Two glowing jack-o-lanterns flanked the Giles Hollow Post Office’s broad front porch. The pumpkin’s candles flickered yellow and orange beneath a string of bright skeleton lights that danced gently in the soft breeze. The rest of the space was blanketed in a patchwork of fake spiderwebs. Given the building’s age, these did not look entirely out of place. However, the drooping gray threads had the added impact of obscuring the front door and its neighboring round dark windows, creating the impression of a leering face. Altogether, the scene became magnitudes spookier than perhaps originally intended. Unfortunately, the haunting result was seemingly lost on the older man sitting and smiling at the center of it all.

Lester waited across the street on the stone bench in front of the library. He watched costumed kids in groups of three or four tentatively make their way forward. After chorused cries of “trick or treat!” they happily made selections from a large metal washtub filled with candy. The older ones helped themselves and hurried off to the next house. Younger kids took longer. Their little hands picked up each piece of candy, determining which was bigger, had more chocolate, or might be sour. Ben Titus, dressed in his ever-present uniform, rocked in his chair, laughing as they thanked him and ran back to their parents.

The flow of trick-o-treaters continued unbroken for nearly forty-five minutes before a gap in the procession appeared. Finally, as the third werewolf of the night and a kid dressed as a bad report card exited the porch, Lester stood and approached.

“There you are,” Ben said, his face lighting up. “I was wondering if you were going to come by. Thought maybe you’d gotten too old for trick-or-treating. What, no costume this year?”

“Hi, Ben,” said Lester, stepping up onto the porch. “I was wearing one, but I kind of had to ditch it.”

“Is that so? I suppose I can’t say much myself since I’m going as a postmaster. Not that scary, and I guess it doesn’t count as a costume, especially if it’s the one you hide behind every other day of the year.”

“Ben,” Lester said, looking around to make certain they were alone. “Can we talk?”

“Sure we can. What’s on your mind?”

“Inside? It’s serious.”

“Oh — of course. Give me two seconds.”

Ben got up and placed what Lester thought was the world’s most optimistic sign in front of the washtub full of sweets. Please Take Just One. Then he grabbed a couple of candy bars and handed the larger of the two to Lester.

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“Chocolate’s some of the best serious conversation food there is,” said Ben.

Lester peeled back the wrapper and took a bite as Ben brushed aside spiderwebs and used his key to open the door.

The inside of the post office was dark.

Following the dim glow of light from the back room, they passed the wall of mailboxes and stepped through the half-door next to the customer window. Ben took a seat behind his desk, and Lester plopped into the chair beside it.

Sitting in silence, Lester tried to figure out where to begin while Ben busied himself by pretending to sort through a stack of papers.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” Lester said, deciding on the direct approach. “And I wouldn’t blame you. But sinister things are happening in Giles Hollow.”

Ben stopped his shuffling and shifted his chair to face Lester. “What kind of sinister things?”

“You know the rumors about The Council? How people are always saying it’s a front for organized crime? Well, they’re wrong. It’s actually something much worse.” Lester studied Ben’s face. “What would you do if I told you there was a secret war that had been going on for centuries? One that no one but those fighting it knew about?”

“I think,” said Ben, thoughtfully, “I’d probably start by brewing us a couple of mugs of tea. Because that sounds like the sort of thing that might take a fair amount of explaining.”

Alone in the quiet office, Ben and Lester sat and drank their tea while Lester did his best to explain. He started with the accident on his paper route. Then described Bernard’s Drawing-In ceremony and his brother’s strange behavior afterward. When he got to the part about their fathers and the man behind The Mortician’s Eye, Ben put his mug down and leaned in closer. By the time Lester finished with what had happened earlier that night to Truck Boy, their drinks had gone cold, and it was Ben’s turn to sit in silence.

Lester watched him out of the corner of his eye, wondering what he was thinking. Would he write it off as a Halloween prank, accusing him of making it all up? Or worse, would he tell Lester’s parents? Ben and his father already didn’t get along. What would happen if Ben informed him that his son was going around telling people that he was a demon who shot fire from his hands? Had Lester just made a colossal mistake?

Ben got up from his chair and retrieved his walking stick from its place in the corner. He held it out to Lester, who took it.

“Do you remember what I told you about that?” Ben asked.

Lester turned the stick to see the recently completed carving of the beetle holding a ball between its front legs.

“It’s from a myth,” he said. “Something about the god Khepri rolling the sun through the sky?”

“Correct,” said Ben. “The ancient Egyptians saw the scarab beetle as a symbol of creation and rebirth. Khepri was never quite as popular a deity as the likes of Ra, but his followers were extremely loyal. Generation after generation, they dedicated their lives to assisting him in his work. They believed if they ever failed to help Khepri protect the light — all of creation would be plunged into everlasting darkness.”

Lester looked from the beetle to Ben, and his heart sank. “No. You can’t be.”

“It’s true, Lester,” said Ben. “Like my father before me and his before him, I am a disciple of the Secret Order of The Light.”