Halloween over Florence: THE MARKET OF GHOSTS Severino lived in the bell tower on the hill — the one next to the ancient Basilica of San Miniato al Monte. Every evening, at sunset, he would lock the gate at the base of the entrance stairway and before climbing back up, he would pause to watch Florence color itself amber. And so he did today as well. The tourists had left. Time stopped and silence became sacred again. Through the rusted bars the city stood there motionless — perhaps since forever; with its red roofs, marble facades and the Arno flowing between its stones like a glittering silver ribbon. Domes and towers trembling with light, almost suspended in the air, as if everything and everyone were holding their breath waiting for twilight — and for the night that would cover it with shadows, stars and dreams. One more glance, then he turned on his transistor radio that he had found a few years ago and the notes of Duke Ellington's 'Don't Get Around Much Anymore' filled the autumn evening. Silence may be sacred for the monks, but for Severino music was more so. Seven, his raven, didn't need to be called and at the first notes launched himself from the cypresses of the cemetery above, circled in front of the imposing facade of the Basilica and suddenly glided down along the stairway, to land gently on his left shoulder. "Hey Seven, had a good day?" "Yes. Could have been worse — Let's settle for that." At which, Severino smiled, turned up the radio's volume and began climbing resolutely toward le Porte del Cielo, while Jazz music echoed among the ancient stones. Nine years ago, on this same day in the month of October, the Olivetan monks residing in the Abbey found a child on the steps of the Basilica. He was there, wrapped in fog, silent as the night, eyes curious as the wind, without name and without past. They called him Severino — I don't know why — and he grew up among prayers and silences. He played in ancient rooms and discovered his world, surrounded by books, tombs, art and mysteries never revealed. At night a raven and a black cat accompanied him, illuminated by the moon, in the Cimitero delle Porte Sante, wandering among imposing crypts and motionless statues that whispered memories and mysteries. But on Halloween nights the whispers transform into screams and endless laments. Secrets manifest themselves, legends become reality, and dreams disguised as nightmares knock on doors lit by candles. And that full moon night was precisely this night: October 31st — and remember, whether you believe in spirits or not, nothing changes: the ghosts will come. And Severino was up there, right there waiting for them to arrive. Leaning out the highest window of the bell tower, calm, looking at Florence from above. While Thelonious Monk's 'Round Midnight' played on his radio, he watched — tapping time with one foot and waited. At the second of the twelve strokes of the midnight bells, something began to happen. On the Arno formed a dense fog that pulsed with spectral green. It began to rise and slide slow but inexorable over the bridges like fingers of cold hands of impatient ghosts. It slid over the Ponte Vecchio and rolled through the streets of Oltrarno until reaching San Niccolò, where it climbed up the hill swallowing everything it found in its path. When it reached the gate of San Miniato, it slipped through the bars and climbed up the stairs until it covered, like a high luminous tide, the entire square in front of the church. It climbed up the marble facade and wrapped also the Cimitero delle Porte Sante, covering the entire hill in a cloak of mystery. Then slowly, as if by enchantment, the fog began to dissolve rising toward the sky and when the last cloud melted into the night air, the square was no longer empty. Small jack-o'-lanterns with flickering lights floated in the air smiling with teeth of fire. Black candles sprouted from nowhere, illuminating spectral stalls full of everything and nothing. Bats that seemed made of paper but were alive fluttered among the lights with wings of black velvet, while autumn leaves danced without wind, sparkling with gold and copper. Pumpkins of every shape filled the stands, some carved with funny faces, others covered with silver spiderwebs that shone like threads of moon. Witch hats swirled in the air like flying umbrellas rotating slow on themselves. Roasted chestnuts perfumed the air with cinnamon and mystery, while small dancing skeletons tinkled like ice bells. And finally in the Cimitero delle Porte Sante, the Portal opened. Like every Halloween, for centuries, spirits from all over the world congregated in Florence for their annual meeting. A spectral river of ghosts poured into the square, each heading toward their own stall, and each with their impossible merchandise to sell or trade. The spirits had arrived and Severino observed them from above. A carnival of other worlds, made of sounds, colors and unimaginable stories. The deserted square had transformed into the Market of Ghosts. Stalls kept materializing from nowhere, carved and glowing pumpkins told each other stories of Halloweens past, present and future laughing malicious among the perfumes of lost memories, past centuries, tomorrow's candles and fallen stardust. The sky above the Tuscan hills and above Florence was full of ghosts arriving from everywhere to search for the unfindable. But no human eye could see this spectacle. No one except Severino, who descended from the tower enchanted by that spectacle and immersed himself in the crowd pulsating with otherworldly life. Seven circled above him observing with attentive eyes and cawing a bit nervous. Some ghosts looked at him with curiosity and recognized him. Someone greeted him and many others whispered his name in forgotten languages. "There he is," murmured a witch from Prague. "The child of time," sighed a Norman knight. "He's returned, I told you so." laughed a Caribbean pirate. But Severino paid them no attention because there were ghosts selling: dreams of sleeping dragons, laughter of northern gnomes, tears of mermaids in love, the last breath of dinosaurs, shadows of unicorns. And even fears from past Halloweens — two for the price of one, but only for tonight. The ghost of a pirate who died during a boarding gone not so well shouted: "Storm bottles! Lightning in jars!" A witch from Salem whispered: "Love potions that last three lifetimes…" A medieval knight showed swords that cut fear, A Chinese spirit waved kites that fly into the past. The spectral crowd grew and thickened, laughed and bargained, while Severino walked amazed and fascinated among the impossible stalls of the Halloween Market. Seven cawed restless from above and Eleven, the black cat with orange eyes, jumped from one tent to another not losing sight of a single movement of Severino and the hundreds of souls circling around him. A ghost monk from an era that never existed saw him and smiled at him from behind a stall full of ancient radios adorned with mysterious symbols. Severino approached, fascinated. "How wonderful! Do they all work?" "Oh yes, certainly" replied the monk. "These transmit on the waves of past, present, and future time. But you don't need to buy one." The other ghosts stopped. They ceased selling, buying and bartering. They looked at Severino with respect and listened to what the collector of frequencies told him. "The transistor radio you already have is more special than you think. But to discover its true secrets, you'll have to search in the ancient crypts where everything began." And suddenly the first lights of dawn began to illuminate the sky behind San Miniato with pink. In rush and hurry the ghosts said goodbye flying away in the wind. "Until next Halloween!" They told each other crossing in the sky. The stalls vanished. Lanterns and candles went out. The Market of Ghosts dissolved like a dream. Severino found himself alone in the empty square, Seven on his shoulder and Eleven sitting on the low wall Looking at Florence illuminating itself in the day of All Saints. He observed his old radio with new eyes and from the ancient crypts of San Miniato, something seemed to call him. He turned it on, turned up the volume and descended the stairway in time to Chet Baker's version of 'Autumn Leaves'. It was time to throw open the gate of the Basilica of San Miniato al Monte. ___________________ We will continue this story.... For now a Happy Halloween to all of you, may you always believe in magic! Story written by Marco Ciappelli for "Stories Under The Stars" Halloween 2025 ___________________ Listen to Severino's Playlist for the songs that accompany this story and subscribe to discover new music with every adventure. 🎺✨ Link: https://music.apple.com/us/playlist/severinos-playlist-storie-sotto-le-stelle/pl.u-b3b8KZDu2a3Xz Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.
