The Liminal Space – Pre-Halloween Ponderings

So, I’m sitting by the log fire again (I have moved since the last time we spoke, I promise)on a wet Derbyshire afternoon with the wind moaning in the chimney. Simon is opposite me on the other sofa, tapping away at his laptop, finishing the last edits of Forever 26, Until I’m Not. The pumpkin I have yet to carve sits on the hearth and, in the spirit of finding yet another excuse to not carve it, I am pondering how it’s not just about the decorations or sugar-laden treats. It’s about history, memory, and the deep, curious traditions that survive beneath the surface of modern Halloween.

There’s something about Halloween, about this season generally. Something that lingers in your bones. A shiver of anticipation, the sense that the world has tilted slightly, and the veil between the living and the dead has thinned, if only a little bit.

Samhain, as the Celts knew it, was a festival marking the end of the harvest and the onset of winter. A liminal time, which gives me an excuse to use the word ‘liminal’, when the natural cycle paused and the old year waned.

The Celts believed the dead could walk among the living and to protect themselves they would light bonfires, wear masks, and leave offerings of food. These practices were not mere superstition; they were a profound recognition of the world’s unseen rhythms. Communities gathered in sacred places, the smoke curling into the dark sky like a bridge between the realms. In Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, people whispered the names of departed loved ones into the night, sometimes leaving small bowls of milk or honey to welcome their spirits home.

We travel a lot, Simon and I, looking for pretty places and spooky or mysterious tales. And walking through the villages and hamlets of Derbyshire, or Scotland, or Wales or wherever else we may have rocked up on a whim, one can still sense echoes of these rituals. In some places, children bob for apples in the old-fashioned way, a tradition said to reveal glimpses of the future. Peel an apple in one continuous strip, toss it over your shoulder, and the curling shape would hint at the initial of your future spouse. A seemingly playful pastime, but one rooted in the same impulse that led the Celts to read omens in fire and frost: a desire to see beyond the thin veil, to understand what the unseen might hold.

Turnips, too, once played a central role here (as anyone from my generation and before will gladly tell you. Much harder to carve out, I can tell thee! Didn’t have the lovely, sweet scent of pumpkin either.)The carved neep lanterns of Scotland (essentially a hollowed, candle-lit root) were meant to protect homes from evil spirits. It’s my guess that anyone with the strength and resilience to carve a turnip or swede would make an awesome and formidable opponent – even to the darkest spirit or fae.

When pumpkins arrived from across the Atlantic, they replaced turnips for their size and abundance, yet the symbolism remained: a flickering face to guide and guard. I remember as a child watching the candlelight dance across our windowsill, imagining the ancestors in the shadows, approving our efforts to honour them. Yes.I was an odd child…

Food has always been central to this season. Soul cakes, sweetened with nutmeg and cinnamon, were baked for All Souls’ Day, (recipe here if you fancy having a bash at making them) each cake representing a soul released from Purgatory. Children, or “soulers,” went door to door singing for them: “A soul! A soul! A soul cake, please, for a soul for Heaven’s sake.”

The cakes were more than sustenance; they were offerings, a tangible bridge to the otherworld. Barmbrack, the Irish fruit loaf, concealed charms within its batter: a ring for marriage, a coin for wealth, a thimble for spinsterhood. Whoever found the token would keep it, a talisman through the year, holding a piece of fate in their hands.

Even in seemingly simple dishes, magic lingered. Colcannon, mashed potatoes mixed with kale or cabbage and butter, often hid a ring or coin, promising glimpses into love or fortune.

As a Yorkshire lass, born and bred it would be rude of me not to mention parkin. This sticky treacle cake was sometimes left for the spirits or given to the youngest child, inviting protection for the household. In our family this would be Jackson, the youngest of my twin grandsons. This may pose a problem since my parkin is laced with ginger and quite spicy. I don’t think he’d appreciate it. But I digress…

Across these rituals, a quiet wisdom persisted: generosity, remembrance, and the recognition that the boundaries between worlds are rarely fixed.

The hearth itself held omens. Fires were and still are tended with almost ritual care. A hearth that went out on Halloween night was a terrible sign, sometimes said to herald death before Christmas. The flicker of blue flames was a message from the spirits; ash patterns were read like maps, guiding families toward the coming year’s fortunes or dangers. Candles, too, spoke: a sudden sputter meant a ghost was near, a steady burn, a blessing. Mirrors were covered to prevent spirits from being trapped or startling the living, and any spilled salt could signal unseen presence.

Then there’s the animals.

Animals have long been messengers of the otherworld. Owls’ cries, black cats crossing a threshold, crows circling a roof – each carried meaning. A solitary raven could protect, three foretold death. Dogs howling at midnight were believed to see what we could not. Bats, spiders, and even livestock behaviour were observed for signs. Each movement, each sound, was read as a letter from the unseen.

I remember walking my dog, Chieftain at night in the Derbyshire countryside when the wind had dropped and a low mist rose from the fields. The owls called, foxes barked in the valley. You could almost feel the presence of something older. Older than me, older than the town. A sense that the stories we tell, the foods we bake, the lanterns we light, they all carry a thread through time.

Anyway. That’s enough spookiness for tonight. I have a pumpkin to carve.

maybe.. 😏

til next time …

K x

#Folklore #Ghost #Halloween #HalloweenSuperstitions #HalloweenTraditions #History #Mysterious #Paranormal

The Dumb Supper

I’m sitting by the log fire on a freezing night in Derbyshire while Simon ties up the loose ends of Forever 26, Until I’m Not (my rapidly forthcoming novel) and my thoughts turn to carving the Samhain pumpkin.

However, in the absence of actually being able to be arsed to move from in front of the aforementioned cosy fire, my mind drifts instead to Halloween traditions – thank you, ADHD… 🤣

One tradition that’s always fascinated me is the old custom of the dumb supper – not “dumb” as in foolish, but “dumb” as in silent. A feast held without a word, for the benefit of the dead, or for those impatiently hoping to see a glimpse of their future beloved. It sounds quaintly Victorian now, but it’s far older than that, woven through the folklore of the British Isles and carried across the Atlantic by settlers who clung to their fireside customs as tightly as they clutched their faith.

Imagine the scene:

a creaking farmhouse, candles guttering, girls in white aprons moving quietly about the kitchen as the clock ticks towards midnight, each glance towards the empty chair at the table betraying both fear and excitement…

The dumb supper was first recorded in Britain and later in the rural backwaters of America in North Carolina, Kentucky, Tennessee… wherever old beliefs travelled and refused to die. Folklorist Wayland D. Hand, who compiled hundreds of accounts in the Frank C. Brown Collection, found the same ritual turning up again and again, told by grandmothers and farmers’ wives alike.

In these stories, young women would prepare a simple meal in total silence, setting a place for an unseen guest. The table might be laid backwards, dessert served first, chairs turned the wrong way round in a deliberate inversion of the everyday world, because, as folklore insists, when things are reversed the veil between worlds grows thin.

Speak a word and the spell is broken.

Remain silent and, so they said, a spirit, often the shade of a future husband, might appear and take his seat at the table.

Of course, some versions were far darker. In certain corners of the countryside, the supper was said to summon not a lover but a ghostly procession, or even a coffin carried by invisible hands… a vision of one’s own death if the ritual was done improperly.

In the Victorian imagination, these warnings blossomed into the stuff of parlour horror. A few unlucky souls were said to faint dead away when a shadow really did appear in the empty chair, or when the candle flame flared blue at the stroke of midnight. More likely, some lad from the village had been hiding in the scullery, waiting for the right moment to give the girls a fright. Of course that never stopped the story spreading and growing each time it was told.

By the twentieth century, the dumb supper had shifted from love-divination to ancestor worship, adopted by spiritualists and later by modern pagans as part of their Samhain observances. It became less about summoning and more about remembering.

Today, many people still set an extra place at the table on Halloween night, laying out bread, wine, or a favourite meal for those who have gone before, and eating in silence as a mark of respect. In this quieter form, the supper feels both eerie and tender. A recognition that the dead are never very far away.

As the folklore writer on Atlas Obscura put it, it’s a meal where “the living eat with the dead,” each side acknowledging the other for a brief, candlelit hour.

It’s easy to see why the tradition persists. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about the idea of eating in silence, listening to the pop of the fire and the sigh of the wind outside, imagining that those we’ve lost might be sitting beside us for one last meal. In the hush, you might hear a familiar creak, a whisper, or the faint scrape of a chair leg. Nothing more than the house settling, perhaps, but enough to raise the hairs on your neck.

And yet, beyond the spookiness, there’s comfort in it. The dumb supper reminds us that death isn’t an ending, just a change of state. That love, like the candle flame, flickers but doesn’t go out. Whether you see it as witchcraft, folklore, or simply an act of remembrance, it’s one of those old customs that manages to feel both unsettling and profoundly human.

So, as the fire crackles and the pumpkin sits uncarved on the hearth, I’m tempted to try it myself this Samhain. Perhaps I’ll lay an extra place – a glass of bourbon, a slice of homemade cake, maybe a few of those cocktail sausages Nathaniel from Forever 26 was so obsessed with – and just sit for a while in the quiet. No phone, no music, no chatter. Just the silence, and whoever might choose to join me.

After all, as every good witch knows, the dead appreciate good manners – and a proper supper served with respect.

#ancestorVeneration #BritishWitchcraft #DerbyshireFolklore #dumbSupper #folkloreHistory #ghostStories #HalloweenTraditions #Samhain