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But one strange wild dark long year, Halloween came early. One year Halloween came on October 24, three hours after midnight. At that time, James Nightshade of 97 Oak Street was thirteen years, eleven months, twenty‐three days old. Next door, William Halloway was thirteen years, eleven months and twenty‐four days old. Both touched toward fourteen; it almost trembled in their hands. And that was the October week when they grew up overnight, and were never so young any more…
Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes

By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes. So vague, yet so immense. He did not want to live with it. Yet he knew that, during this night, unless he lived with it very well, he might have to live with it all the rest of his life.
Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes

The merry‐go‐round was running, yes, but… It was running backward.
The small calliope inside the carousel machinery rattle‐snapped its nervous‐stallion shivering drums, clashed its harvest‐moon cymbals, toothed its castanets, and throatily choked and sobbed its reeds, whistles, and baroque flutes.
Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes

The stuff of nightmare is their plain bread. They butter it with pain. They set their clocks by deathwatch beetles, and thrive the centuries. They were the men with the leather‐ribbon whips who sweated up the Pyramids seasoning it with other people's salt and other people's cracked hearts. They coursed Europe on the White Horses of the Plague. They whispered to Caesar that he was mortal, then sold daggers at half‐price in the grand March sale. Some must have been lazing clowns, foot props for emperors, princes, and epileptic popes. Then out on the road, Gypsies in time, their populations grew as the world grew, spread, and there was more delicious variety of pain to thrive on. The train put wheels under them and here they run down the log road out of the Gothic and baroque; look at their wagons and coaches, the carving like medieval shrines, all of it stuff once drawn by horses, mules, or, maybe, men.
Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes

A Rare Day For Boys ‐ Something Wicked This Way Comes, James Horne

Spinning Wheel ‐ Blood, Sweat & Tears, Leonid & Friends

Evil Ways ‐ Santana, Neighborhood Band