It’s a sad fact that modern houses have become too small and well lit to accommodate a rip-roaring gothic narrative: no room to stash a hysterical relative who’s succumbed to the family curse or to venturing onto the moors without a bonnet; no opportunity of an evening to pace bare attic floorboards or to appear fleetingly at a high window, bringing into question the sanity of love’s young protagonist. Ghosts – living or dead – need space to rattle and wail, high ceilings and hard edges that echo and creak, icy corners and cellar depths beyond a candle’s reach. Only in a grand, oak-panelled gallery must heavy chairs be turned to the wall, lest the spirits feel an invitation to linger; only in a sprawling, sentient mansion could a tight-lipped, bun-haired housekeeper stockpile such a tangle of longitudinal secrets, each an enticing, closely-guarded key at her belt.

That said, armed with basic franglais and an air of youthful optimism, Katrin and I once rented a fairly modest cottage near Lacaze, in rural France, that had a damn good go at gothic: it was plagued by flies; the scattering of never-to-be-seen neighbours had gravestones in their back gardens (how is this even possible, and where was ours?); and there was a room at the end of the landing that one must never enter (its window constantly drew my eye) – I had visions of padding back up the stairs from the bathroom in the middle of the night and finding that door swinging on its hinges! One rainy day, as we sheltered on the porch, awaiting a break in the weather, a wild-eyed old man pulled up in the remains of a Renault 4 and mumbled and gesticulated what looked suspiciously like a warning, before disappearing in a dense cloud of Gauloises and unburnt diesel towards the crucifix at the end of the lane. Things were getting weird; hints of Brad and Janet.

But one bright morning, everything changed. Hundreds of people emerged as from nowhere, friends and relatives of a bride we knew well. We all squeezed into a tiny, bare-as-bones chapel in a ploughed field, and then expanded into the warmth of the village hall, a Valhalla of feasting tables, bright lights, loud music, joyous company and drinking songs. When we returned to the cottage in the early hours, it no longer felt disconnected; the spell was broken.

In our daily lives, belief jostles with fear, doubt, unease and anxiety, elbows in each other’s ribs, crisscrossing the unknown and the inexplicable. But faith doesn’t just hold our hand in the darkness, it can – tout comme cette célébration éclatante et chaleureuse – flip a switch: a way is lit and a key provided to that narrow door at the end of the hall, and to all of the secrets that lie beyond.

NB: If you find Halloween a bit spooky, why not draw a happy face on all your fruit with a marker pen? It could help (but only if it’s a non-toxic marker).

Colin Davey