In the Spirit

October doesn’t play nice. It’s the season where folklore stops pretending — where the old stories walk again, and every shadow has weight. “In the Spirit” lives in that space: the dirt‑level realism of things that go bump in the night because they actually do.

This is the boar who rides into the dark without a head to guide him — because instinct, history, and raw nerve are enough. He knows the difference between a parlor trick and a real reckoning. Pumpkins split open. Lanterns burn hot. Bats scatter. Candy corn shows up because even the harmless things have a place in the ritual.

Nothing here is cute. Nothing here is glossy. Nothing here is softened for seasonal retail.

These are artifacts of All Hallows’ Eve: iron, soot, cracked gourds, tallow smoke, and silhouettes that feel pulled from folklore older than the country itself. Severe line work. Mythic realism. The kind of Halloween that remembers what the night used to be before plastic decorations and polite frights.

The fire isn’t lit to chase the dark away. It’s lit to see what’s standing in it.