I allowed the Preacher’s statement to roll over my shoulder focusing more on his demeanor as he tip-toed across a single line of stones avoiding the pool of grass that barricaded each stone in place.  He conveniently cut off a cluster of neighboring kids cycling the sidewalks of adjacent homes.  A few whispers of a breeze slid by tickling the bare skin of my feet and arms. The Fall weather nestling Winter’s bosom, she’d say. October chills I’d always call it.  The clarity was broken by murmurs of “awe” and “ahh,” like names, preceding an encore chant of, “do it again.”  The preacher stood center stage to a small cult of admirers in front him, eerily majestic to the inferior youth catering to his every move.  A single dollar coin cupped between his index and thumb…vanishing.  There's a word for him, a proper title for his misleading manipulation but none came to mind.  Words are a preacher’s weapons yet he held his arsenal at bay cleverly second behind a curtain of magic. Words upstaged by a baited illusion.  Removing his hat his hand disappears into its cratered abyss resurfacing a treasure of four single dollar coins, one to each audience member.  A jester’s smile painted onto his face receiving a King’s ovation as he bows. The dark thinning strands of his hair shadows his movement vaguely cloaking his eyes and forehead.  Then suddenly he turns his curse-ed gaze back to me upon an axis of a stiff neck. He simply winks, erects his posture, and once again shades his expression beneath his hat.

            I abandoned my post at the base of the oak door surrendering to open air and somber skies as the sun began it’s slow descent back towards the other side.  It’s infinite indecisive behavior, to me, somehow favoring the other side.  The clouded grey pavement a frozen lake beneath me cooling, demanding cautious steps, rewards me with the earlier morning’s local tribune.  The front page of the paper upholds seasonal tradition, listing certain entities and spirits to keep clear of on the night of Hollow’s Eve.  My mind turns back a few pages in time recollecting Scottish tales of a night dweller upon chariot known as The Banshee.  Scotland practice is to never answer the door of an unknown knock fearing it to be the Banshee and an omen of death to the home.

“What are you wearing?”

Private thoughts began to flee from an interrupting voice compelling a sudden impulse of the senses to find the origin of sound.  The young cyclists still in position bickering amongst one another of whom had the better looking coin,  the preacher strangely no where to be found.

            “So what are you wearing?”

            “Hey Pete,” sight now capturing my right-end neighbor and the origin of voice. Pete “The Watch” Smith as some referred to him, a rake in hand collecting fallen leaves or perhaps an excuse just to keep a close eye on the neighborhood. 

            “Debra Garrett’s having a costume party tonight and tomorrow. I was thinking of getting a few guys together to be Ghostbusters. How about it?”

Every action has an opposite equal reaction, mine first being to ask for my rake back he so kindly helped himself to. Maybe I just didn’t feel like being neighborly watching him squeeze leaves into an orange pumpkin bag.  A strange reincarnation of Dr. Frankenstein pouring life into the once flat plastic pumpkin in addition to his festive collection strategically placed around his yard.  His eye contact minimal.

            “No thanks Pete, you know I haven’t gone to any since Their passing.”

My entire statement missed his mind’s comprehensive flight as he yelled out a few houses up, “looking forward to that costume Miss Garrett; we’ll make it memorable this year,” a clumsy chuckle sputtering out his mouth as he continued his work. Miss Garrett simply smiles and waves, her light blue denim shirt appearing a size to big as it slid down her arm.  She proceeds to trade flowers in her garden.  The preacher’s earlier comment pierces my thoughts like a bullet. “…I think this one will be worth remembering.” I shattered the thought like glass, blinking.

            “What do you know about that preacher Pete?”

His eyes buried in the leaves, “huh…ohh. I don’t know much really. I just met him today like you. I hear he’s a drifter though, came down from Canada, said a change in the tide of the ocean air lead him this way or something like that when I spoke to him.”

My mind wandered a bit with the restless wind in the pines an aroma of honey suckle filtered through the scent of damp leaves, a curious force about me questioning the arrival of our new guest.

            “He seemed pretty interested to know who lives here.” Pete’s fingers spread open as if tossing crumbs all five pointing to my abode. His hazel eyes finally acknowledging my presence clashing against the hue of my green as a slick grin parted his cheeks in secret delight.

            “So?”

            “So he asked me and I told him you did.

            “And?”

            “And he thought he should meet you.

            “Why?”

            “Because I told him you were home.”

Emotion claimed the best of me as I snatched my rake from him. My neighborly instinct took a backseat to the raw reaction within. With my newspaper cupped under arm, I proceeded back towards the oak door a lodged sensation of discomfort in my throat. The nausea returning as Pete called after me.

“The party starts tonight at 7!”