The Longest Halloween, Book Three: Gabbie Del Toro and the Mystery of the Warlock's Urn. Frank Wood

      The house sat atop a tall, cragged and impossibly steep hill. Clearly not situated for visiting, the house looked like a huge jack o’-lantern with its stalk serving as chimney. Two oval windows bridged a door to create the appearance of a horrible visage. Fierce winds whipped the small troupe of four dark figures, each astride a broomstick, flying down through the parting clouds that encircled the otherwise non-traversable hill. They wore dark clothes and masks hid their faces. They all paused midair above the chimney stalk. Three of the figures pulled wands from their cloaks.

      Aiming their wands at the top of the pumpkin home, they set about searing the chimney stalk with their wands' wandage (power). In time they completely seared off the top of the home. The fourth, bigger shroud who was without a wand dropped from the broom on which he had been riding behind another. He stood on the edge of the home, stooped, and lifted the now-separated rooftop, tossing it over the side of the hill.

      Orange smoke from their handiwork bubbled up through the opening as the four interlopers alighted from their brooms and dropped stealthily into the home, their brooms left idling above. If the owner were home, he would be sleeping, the cloaked individuals hoped.

      “Hurry now, we haven’t much time!” a female’s voice rang out.

      They went about their business with hurried fervor, knocking over chairs and tables in their speed. A turned-over bookcase set off a rumbling division of the facing wall that bisected the house. On the other side, a luminous wick burned and glowed. It filled the room with its orange hue and stood as tall as a young child.

      “There it is!” the female hissed happily, dashing over to the huge wick. She unfurled a bag that she carried over her back and pulled a small dagger from her cloak.

      “Careful,” one of the cloaked interlopers called. “You mustn’t damage the spell.”

      “Don’t you think I know that?” she hissed impatiently. She unsheathed the dagger and began to approach the wick when the house began to rumble and shake.

      “What was that?”

      “We’re moving!”

      “Did ye honestly believe that ye could jest come in here and take what’s mine?!” a deep voice filled the whole room. The fireplace behind them, noticeably cool, rolled to the side and from the darkness behind leapt a bent-over man with long arms extending from heaving, massive shoulders. He clutched a terrible pitchfork. “I know what it be that ye want, but ye’ll not have it, not fer the likes of him!”

      “Step aside, farmer. Your betters be among you.”

      “Betters,” the man snorted. “I’ll show ye who's better—certainly not thee and thy pretending marauders.” The man smiled a mirthless smile. “Yessss,” he hissed, a cold smile twisting his lips. His eyes saw them for who they were behind their masks, as such was his gift. “I know who ye be under that deceptive cover. Ye don’ fool one who’s done battle with ol’ Belial hisself.” The four shrouds started, as if they were discovered. “It won’t matter though,” he cackled, tossing the pitchfork about in his hands. “After I be through wi’ ye, ye’ll wish ye’d thought twice about tryin’ to burgle ol’ Jack Spratt’s place!”

      Moving like wildfire, the man felled the dark figures with one swoop, tossing them about the room and piercing one of the interlopers in the shoulder with his pitchfork. A bauble fell to the floor with a loud clattering sound.

      “Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, here’s what ye’ll get fer me candlestick!” he cackled to no one in particular. He turned to face the woman who hovered about the wick, brandishing her dagger.

      He leapt to the woman, pitchfork held out before him. She blocked the fork with her free hand, holding her other hand with the dagger away from her body. It put her at a distinct disadvantage, which Jack pressed, snatching the dagger from her and tossing it against the wall. He turned his attention back to the woman, where he began to direct all of his considerable power.

      “Lullaby and good night to ye, lassie,” he growled as he forced her to her knees, the pitchfork between the two of them with the sharp tines just over her chest. His next move would surely mean her end—until the shearing burn of heavy taloned hand raked down his spine. It was the fourth shroud, who was no doubt a werewolf. Jack screamed and relinquished his grip on the pitchfork. The woman wasted no time; she snatched up the pitchfork and drove it into the felled man’s shoulder.

      “You may be indestructible, Jack Spratt,” she hissed, “but that doesn’t mean you can’t be hurt.” She forced him through the facing wall to the small hut, pitchfork and all. He went tumbling painfully down the backside of the hill to its muddy base.

      “Hurry,” was all the fourth one said as the woman darted over and released the dagger from the wall. Whispering the strangest of incantations, she proceeded to slice off the wick at its base.

      “The canister,” she ordered, and the fourth shroud obediently produced the bag into which she placed the wick. Everything fell into darkness at that moment, the light snuffed. “Now to what we planned.”

      The two males began to shred their dark cloaks and toss them about the property, along with scraps of their masks and boots.

      “Burn the rest of it to the ground,” the woman said and added, “but be sure not to destroy the condemning evidence.”

      The four burglars boarded their waiting brooms and soared into the night, carrying the encased wick in a specially prepared canister that dangled between two of them. The night sky was now made a glowing red and yellow by the burning pumpkin home atop the hill awash in a torrent of flames, its visage in front looking like a macabre, laughing demon.

      They approached a small campsite nearby where a tall, stately woman met them.

      “Success?”

      “We last need to search the wood,” the first, shorter female said in a commanding voice. “Jack of the Lantern has seen us as we truly are. Should this information be published abroad, our cause will be lost.”

      “Leave the Cursed One to me,” the tall woman said. “In the meantime,” she said, addressing one of the male shrouds, “are you wounded?”

      “Not badly,” the male replied, “though the farmer fought more hardily than expected.”

      “Let’s get you to care,” the tall woman said.

      “Wait,” the shorter female said, looking at the wounded male’s robes. “You’re missing one of your buttons.”

      The male looked down at his robe. “So I am.”

      “Do you think this happened recently?”

      “I don’t know,” he snapped back, “but I do know I’m in need of some mystical attention.”

      “Agreed,” Isabelle said. “Come this way!”

      As they took the wounded male off to her tent, another male came up behind the shorter female. “Do you think there’s anything to that missing button?”