I would have the fake cemetery, the creepy, billowing fabric and haunting music. My front yard would be lit in a blood-red glow while creepy, haunting pumpkins flickered with evil intent. A skeleton would laugh from my front door as the braver children led their timid friends towards the sounds of werewolves, screaming witches and snarling dogs. I would be sitting in the entryway, just out of sight from the little ones because I’ve always thought ringing the doorbell was one of the best parts. I’d be dressed in some outlandish costume, Harley Quinn or maybe some kind of zombie witch, and hand them their candy with a glare or maybe some sort of peppy but demented comeback (It’s Harley Quinn, guys.)
Then, as they made their way down the steps, my significant other (Who had been dressed as a zombie warlock or perhaps the joker) would lunge at the nearest child with a haunting laugh or maybe even a simple boo. My house would be the ultimate experience. Tricks and treats galore.
Every time someone hopped out and scared the living crap out of me on Halloween, I thought of a time when I would be that person. I would be the one who everyone talked about, the one for one night who would steal the show. Younger kids would be terrified to approach my door; older kids would point out all the important but small details to their parents. I would be the best.
I’ve held onto this dream for my whole life, since those mystical nights when I would bounce around impatiently with my little brother, waiting for it to be dark so we could go out. Every year the night would become unearthly, radiant and alive. No one was who they appeared but that was okay, because by god- It was Halloween.
I had to work tonight, so I put on most of my costume and worked until 8. In the Halloweens of my youth this was when the night was in full swing, the streets packed with ghosts and ghouls and all manner of creepy creatures. And as my boyfriend (Who one day might be the Joker to my Harley) drove me home I began to fret. Where were all the kids? The little ones who could barely get up the steps and the older toddlers with their little Halloween pumpkin buckets. I didn’t understand.
I told The Boyfriend this image I had in my head of my perfect Halloween haunt once. It was a while ago, but I still remember what he said. “Halloween is a dying holiday. You could put a rubber bat out on the front of your house and have the coolest place on the street.”
When he said it I not only refused to believe him, but got downright mad. I told him he was dumb for thinking that, because holidays don’t just die.
But as I took in the few straggling kids as they walked from house to house I became depressed. A vampire trudged with his mother along one otherwise deserted street. Few houses were lit, few creatures creeping sneakily along the sidewalks with tired parents in tow. There are so few people out there these days, and I don’t understand why.
To all you parents out there who may have stayed with me long enough to get here, please listen. BRING YOUR KIDS OUT ON HALLOWEEN. Dress them up, give then a pillowcase and haul them from place to place. Ignore the cries of ‘my feet are tired’ and ‘but I don’t want to carry the bucket!’. The few fond memories I have of my old house are the ones of shivering under my robot costume with silver face paint slathered all over my forehead, getting home and dumping all the candy on the floor to sort through it and give my dad the things I didn’t like, or swap with my little brother.
And who knows. One day you might show up at a house with billowing fabric and blood-red lights, and your child will receive some tasty treat from a woman dressed as Harley Quinn.
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