A cold wind carries the whispers of scarecrows. The owl hoots screeching in tones my ears cannot bear.   The greyed image staggers in front of me making my eyes squint for clarity.    The darkened cloth brushes against my skin, raising the hair on my arms.  I can smell the sour stench . . . What?

Pumpkin vines growing on the hillside…   fall is here.   My favorite time of the year. . . . Tense, skittish, fearful, ever alert, listening, seeing, over-compensating for the sounds I hear.   Sudden spurts of fear magnify the giggles and laughter . . . Ah to be a child again . . .

Eileen Detloff