allianceofthewitchinghour

[allianceofthewitchinghour]

[allianceofthewitchinghour]

[allianceofthewitchinghour]

[allianceofthewitchinghour]

Alliance of the Witching Hour, Chapter 2: Library Union Ave Books, October 2018

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Alliance of the Witching Hour, Chapter 1: Wunderkammer

An exhibition of artworks, curiosities, collections and objets d’art was held October 5, 2018 at the Temple-Pittman House in downtown Knoxville, Tennessee.  

“During a recent building renovation, a forgotten storage space was rediscovered behind a sealed door. After extensive research it was found to be last leased for 99 years to a Ms. Gwendolyn Vondsten. Remnants of a will and testament showed she was bequeathed a curious collection from her uncle Mr. Erskine Zoeken. Zoeken is only remembered as an eccentric whose interest in the occult and spiritualist movements led him down many a bewildered path. His name is only found in the few remaining rosters of a late Victorian era "ghost story group" called Alliance of the Witching Hour. The 'estate' wishes to collect any information on Zoeken, Vondsten and the so-called Alliance and invites the public to view the Curiosities in hopes of obtaining any available information. The collection will be on display one night only with a limited auction on select items.”

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Ichabod Crane is a true Ally.

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both had been increased by his residence in this spell-bound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover bordering the little brook that whimpered by his schoolhouse, and there con over old Mather’s direful tales, until the gathering dusk of evening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination,—the moan of the whip-poor-will from the hillside, the boding cry of the tree toad, that harbinger of storm, the dreary hooting of the screech owl, or the sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fireflies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch’s token. His only resource on such occasions, either to drown thought or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled with awe at hearing his nasal melody, “in linked sweetness long drawn out,” floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road. Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth, and listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would delight them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut; and would frighten them woefully with speculations upon comets and shooting stars; and with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy! But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no spectre dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path, amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night! With what wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some distant window! How often was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very path! How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him! And how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings!

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Announcement

"A mysterious secret society known as the Alliance of the Witching Hour will begin making many parts of its collection public in the latter part of 2018.  The Alliance is said to be made up of antiquarian collectors of lore and artifacts & objets d'art of the occult.  The Alliance has also launched many investigations into cryptic and curious matters.  It seems that a chapter of this esoteric fellowship has met regularly for decades (possibly centuries) to preserve the crafts of collecting, preserving, and telling ghost stories whilst another chapter studies the divinatory arts. It is speculated the secret meeting location has been in plain sight during the group's entire existence.  We will work to provide more information as it is made known.”