Ghosts, God, and Gobbledygook: A Ramble Through All Hallows’ Eve

Typical me – forgetful as ever, I meant to post this on Halloween, but here we are, fashionably late as always. Honestly, it’s a miracle I manage to remember my own name most days, let alone co-ordinate something on time. Let’s just call it delayed spooky season vibes and pretend I’m making a bold statement about timelessness. Or maybe I’m just lazy. Either way, consider this a Halloween encore no one asked for but is getting anyway.

All Hallows’ Eve by Charles Williams – a peculiar little oddity that seems to have crawled out of a darkened church crypt clutching a thesaurus and muttering to itself about metaphysics. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed it in the way one might enjoy finding a Victorian penny dreadful in a charity shop: fascinating, slightly unsettling, and occasionally nonsensical. It’s as though Williams sat down, looked at a perfectly ordinary ghost story, and thought, ‘You know what this needs? More ontological dread and fewer explanations.’

Let’s start with the setting, shall we? Post-war London, all foggy streets and bombed-out rubble – a perfect backdrop for a tale of spiritual liminality. But Williams, bless his scholarly socks, isn’t terribly interested in mundane descriptions of brick and mortar. No, he’s all about the numinous. The city becomes a thinly veiled metaphorical playground where the boundaries between life, death, and whatever lies beyond are as flimsy as wet tissue paper. It’s haunting, certainly, but also a touch exasperating when you’re trying to work out what’s actually happening. I spent half the novel wondering if I’d missed a crucial sentence or if Williams was just being deliberately obtuse. Spoiler: it’s the latter.

The characters, though – oh, what a motley crew! Lester and Evelyn, our recently deceased protagonists, are stumbling around the afterlife like two confused tourists who’ve accidentally booked a holiday in purgatory instead of Provence. Lester is the heart of the novel, her love for her husband, Richard, shining through the narrative like a beacon of humanity amidst all the spiritual highfalutin. Evelyn, on the other hand, is about as likeable as a wet sock. She’s shallow, self-absorbed, and really only serves to make Lester look better by comparison. If you’ve ever wanted to see someone thoroughly outclassed in the afterlife, Evelyn’s your girl.

And then there’s Simon the Clerk – Williams’ attempt at a Big Bad. He’s a sort of occult megalomaniac with delusions of godhood, though frankly, he’s more creepy uncle than cosmic threat. I couldn’t take him entirely seriously, largely because his sinister monologues have all the subtlety of a hammer to the face. Imagine Voldemort moonlighting as a second-rate stage magician, and you’re halfway there. Still, Simon’s hubris and ultimate downfall add a dash of moral gravitas, even if it’s delivered with all the grace of a theological textbook dropped from a great height.

Now, let’s talk about Williams’ prose, which alternates between lyrical brilliance and impenetrable thickets of verbosity. At its best, it’s achingly beautiful, like a hymn sung in a candlelit cathedral. At its worst, it’s like being trapped in a particularly dense sermon where the vicar keeps throwing in Greek. His philosophical musings are fascinating, if you’re in the mood for them, but they can also feel like a bit of a slog. It’s as though he’s forgotten that stories need to, well, move along. There were moments when I wanted to grab the book by its metaphorical lapels and shout, “Stop talking about the nature of reality and tell me what happens next!”

But for all my complaints, there’s something undeniably compelling about All Hallows’ Eve. It’s a novel that dares to grapple with Big Ideas – life, death, love, and the eternal battle between good and evil – and does so with a depth and sincerity that’s hard to find. Yes, it’s maddeningly opaque at times, and yes, Williams could have done with a good editor to rein in his more florid tendencies. But it’s also hauntingly original, the kind of book that lingers in your mind long after you’ve turned the final page.

Would I recommend it? Absolutely – provided you’ve got a tolerance for theological digressions and a good sense of humour about the occasional absurdity. If nothing else, it’s a brilliant conversation starter. Just don’t be surprised if you find yourself Googling terms like ‘co-inherence’ at 2am, wondering what on earth you’ve gotten yourself into.

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And before my trusty trazodone lulls me into blissful oblivion, I thought I’d steal a cheeky moment to chuckle at the delightful irony of this post’s lateness. Honestly, it’s almost poetic how I’ve managed to outdo my own reputation for procrastination. Speaking of which, let’s have a little laugh about that book I’ve always promised to write – you know, the magnum opus that exists solely in my imagination, collecting metaphorical dust. At this point, it’s less a work-in-progress and more a whimsical rumour. Perhaps one day, but for now, I’ll just stick to being the author of good intentions. So…

Title: The Delayed Departure of the Literary Express

Chapter One: Mind the Gap in Plot Consistency

The tannoy crackled, and the familiar monotone of the station announcer filled the draughty platform:

“Attention, passengers: The 10:37 service to Literary Enlightenment has been delayed. This is due to profound metaphorical signalling issues on the line. We apologise for the inconvenience, though, frankly, this is art, so the delay is likely symbolic. Passengers are advised to embrace the existential pause and consult Kierkegaard if they experience frustration.”

On Platform 3, an author clutching a battered manuscript sighed deeply. He muttered to no one in particular, “It’s always delayed. Every time I think I’m on track to publication, there’s another blasted holdup. First, it was a problem with the structure – then the tone – and now, apparently, the resolution’s gone missing entirely.”

A woman in a turtleneck and oversized glasses leaned conspiratorially towards him. “You think that’s bad? My train to Thriller Territory was cancelled altogether. Something about ‘insufficient twists to sustain the plot.’ Now I’m stranded in Dystopian Drudgery until further notice.”

As passengers began to murmur discontentedly, the tannoy chimed again:

“Passengers for the 11:05 journey to Romance Central, please note that this train is currently stuck at the Prologue Tunnel due to a failure to establish convincing chemistry. A replacement bus service – featuring forced love triangles and dubious meet-cutes – is being arranged.”

On Platform 5, a gaggle of poets dressed in black berets argued over whether the delay itself was an unspoken haiku. Meanwhile, a group of mystery writers gathered around a spilled cup of coffee, debating if it might be a clue to the whereabouts of the missing conductor.

And there I was, notebook in hand, pen poised, trying to find the deeper meaning in the chaos of it all. Was this a metaphor for modern publishing? A meta-commentary on how we all wait endlessly for inspiration, only to realise it was a local train stopping all stations? Or was it just another reminder that art, much like trains, rarely runs on time?

The tannoy spoke once more, a final flourish of literary irony:

“Passengers for Climactic Conclusion are reminded that this platform is subject to overuse of deus ex machina. Please disembark with care.”

As the sound of rolling eyes echoed across the station, I knew I’d found my ending – or at least, something close enough to call one.

And on that note, I’m done for the day.