Just a blink from the border between Here and There, lies the very small town of Little Lantern Hollow. Despite a few peculiarities – which you will learn more about as this story unfolds – it is a most pleasant place to live. And this, according to the town’s bellwethers is chiefly because “We, as a community, choose proudly and respectfully to refuse the ravages of progress”.

Perhaps because of this, Little Lantern Hollow is a very pleasant town. For instance, there are no skyscrapers or boxy high-rises to argue with the rising and the setting of the sun. If you were a resident of Little Lantern Hollow you would live in a charming Victorian house, a storybook structure poetically set upon a soft expanse of blue green grass. The only things permitted by town ordinance to reach for the sluggardly clouds, were the trees, the grand, gnarled oaks that have kept loyal vigil over the front yards for hundreds of years.

As for the conveniences of every day life, everything could be acquired on Main Street. If your horse needed new shoes, you would visit Mr. Anvil, the blacksmith. If you wanted two scoops of creamy Raspberry Swirl, you would stroll down to the Praline’s Ice Cream parlor. If you were sick, you would visit Dr. Unguent. If you were really, really sick – and died, well, then your loved ones would engage the services of the Morte Funeral Parlour, which rather handily, brings us to the beginning of the story of Mortimer Morte.