Once upon an All Hallows’ Eve in the hills of Appalachia, not so very long ago, a family of kids went trick or treating. The two sisters and four brothers (the youngest girl hadn’t been born yet) were all on their way back home, carrying sacks filled to the brim with candy through a dark hollow. As they approached the steepest, longest path up a stony wooded hill, the youngest, Zane, felt a tug on the back of his shirt. “Stop it, Joe!” He called to his older brother. But Joe wasn’t behind them; he was leading the group. As they went on, Zane felt another tug. Again, he turned to find no one behind him. “This isn’t funny, guys!” he said, thinking it a prank. Again, they continued. Near the top of the mountain, Zane once again felt a tug, so strong that it pulled him back and ripped his shirt. The light of the moon showed the kids that nary a soul was behind them. They all dropped their bags of candy, and ran the rest of the way home.
This painting incorporates that story - about my uncle Zane - and other personal memories of Halloween in West Virginia.