the children have long since fallen asleep, I sometimes wake to find him sitting in the dark, staring out one of our windows, whispering to himself or sometimes it feels like chanting. The first time I thought he was merely troubled, that perhaps he bore the weight of some burden he could not share with me for the time being. But now, I fear it is more than that. I fear that his heart has strayed not just from me, but from God Himself.
He no longer bows his head at dinner, no longer laces his fingers in prayer with the boys before bed. He used to take solace in scripture, but I have found the pages of his Bible untouched, gathering dust upon his nightstand. I do not know what it is he believes in anymore, but I fear it is not the Lord.
I wish I could talk to someone about this. The Reverend, perhaps, though I have seen the way Tobias looks at him when he thinks no one is watching.
I do not know what to do, Margaret. I married Tobias knowing he was a serious man, but I did not think I would spend my years with a stranger. Pray for me, dear sister. Pray for my boys. And if you can, pray for Tobias too.
With love, Eliza.
FROM JOHN TO THE REVEREND
October 18, 1935
I hope this letter finds you well and that the autumn chill has not curled around you like a stray dog at the doorstep, lingering where it is not welcome. I must admit, it has been some time since I last wrote, though I suppose neither of us expected to keep much in the way of correspondence. Still, I find myself drawn to seek your thoughts, as I have before, when my mind lingers on things that do not sit quite right.
I have spent the last week alongside the others in town, working beneath Tobias and Eliza’s direction on the great lantern. It is something to behold already, even in its unfinished state. Tobias has a way of seeing things that others do not, of convincing men that their work is more than wood and paper, that it is something greater. The town is lucky for it, and I suppose, in some ways, I am too.
That said, I must tell you of something peculiar. A few nights ago, as we finished laying the last of the framework, Tobias lingered behind after the others had gone. I left, but something pulled at me to return, and when I did, I found him still there, tending to the field where the lantern is set to stand. It was near dawn before he left, as if the earth itself had to be just so before he could rest. I do not pretend to understand the ways of some men, but it seemed to me a strange thing, to labor so long over a task that ought not to have taken but an hour.
I know you have always been a man of careful consideration, and though Tobias is a good and godly man, I thought you might find this curious as well. If nothing else, I suppose I simply wished to put it to paper, to feel that someone else knows.
I would not presume to take up more of your time, but I would be glad to hear from you if you are inclined to write back. You have always had a way of easing the mind, even in the late hours when words are best left unspoken.
Yours in faith, John W.
FROM MARGARET TO ELIZA
October 20, 1935
Dear Eliza,
I have thought long and hard about your last letter, and my heart weighs heavy for you. You have always been strong, stronger than most, but even the strongest among us need rest, need distance, need a place where they can simply breathe. If you should need it, my home is open to you. You need only say the word, and I will have a room prepared. The boys can do without me for a spell, and you know how they adore you! Having their Aunt Eliza here would be nothing short of a delight for them.
I must confess, I have never much cared for All Hallows’ Eve. I know the children love their costumes and their games, but I have always thought the world frightful enough without a holiday dedicated to shadows and spirits. There is enough darkness in our days as it is, and I would much rather see the warmth of a hearth than the flicker of a candle inside some LEERING gourd. Perhaps that makes me a spoilsport, but so be it. There is something unsettling about it all, the way people embrace fear as if it were something to be celebrated. I have seen enough fear in real life to know it is not a thing of joy. The disguises, the ghost stories, the way some take pleasure in the macabre…it leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I wonder sometimes if we do not invite more than just NONSENSE on that night.
Tobias is a difficult man to understand at times, and I do not fault you for feeling uneasy. There are things in life we cannot name, but we feel them just the same. If something does not sit right in your spirit, then trust that feeling, Eliza. The heart speaks in ways the mind cannot always grasp. And if the time comes when you wish to be elsewhere, if only for a while, my door will be open. You are never a burden to me, nor will you ever be.
You do not have to face this alone, dear sister. I know you have spent so much of your life trying to be the steadfast one, the reliable one, the one who carries the weight of others without complaint. But even you deserve a reprieve. Even you deserve kindness and care, just as you have always given it to others. Let me be that for you, if you need it.
With love always, Margaret
FROM TOBIAS TO MARGARET
October 24, 1935
I trust this letter finds you well and in good spirits. I write to you with an invitation, one I hope you will accept with an open heart. As you may already know, we are preparing something truly special for All Hallows’ Eve, and I would very much like for you to be a part of it. The great lantern will be unveiled that night, its glow a beacon for all who gather, and I believe it would do you good to see it for yourself. Maybe even go inside with us.
Before you decline, allow me to be candid. I happened upon your letter to Eliza before she had the chance to read it. While I know your words were written with care and concern, I must admit I found some of them to be a touch uncharitable. But then again, I suppose I should not be surprised. It has never been easy for me to earn the good graces of your family, has it… Still, I wonder if your distaste for this holiday is born of genuine belief or simply another way to stand apart from what I value.
I spent this evening painting the great lantern, layering deep green along its crown and wide strokes of orange across its round belly. It will be a sight to behold, Margaret, something grand, something lasting. I wonder if you might see, even for a moment, the beauty in it rather than whatever judgment you have already formed.
Did you know, Margaret, that in the old days, our ancestors believed this was the time when the veil between worlds was at its thinnest? Not for fright, not for mischief, but for connection. A time when the past and present could exist together, even if only for a night. There is something beautiful in that, something worth cherishing rather than fearing. The children may dress in costumes, and the air may carry the crisp bite of autumn, but at its heart, this night is one of warmth, of community, of seeing beyond what is in front of us.
I would be honored if you would come and see for yourself. Perhaps you will find that the flicker of candlelight is not something to turn away from, but something to embrace. We will be gathered after the town cider gathering, and the lantern will be lit as a signal of our shared spirit and joy. I do hope you will consider joining us.
REPORT FROM THE FARROW GAZETTE
October 24, 1935
ALL HALLOWS’ EVE ECLIPSE GATHERING
By BILL CASTER
FARROW, October 25—The chill of autumn has arrived, and with it comes the annual Farrow cider gathering, a tradition as rich and warm as the very drink that gives it its name. On the eve of October 31st, the good people of Farrow—our proud and hearty cider folk—are invited to the town square to partake in an evening of merriment, fellowship, and the finest cider our orchards have to offer.
This year, the event takes on an even grander spirit, as the highly anticipated lighting of the Great Lantern will be unveiled as part of the night’s festivities. Constructed by devoted hands and brimming with community pride, the towering jack-o’-lantern will cast its glow over the square, marking what organizers are calling “a beacon of tradition, honor, and the harvest’s bounty.”
The evening will begin at six o’clock with the ceremonial tapping of the first cider barrel, followed by games and amusements fit for all ages. Those in attendance can expect fresh-baked goods from Mrs. Eliza Redding, as well as lively tunes played by the Farrow String Band. The lighting of the Great Lantern will take place promptly at eight o’clock, aligning with the expected lunar eclipse.
Let this be a reminder that all are welcome to the gathering. Whether you have called Farrow home for a lifetime or have only just arrived, this is an opportunity to stand shoulder to shoulder with your neighbors and celebrate the season in good company. Raise your mugs, Ciderfolk, for an evening of warmth, wonder, and community spirit!
FROM THE REVEREND TO JOHN
October 27, 1935
Your words reached me at a most peculiar moment, and I confess I have read them more times than I care to admit. Tobias is indeed a man of vision, one whose tireless dedication commands admiration, even as his energy gives me pause. That he spent the whole of the night ensuring the ground was prepared, it is, as you said, an impressive feat. And yet, there is something in the air that unsettles me, a weight I cannot name. Perhaps it is just the season itself.
I had intended, as any good man of the cloth should, to be present at the cider gathering and the lighting of the great lantern, but the pull of duty leads me elsewhere. There are matters of faith that require my attention beyond the reach of town, and I find myself thinking of a quiet place, a familiar place, where a man might rest his worries for a while.
Would you care to meet and speak on such things? It has been too long since we last found time to reflect, and I suspect I am not the only one who carries the burden of thoughts best left unspoken. If you are willing, you will know where to find me. Come after dark, when the world is quieter, when all eyes will be turned elsewhere.
REPORT FROM THE FARROW GAZETTE
November 1, 1935
CIDER GATHERING CLAIMS THREE LIVES
By BILL CASTER
FARROW, November 1—A night of celebration turned to devastation as a sudden fire engulfed the great lantern erected for the town’s annual All Hallow’s Eve festivities. What was meant to be a grand display of community spirit became the site of an unspeakable tragedy when flames overtook the structure with horrifying speed, leaving little hope for those inside.
Authorities have confirmed the discovery of three sets of remains in the wreckage— an adult and two children, believed to be Mrs. Eliza Redding and her two young sons, Daniel and Simon. The family had been last seen near the lantern just before the fire began. The whereabouts of Mr. Tobias Redding remain unknown, leading to growing speculation.
Witnesses report that the fire erupted almost instantaneously upon the lantern’s lighting, consuming the wooden and paper structure with unnatural haste. Despite cool autumn conditions and no strong winds that evening, the blaze spread too quickly for any effective response. Locals have murmured suspicions about the cause, but no official determination has been made.
Reverend Halloway, who was expected to lead a blessing at the event, was absent that evening, having left town for reasons undisclosed. In a written statement, he expressed sorrow for the loss and urged the people of Farrow to come together in prayer during this difficult time.
Authorities have begun an inquiry, though much of the evidence has been reduced to cinders. The town now mourns the loss of a mother and her children while grappling with the unanswered questions surrounding the blaze. Funeral services will be held later this week at Farrow Chapel.
The Gazette will continue to report as more details come to light.
TO THE REVEREND
November 1, 1935
You know, today is Día de los Muertos in Mexico. A day of remembrance, of offerings laid at candlelit altars, of laughter and music drifting through the streets in honor of those who have passed. The Mexicans say the dead do not truly leave us, that they walk among us for a time, brushing against our world like this upcoming last breath of autumn before the cold sets in. The living welcome them with open arms, without fear... It is a beautiful thought, is it not? That death is not an end, but a homecoming!
I wonder, Reverend, if you will stand before the town today and try to make sense of what has happened. Will you tell them God’s will is mysterious? That He works in ways beyond our understanding? Will you let your voice tremble just enough to seem convincing? Will you speak of the fire in a hushed tone, lower your eyes as if you did not see this coming?
I saw it coming. I saw it before any of you did. That great lantern, that towering, grinning thing you all marveled at—it was never meant to stand. The moment the first beams were laid, the moment the paste dried against the timber, its fate was sealed. It was an altar of its own, you see. And offerings must be made.
The others held me back, tethered me to a life that was never mine, a life I was forced to endure with clenched teeth and empty prayers. But fire is a merciful thing. It unburdens. It consumes. It purifies. And now, I am free.
Do you feel free, Reverend? Or do you feel watched? Do you check the corners of your room before turning out the light? Do you wake in the night, ears straining for footsteps that are not there? You should. You should watch the door, the windows, the closet where the dark pools like thick oil. You should listen for whispers where there should be none. Because I know you, I know what you are, what you wanted, and I promise you— promise you—you will never have it.
They will bury caskets that hold nothing but ashes. They will lower them into the earth, murmur prayers, bow their heads in grief. But me? I breathe. I live. And for the first time, I have something to celebrate.
May your prayers fail you.
With all my love,
Eliza “Redding”
