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Zimero sat on the front steps of the castle, staring blankly into the middle distance. The weather was normal for winter, wet and grey. The stone steps beneath him were cold, but he was used to it by now.

The castle stood on the crest of the hill, with the edge of the forest only half a mile away from the front door. From the upper rooms of the castle, one could see the whole town. The days were always cold and grey. Sometimes it was windy, and sometimes it was rainy. Early mornings would be dominated with fog, while the weak sun would chase away about half of that by noon.

Zimero stood and shifted position to sit just in front of one of the stone lions that flanked the stairs. He leaned back against the lion’s front legs, feeling the cold of the stone seeping gently through the black hoodie and white striped shirt he wore. A light wind blew by, ruffling his orange hair, and his nose twitched. The air smelled wet. Another rainstorm was on its way.

Once again, Zimero started to reminisce about his life before becoming the apprentice to Hallowmas. Before, he had lived in a simple home in the Scottish countryside. Because of this, he was used to the sky being cold and grey. He was used to hard work. Another breeze blew by, and a shiver ran up his spine. This being cold forever would take some time to get used to however. It’d only been about 72 years since he had been chosen as apprentice, but to the Spirits, that was nothing.

Zimero reached up and started to run his fingers over his collar. It was a simple metal pumpkin attached to a thick piece of black velvet, and worn around his neck like a choker. Another breeze blew by, stronger and more insistent than the last one. Something was wrong.

Abruptly, Zimero stood up, just as the large wooden doors opened and a servant addressed him. “Young Master Hallow, Master Hallowmas wishes to see you in his chambers. It’s urgent.”

Zimero ran to the door. “What’s wrong?”

The servant, a young witch with long brown hair, glanced at him nervously. “I think he’s dying.”

Zimero’s blood ran colder than the stone lion. “No.” he murmured, and immediately shoved past the girl and ran into the castle and across the black and white tiled entryway, up more stone stairs, and down many carpeted hallways. He didn’t stop until he reached the black door to his Master’s chambers. He leaned over and caught his breath before knocking quickly.

He listened for the usual “Enter” but heard none. Instead, the door opened, and another servant let him in before leaving himself.

Zimero entered the room and looked around nervously. He had only been in here once or twice, both times being chastised for something he did. It was a large room, with a high vaulted ceiling, bright orange walls, and black furniture on a white carpeted floor.

Standing grandly in one corner of the room was a large four-poster bed. Beneath the blood red covers lay Hallowmas. He was pale, much more so from sickness, and his hair was as black as night. A pair of eyes opened, brown and alive while the rest of his body died. Slowly, he sat up, and gestured for Zimero to come closer.

“Master, what happened?” Zimero whispered, sitting in a chair next to the bed. “You were fine yesterday.”

Hallowmas nodded. “I met with some other Spirits last night, as you know. We played a game of Luck. One cup was poison, the other was simply water. Just as it was my turn, Friday the Thirteenth entered the room.” He grimaced, his handsome face twisting slightly. In comparison to the other Spirits, Hallowmas was still young, and looked it. His body had not aged much past that of a 30-year-old.

“You’re bad luck was to pick the poison.” Zimero murmured, not able to look at his mentor.

“Yes. Unfortunately.” He noticed his apprentice’s hands start to curl into fists on his lap. Reaching out, he grabbed them, noticing the cold. “Do not bear a grudge against Friday. It is her nature to cause bad luck. Just as our nature is to cause fear. Hatred for something you cannot control does nothing for you.”

Zimero nodded, tight-lipped. He wasn’t one to bear a grudge, but he couldn’t help but feel angry at the other Spirit.

“Zimero.”

Zimero’s head shot up and he looked at his master. Hallowmas never used his name unless something was serious.

“Zimero, I’m dying. You know what that means, don’t you?”

The realization was a hand that seemed to grab Zimero’s heart in an iron grip as he stared at his master, his black eyes wide. “But, I’m not ready yet! You can’t die!”

Hallowmas sighed. “You have no choice, Zimero. You must take your place as the next Spirit of Halloween. Someone must take over for me, and you are the only one qualified.”

“Barely!” Zimero cried, standing up. “Why can’t we get Father Time in here to keep you alive?”

“That would be on borrowed time. A Spirit cannot work on borrowed time. You know this.” Hallowmas pointed to another corner of the room. On a pedestal sat a large leather bound book. “All you will need will be in there. You know the duties of a Spirit. You know the formalities. You know how to deal with the ghosts and creatures of our world. You may not be emotionally ready, but you are qualified.”

Zimero shook his head, and sat down. His knees felt weak. “No. You can’t die. I’m not ready. Please don’t die!”

Hallowmas frowned, watching the boy. He really wasn’t ready. But there was no choice. “I’m sorry, Zimero. If there was anything I could do to lessen this burden for you, I would do it. You know I would. But this must happen.”

Hallowmas held out his hand, and a scepter materialized there. It was simply a black cane with a stone jack-o-lantern topping it, but it still made Zimero flinch away. “W-what are you doing, Master?”

“Crowning the next Spirit.” Hallowmas answered, holding it upright, towards Zimero. The boy started to shake, his black eyes even wider than before. “First came Samhain, then came All Hallows Eve, and then came Hallowmas. Now shall come Halloween.” At his command, the jack-o-lantern’s eyes and mouth started to glow a soft green.

Zimero, frozen in his chair, could not look away, no matter how hard he tried. Something began to tear at his heart, until he could no longer hold it back. A small white whisp of something left his open mouth and raced to the scepter. The jack-o-lantern flashed brightly before fading back to grey.

Zimero gasped and clutched his chest. “What was that?” Something felt like it was missing from him. His heart felt naked, exposed, physically broken.

“A small piece of your soul.” Hallowmas answered. He now looked older and more weak than he had only a minute ago. “You are now bound to the scepter.” Hallowmas grabbed Zimero’s hand and placed it on the black part of the scepter.

As his hand wrapped around it, Zimero felt more complete. The scepter felt warm under his fingers, and he looked up at Hallowmas.

“You are no longer Zimero. Now, you are Halloween.” And with that, Hallowmas’ eyes closed and his hands fell back to the bed.

Zimero started to shake as the magnitude of what happened hit him. “No. Master Hallowmas!” The scepter clattered to the floor, as Zimero fell forward onto his arms on the edge of the bed. He shamelessly sobbed into his arms. The man who had been the closest thing to a father to him for the last 72 years was now dead.


After what seemed like an eternity, a hand firmly grabbed Zimero’s shoulder. “Master Halloween…”

Zimero glanced up, his eyes red and swollen.

The servant, a tall wizard in his mid fifties, held out a piece of paper. “The Calendar Spirits wish to have a meeting. About… about Master Hallowmas.” He looked away, pain evident on his face. Master Hallowmas had been a good Spirit, good to his people, his servants, and his charges.

Zimero nodded, and straightened up, glancing at his Master’s body. “I’m Halloween now. As you wished, Master Hallowmas, I will take your place at the Table.” Zimero sniffed and retrieved the scepter from the floor. He turned to the servant. “Cover his body. Start the funeral preparations.”

The servant gave a low bow. “Yes Master Halloween.”

Zimero waited until the servant had left the room before wiping his eyes. He was a Spirit now, an official one. It was improper for a Spirit to cry, or show any weakness in public. Even when his mentor died. He took a second to compose himself and then, grabbing the scepter, left the room, finding the rest of the castle bustling with activity. The young witch who had summoned him to Hallowmas’ chambers stood waiting for him by the front door. In her hand, she held a black suit jacket with an orange tie.

Zimero pulled off his hoodie, and took the jacket and tie. He left his jeans on, as they were black anyway and he could pull it off. “Hey,” he started, and the girl looked up at him, “What’s your name?”

“Shayla, sir. I’m new.” The little girl answered shyly.

Zimero nodded, staring out the front doors. A light rain had started to fall, just as the wind had predicted. “Shayla. Tell the others… I’ll be back soon. We’ll have the funeral in three days. Tell them that I said to start all the preparations now, even digging a plot of land in the cemetery.”

Shayla curtsied. “Yes, sir.” She started to turn away.

“Oh, and Shayla.” Zimero called, finally turning to look at her. The girl stopped and turned back. “Welcome to the castle. I’m sorry that such a terrible thing happened in your first few days here.”

With that, Zimero walked out into the drizzle, soon finding himself at the Calendar Palace. It was time to face the other Spirits. His fellow Spirits, he could call them. He was no longer Zimero. Now, he was Halloween.