September 22, 2025 is the autumnal equinox.
The day when darkness and light will fight for a fragile balance. And the old stories say the veil grows thin. Not just thin, but threadbare—so fine you could almost tear it with a breath. On nights like this, the living are said to brush shoulders with the dead.

Centuries ago, the Celts marked this turning with fires and offerings. They sensed the earth tip, the heat of summer dwindle as the darkness stretched out. And from that recognition came Samhain, a moment to remember the ancestors, the spirits that lingered, the count of what was left behind in the coming of winter. The belief never died. It only changed shape, finding new life in Wiccan rites, neo-Pagan circles, and in the private rituals people still keep when the leaves fall and the air turns sharp.

And then there are the Veilwalkers. Not just a story, but a warning whispered for centuries. A procession of ghosts who are supposed to appear in our world twice yearly—spring and autumn—when the veil is thin. They are the forgotten dead, faceless, formless, padding in through the quietness. The witnesses tell of steps that never appear to belong to the room, shadows curving across the firelight, flashes of cold that rub on the skin. Others attest that time itself unspools around them, minutes disappearing or elongating like stretched taffy so that nothing seems definite.

This year, the equinox arrives at 18:00 UTC. Mystics call it a Stargate. A crossing point where balance itself is a gateway. Starseeds and travelers speak of remembering, of attuning to forces before the stars. Astrologers signal that the sun enters Libra, becoming engaged in a great trine with Pluto and Uranus—an alignment that unbuckles secrets, banishes illusions, and leaves revelation in its path.

Paranormal investigators know this season too. Reports always rise in late September. There are whispers in abandoned rooms, restless hauntings, spirits refusing to keep still. Some say the confused dead—the ones who never understood they had crossed—become louder, reaching for the world they once belonged to.

And still the myths echo through culture. Persephone descending into the Underworld. Mabon carried off into darkness. Stories of death and rebirth, of passage between realms. They are not just old tales; they are mirrors of this moment. The equinox is not a date. It is a threshold. A hinge between two worlds. For a few brief hours, the walls thin, the silence breaks, and what hides in shadow steps forward.