The Great Supernatural Grievance Hearing – A Castle Whiskerton Chronicle
’Twas the night before All Hallows’ Eve, and throughout the old House,
Not a creature was stirring, except for one mouse.
The green benches gleamed beneath lamps burning bright,
As the strangest assembly prepared for the night.
The Speaker sat sternly, his wig sitting straight,
While a bat and an owl held a debate on their fate.
The ravens were restless, the crows took their places,
With indignation and grievances etched on their faces.
Up high in the gallery, rows upon rows
Of black cats and orange cats sat, watching the shows.
They blinked at the chamber, their whiskers held high,
With the look of a species that answers to nigh.
The summons had stated, in language most clear,
That all supernatural complaints must appear.
For centuries, creatures had suffered disgrace,
While cats had secured the most prominent place.
“Order!” cried the Speaker. “This hearing begins!
We shall listen to all, regardless of sins.
The question before us, as stated today,
Is why some of our kind get the glory and pay.”
The bat took the floor, hanging upside down,
“I have travelled by night through each city and town.
I am blamed for the vampire, the darkness, the fright,
Yet I merely eat insects and navigate night!”
The owl gave a hoot and adjusted one wing.
“Precisely! We birds have a case to bring.
I see in the dark, I am wise, I am bright,
Yet humans put cats on the posters each night!
“Cats have the witches, the cauldrons, the fame,
While we get the shadows and bats in our name.
I propose a commission to study the matter,
Before all our reputations are left in tatters!”
The Speaker took notes with a dignified air,
While a raven flew in and demanded a chair.
“Excuse me!” he croaked. “This is simply absurd!
I have travelled for miles to ensure I am heard!”
The crow landed beside him, indignant and loud.
“The raven gets poetry, the raven gets proud!
He appears in your legends, your omens, your lore,
While crows get dismissed as a nuisance outdoors!”
The raven puffed up, his feathers all sleek.
“I am darkness embodied! I am mystique!”
The crow gave a cackle. “Your ego’s immense.
You mistake being dramatic for evidence!”
“Order!” cried the Speaker. “One bird at a time!”
The raven replied with a croak and a rhyme.
The crow interrupted. The owl rolled his eyes.
The bat took the opportunity to hang from the skies.
Then frogs and toads entered, with mice close behind,
Their complaints, they declared, had been left far behind.
“We are tired,” croaked the frog, “of the same old routine,
Of being boiled in cauldrons or served up in green!”
The toad shook his head. “It is frankly unfair.
We are perfectly decent. We live almost anywhere.
Yet every old witch, when preparing a brew,
Seems convinced that a toad is the thing one must do!”
The mice took the floor with a rustle of paws.
“We demand compensation, and changes to laws!
We are ingredients, apparently, fit for a stew,
Yet nobody asks what we would like to do!”
One mouse held a placard. Another a pen.
A third had brought minutes from meetings past ten.
The Speaker looked faintly alarmed at the sight
Of a mouse with a clipboard demanding its rights.
The chamber grew louder. The benches shook.
A raven had stolen the Speaker’s rulebook.
The frogs were protesting, the mice raised a cheer,
And the owl had declared that no one could hear.
Up in the gallery, cats watched in silence,
A masterclass in dignified feline defiance.
The orange ones blinked, the black ones stared,
As though the entire proceedings were poorly prepared.
Then suddenly, quietly, from high overhead,
A silken thread descended above every head.
A spider came down, ancient, solemn and grand,
With a parchment scroll clasped in one spindly hand.
He settled on the railing and cleared his throat twice.
The chamber fell silent. The moment was nice.
“I have listened,” he said, “to your grievances here,
And I find your complaints both familiar and dear.
“My ancestors suffered this treatment for ages.
We have been cast as villains on countless old pages.
For over three thousand years, give or take,
We have been blamed for the fright that humans create.
“They scream when we enter a perfectly sound room,
They accuse us of bringing misfortune and doom.
We weave honest webs, we consume pests with delight,
Yet we are the first things they squash on sight.
“I have brought documentation, records and proof,
Of centuries spent hiding beneath every roof.
I request recognition, respect and fair play,
And compensation for webs swept away!”
The chamber sat silent, the spider stood tall,
His parchment unfurled like a historical wall.
The Speaker looked pale. The raven looked small.
The crow whispered, “Three thousand? That beats us all.”
The bat gave a nod. The owl bowed his head.
The frogs looked impressed. The mice fled instead.
The toad murmured softly, “I rather agree.
At least no one has blamed you for being in tea.”
The spider continued, “I shall make one thing clear.
I have waited three millennia to stand here.
I shall not be dismissed with a gesture or grin.
I have only just started. Please settle back in.”
The Speaker consulted the clock on the wall.
The hour was late, and the night near its fall.
He proposed a subcommittee, a motion, a vote,
And a form to be filed in a suitable note.
The raven objected. The crow called for order.
The frog asked for seating beyond the hall’s border.
The mice demanded that snacks be supplied.
The owl asked whether the minutes could be simplified.
The spider sat patiently, polishing his case.
The cats in the gallery maintained their same face.
Not a meow, not a twitch, not a flick of the tail,
As the hearing descended into bureaucratic travail.
At last the Speaker declared, “It is clear
That all present deserve a more sympathetic ear.
We shall review every legend, each myth and each tale,
And decide whose case merits redress without fail.”
The creatures departed in a rumble of feet,
With promises made and complaints still to meet.
The raven and crow left still arguing lore,
While the frogs and the mice demanded much more.
The bat took to the rafters, the owl flew away,
The spider rolled up his scroll for another day.
The Speaker retired with his wig slightly askew,
Wondering what the next hearing might do.
Up in the gallery, the cats rose as one,
Their observations still largely unsaid and undone.
They stretched and they yawned, then descended the stair,
With the air of a species beyond all compare.
For they knew, as all cats have known since time’s start,
That humans will always assign them a part.
The witch’s companion, the keeper of night,
The creature whose eyes glow an uncanny bright.
They need not protest, nor submit any claim,
For the world has already immortalised their name.
The other creatures may argue until morning’s light,
The cats shall remain cats, and quite out of spite.
So if, on All Hallows’ Eve, you hear a strange sound,
Or a flutter of wings as the moon circles round,
Remember the hearing, the claims and the cries,
The spider’s old records, the bats and the skies.
Remember the ravens, the frogs and the mice,
The toad with his grievance, the owl’s sage advice.
Remember the cats, who observed from above,
With the calm of a creature who knows it is loved.
For the night before Halloween, as the old tales all say,
Is a time when the creatures have something to say.
The world may call them frightening, peculiar or strange,
Yet even the supernatural deserves a fair change.
As Castle Whiskerton sank into night,
The cats took their places by candlelight.
The hearing was over, the records were filed,
And somewhere, a spider smiled.
For three thousand years he had waited his turn.
He had filed his complaint. He had watched the lamps burn.
His case was now pending, his paperwork vast,
And the cats in the gallery had purred at last.
Thus ends the chronicle of the Great Supernatural Grievance Hearing, recorded at Castle Whiskerton on the night before All Hallows’ Eve.
All complaints may be submitted in writing. Please allow three to five centuries for processing.
A note to readers: For maximum impact, best read aloud, preferably in proper Halloween attire.
*Welcome to HAUNTVENT! If Christmas gets Advent, comprised of four weeks of build‑up, candlelight, and carols, why shouldn’t Halloween get its own countdown? Think about it. Even Thanksgiving has bonus add-ons such as Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Giving Tuesday. Oh, and let us not forget that Easter has the entire 40 days of Lent, plus Holy Week. Meanwhile, Halloween gets exactly one day. ONE! That’s like giving Christmas just one gingerbread man and calling it a holiday. We Halloween advocates deserve more. Want more. We have the right to Hauntvent. A full two weeks of delightful absurdity, seasonal satire, and spooky observations. In short, a playful countdown to October 31st. This October, I’m taking Halloween seriously. So buckle up, light your jack‑o’‑lanterns, and prepare yourself: Hauntvent has begun!
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