The skeletons danced round the oak tree in the middle of the village. The low, full moon casting long, jaunty shadows down the streets and against the clustered together buildings.

The townsfolk hid in their houses, the bravest among them watching the yearly ritual by squinting through shutters, and keeping the index and middle fingers on their right hands crossed, and over their hearts.

The leaves changed, from green to orange to brown. Then fell. Fluttering to the ground, and crushed under bony feet. Until the last, when the macabre waltz suddenly ended. The skeletons bowed and curtsied and disappeared.

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