The Grumpy Pilgrim of November 1st

In the crooked little town of Hollowmere, where the fog clung to the cobblestones like a secret, lived Ebenezer Grimsby, a man who had arrived on the Mayflower with nothing but a scowl and a trunk full of grudges.

Every year, on the 31st of October, the townsfolk draped their quaint homes in cobwebs, carved grinning faces into pumpkins, and let their children run wild in sheets and masks.

Ebenezer hated it.

The laughter grated on his ears like rusted hinges. The flickering jack-o’-lanterns mocked his perpetual frown. Halloween, to him, was a mockery of solemnity, a carnival of the frivolous.

On the morning of November 1st, the town awoke to silence. No candy wrappers skittered in the wind. No plastic skeletons rattled on porches. The only sound was the rhythmic thwack of an axe against wood, echoing from the town square like a heartbeat.

Ebenezer stood in the center, his pilgrim hat askew, his beard streaked with pumpkin guts. The axe in his gnarled hands gleamed with fresh sap. Around him lay the ruins of Halloween: shattered witches, decapitated ghosts, and a sea of orange pulp.

The townsfolk gathered at a safe distance, their faces pale beneath the remnants of last night’s face paint.

“He’s gone mad,” whispered Mrs. Hallowell, clutching her witch hat decoration.

“He’s always been mad,” muttered Mr. Finch, who had once dressed as a turkey and been chased by Ebenezer’s walking stick.

Ebenezer raised the axe again. Thwack. A plastic bat split in two. Thwack. A cardboard coffin crumpled. The children, who had been brave enough to peek from behind their parents’ legs, now hid completely. Even the town’s stray cat, usually fearless, arched its back and vanished into the fog.

But then, something shifted.

The fog thickened, swirling into shapes that weren’t quite fog. The shattered decorations began to twitch. A pumpkin head rolled upright, its carved grin wider than before. A ghost sheet lifted itself from the ground, its eye holes glowing faintly.

The witch’s hat, now dented and crooked, perched itself atop a lamp post and cackled. And then, Ebenezer froze, axe mid-swing...

The decorations were moving. Not in the way of wind or pranksters. No. They were dancing. The pumpkin heads bobbed in rhythm. The ghosts twirled like ballroom dancers. The witches’ brooms swept the ground in perfect synchronization.

And from the wreckage rose a voice, not quite human, not quite not: “You’ve freed us, Grimsby. From the tyranny of tape and string!”

Ebenezer blinked. The axe slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground. The pumpkin nearest him rolled forward, its flame now a cheerful blue.

“We were trapped in attics and garages, forced to scare for one night only. But you—” it gestured with a vine arm—“you’ve given us eternity.”

The townsfolk, who had been poised to flee, now stood transfixed. A child giggled. Then another. Soon, the square was filled with laughter, not of fear, but of delight.

Ebenezer, for the first time in centuries, smiled. It was a small, crooked thing, like a crack in old wood. But it was there.

The decorations formed a conga line. The ghosts led, the pumpkins followed, and the witches brought up the rear, their brooms now functioning as tambourines. They danced around Ebenezer, who found himself swept into the middle. His pilgrim boots, once planted in stubbornness, now tapped in time.

And so, every November 1st, the town of Hollowmere throws the Grimsby Ghost Gala. The decorations, now free and frolicsome, put on a show that would make even the grumpiest pilgrim grin.

Ebenezer, axe retired to the mantelpiece, sits in the place of honor, sipping cider and nodding approvingly as the ghosts bow and the pumpkins take their final curtsy.

For in Hollowmere town, Halloween's done with a cheer,

Not a scream, but a wink, because the spooky are set free here!

Hope you enjoyed my story!