Something Wicked This Way Comes

Mr. Dark:
Then rang the bells both loud and deep. God is not dead nor doth he sleep.

Tom Fury:
Some folks draw lightning to them as a cat to baby's breath!

Charles Halloway:
I, uh, have the honor, sir.

Mr. Dark:
And have had for many years, I do believe. All those years living only other men's lives. Dreaming only other men's dreams. What a waste.

Charles Halloway:
Sometimes a man can learn more form other men's dreams than he can from his own. Come visit me, sir, if you wish to improve your education.

Mr. Dark:
I will, and I may improve yours.

Charles Halloway:
A father should be able to play baseball with his son.

Mrs. Halloway:
Baseball's not necessary, not with a heart like yours, he'll forgive you that.

Will Halloway:
If you're a good person, then demons can't harm you, can they? Am I? Am I a good person?

Charles Halloway:
Well, I wouldn't count on your mother's answer right now, but I think you are.

Charles Halloway:
I know who you are. You are the autumn people. Where do you come from? The dust. Where do you go to? The grave.

Mr. Dark:
Yes. We are the hungry ones. Your torments call us like dogs in the night. And we do feed, and feed well.

Charles Halloway:
To stuff yourselves on other people's nightmares.

Mr. Dark:
And butter our plain bread with delicious pain. So, you do understand a little.

Charles Halloway:
You are known in this town. My father knew you.

Mr. Dark:
Your father? The preacher? That half-man?

Charles Halloway:
He lived on goodness.

Mr. Dark:
Tasteless fare. Funerals, bad marriages, lost loves, lonely beds. That is our diet. We suck that misery and find it sweet. We search for more always. We can smell young boys ulcerating to be men a thousand miles off. And hear a middle-aged fool like yourself groaning with midnight despairs from halfway around the world.

Charles Halloway:
[quoting Shakespeare] By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.

Mr. Dark:
Then rang the bells both loud and deep. God is not dead nor doth he sleep.

Charles Halloway:
The wrong will fail, the right prevail, with peace on Earth, goodwill to men.

Mr. Dark:
It's a thousand years to Christmas, Mr. Holloway.

Charles Halloway:
You're wrong. It's here, in this library tonight, and can't be spoiled.

Mr. Dark:
Did Will and Jim bring it with them on the soles of their shoes? Then, we shall have to scrape them.

Mr. Dark:
[Clenching his fists until his hands bleed] I do want to know the truth, sir. The truth is, you are lying!

Charles Halloway:
[to Will and Jim] Boys, what the hell is going on around here?

Charles Halloway:
[to Mrs. Nightshade] For God's sake, go home! The man meeting you here isn't your husband!

Charles Halloway:
[hearing a clock chime] Three o'clock. They call it the soul's midnight...

Charles Halloway:
[to Will, who is crying] Tears, that's what they like! My God, how they like tears! Look, that's no way to save young Jim, Jump around, eh? Whoop and holler, Come on, look at me, eh? Look at me. I'm the great whooping crane. Whoop, whoop, whoop.

Charles Halloway:
We gotta stop blaming sometime.

Narrator:
First of all, it was October, a rare month of boys; full of cold winds, long nights, dark promises. Days get short. The shadows lengthen. The wind warms in such a way, you want to run forever through the fields, because up ahead, ten thousand pumpkins lie waiting to be cut. It was the October of my 12th year when the seller of lightning rods came along the road toward Green Town, Illinois, sneaking glances over his shoulder. Somewhere not far back was a terrible storm. Even now, on those special autumn days, when the air smells like smoke, and the twilights are orange and ash gray, my mind goes back to Green Town, the place where I grew up. In my memory, I'm back on Main Street again, among the neighbors who gave me my first glimpses into the fearful needs of the human heart.

Narrator:
For my father, being old was all right now. He had freed himself from the shadows, and liberated our town. So, I think he knew on that bright morning, that he'd made a memory that would live as long as sons tell sons about fathers they love.