🕯️A Journey Through Burrington as the Spooky Season Awaits 🕯️
Spooky Season Awaits 🕯️
The air shifts in October. The wind carries a weight heavier than autumn leaves, thicker than the mist that creeps over Burrington’s streets, and I-your guide, your Storyteller - can feel it stirring before even the first candle flickers in the windows. Burrington does not wake easily. It does not rise at the bidding of any calendar or holiday. But something about this month, something about the chill in the bones of the air, calls the town to life.
You feel it the moment you step through the edge of its borders: the air tastes of memory, of secrets pressed tight beneath the dust of decades, of grief that refuses to be quieted. Shadows stretch long along the cobblestones, and the wind whispers names that time has tried to forget. Even now, the streets are empty- but they are not silent. You will hear them if you listen.
This October, I invite you to walk with me through Burrington. Not as a visitor, not as a casual observer. Walk as someone willing to see what is hidden, willing to feel the weight of a town that does not forgive and does not forget.
The Hollowed Hours: A Town Breathing Again
October 1st marks a turning of the tide, a time when Burrington exhales the darkness it has held all year. The Hollowed Hours: The Night Burrington Breathed; a collection of stories crafted from the town’s own restless heart, opens its doors on that day. The collection is alive in ways subtle and terrifying: a shadow in a window, a chill in the hallway, a whisper behind your ear that is almost too soft to hear.
These stories are not simply tales; they are fragments of Burrington itself. In them, the town remembers. It mourns. It laughs, it weeps, it screams-but always, it watches. Every creaking floorboard, every flicker of candlelight, every rustle through the autumn leaves carries the weight of what has come before. And if you are quiet, you may hear the stories calling to you, pulling you deeper into corners you thought were empty, corners that were never empty at all.
Walking Through Burrington
Come with me. Step lightly. The fog is thick, curling around your ankles, and the cobblestones are slick from the last evening’s rain. We begin at the heart of the town, the old square. The fountain is cracked and dry, the statues eroded with time, yet they still seem to watch. The children from long ago play just beyond the corner of your eye, figures frozen in a loop that no day can break.
Turn down the lane toward the library. Built in the 1800s but touched by the hands of another century, the library hums with a faint, unnatural glow. Books shift in their shelves when you are not looking; letters, journals, and notes seem to have been written for you alone, though no one else has read them in decades. The Storyteller’s voice-mine-echoes faintly here, guiding, warning, promising stories yet to be told.
Past the library, the streets wind into the oldest neighborhoods. Here, houses lean closer than they should, their windows opaque with history. A family’s laughter once spilled into these alleys; now only whispers remain. Yet, if you pay attention, you might see the shadow of an old man tending a garden that has long since died, or a woman gazing from a balcony as though waiting for a train that never arrives.
Every corner, every empty street, every flickering lamp holds a story. Some are joyous, some tragic, some so dark that even the night itself shies away. And in October, they do not hide. They breathe.
Whispers from the Past
The town’s history is a tangle of love and betrayal, of moments frozen in time and memories that refuse to let go. The Seinfeld family, reliving a child’s funeral that echoes through the decades; Elijah, the boy ghost who wanders the streets looking for laughter he will never find; Lavinia Hark, whose life was stolen before she could claim it, these are not just stories. They are Burrington’s heartbeat.
The Storyteller does not always know why these events have lingered so long, or why some souls are drawn back into the living world while others remain hidden. I can only watch, record, and guide you to witness. Each story is a fragment of a life, a heartbeat, a secret kept too long. And when October comes, you feel them all at once: the weight of grief, the pull of curiosity, the thrill of fear that dances along your spine like the first candlelight in a dark room.
The Spooky Season Ahead
October is a month that demands attention. The Hollowed Hours is only the beginning. As the days pass, more stories will surface, two brand-new Halloween tales that will draw you further into Burrington’s streets, where shadows shift and the past lingers like a scent you cannot place.
I will also reveal behind-the-scenes glimpses: glimpses into how the town’s mysteries were constructed, the lives that inspired its ghostly residents, the moments I have captured in words that might have gone unnoticed if not for careful eyes. Sneak previews of the Where Time Can’t Exist series will surface, inviting you to revisit familiar streets or to explore them for the very first time.
And there will be content created solely to satisfy the horror-hungry souls among you. Short, sharp, terrifying slices of Burrington designed to make you pause, look over your shoulder, and feel the hair on your arms rise.
Halloween Philosophy
Humans have always been drawn to fear. There is something about the shadowed corners, the whispered names, the thrill of danger without the danger itself, that calls to us. Burrington embodies this desire. It is the perfect vessel for it: a town suspended in time, a place where pain and love linger long after life has ended, where the past never forgets and the present cannot move without its consent.
Halloween is more than a date on a calendar. It is a threshold, a veil, a chance to step into the stories that haunt us, to confront the shadows of our own lives through the safety of another world. Burrington offers this in abundance. And I will lead you there.
Final Invitation
The Hollowed Hours are coming. The night is long, and the streets of Burrington are ready for your footsteps. The town waits for no one, but it will make room for those who dare to see it fully, to feel it in its raw, aching entirety.
Step lightly. Pay attention. Listen for the whispers in the fog. Follow the Storyteller’s voice.
The veil thins in October. The Hollowed Hours begin on October 1st, and the town, every shadow, every echo, every heartbeat of grief and joy-welcomes you.
Are you ready to step inside?
- Makitia Thompson
#MindsInDesign #MakitiaThompson #TheMidUniverse #Midstories #Makitia #WhereTimeCantExist #UntilTimeRemembers #TheHollowedHours #HappyHalloween #Spookyseason
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