(Evernight, Part III)
Every costume hides a truth. Every monster tells a story.
When twilight creeps down the spine of October and the air smells faintly of smoke and candy, Evernight awakens again. The lanterns flicker. The masks return to their hooks. The laughter drifts between the houses, softer now—half play, half remembering.
Welcome back to Evernight, where Halloween is not just a night of pretending, but a mirror held up to the soul.
Last time, we spoke of The Gift of Chosen Fear—how we dance with darkness when we know we can step back into light.
Now we turn inward, to meet the monsters that follow us home.
The Story: The Thing in the Mirror
In the town of Evernight, there was a tradition.
After the final trick-or-treater vanished into the dark, after the porch lights went out, a child could stand before the mirror by candlelight and say their own name three times.
If they were brave enough to hold their own gaze, the story said, their true monster would appear behind them.
One year, a child named Ash decided to try.
The candle flickered; the air felt too thick. Ash said the name once, twice, three times—
And something stirred.
Not claws. Not horns.
Just a face, pale and trembling, with eyes too familiar.
It looked like Ash, only… heavier.
Heavier with every mean thing said in anger, every wish swallowed down, every moment they’d pretended not to hurt.
It whispered, “I’m you, when you don’t let yourself be.”
Ash froze. “But you’re awful.”
“I’m honest,” said the monster.
Then it did something unexpected. It offered its hand.
Ash hesitated, then took it.
And the mirror shivered—like the surface of a pond—and for a moment, the two faces became one.
When the candle burned out, Ash was alone again, heart pounding. But in the silence that followed, something inside had softened.
The monster hadn’t vanished.
It had been invited home.
The Reflection
The monsters we carry rarely roar.
They whisper.
They fidget in our chest when we smile too wide or stay too quiet. They come from old fears—of not being loved, not being safe, not being enough.
Halloween lets us meet them in disguise. It turns the unbearable into play.
Every costume is a clue: the vampire craving connection, the ghost who feels unseen, the beast who only wants to protect the soft thing inside.
To pretend at monsters is to practice compassion for the ones within us.
To name them is to free them from the dark.
And to hold them—without running—is how we grow brave.
The Invitation
This week, when you pass a mirror or catch your reflection in a dark window, pause for a moment.
Don’t check your hair or fix your expression.
Just look into your own eyes and ask:
“Which part of me wants to be seen tonight?”
You might glimpse a shadow behind the glass—loneliness, anger, tenderness, grief.
If you do, don’t turn away.
Say hello.
Say thank you for staying.
And let that small act of seeing become your spell of release.
Coming Next: The Feast of Shadows
In our next journey through Evernight, we’ll gather with the monsters, the ghosts, and the forgotten parts of ourselves for one final night of communion—where every shadow brings a gift, and every fear finds its seat at the table.
