Halloweeny

Two writers sitting on the couch, lamenting on the task of documenting Baby's First Halloween. When Pippa reads this in 16 years she may try for emancipation. Especially when she learns that I ate her special cupcake. Or that I failed to find a pumpkin large enough to carve and we "borrowed" the neighbors for a photograph.


The decorations were purchased a mere 6 days before the 31st and my spooky music was a bust. To top the failure, Pippa fell asleep at 6:45 pm, the excitement of seeing too many goblins an ghosts (actually we got a lot of pirates). When she woke up an hour later we did a quick costume change and tried to teach the concept of handing out candy. She's great at grabbing toostie rolls from the bowl, not so good at giving them to others.

Frightful Fits

I lay on my dark bed noticing the hair standing wildly on the backs of my hands. In the blue tinted light it looks werewolfish. Or my overactive imagination keeps me wide awake on Halloween. Nightmare on Elm Street is not the best choice for a bedtime story. And it didn’t help me overcome my aversion to striped shirts. They look freakishly hideous on me and great on Freddy. Interesting.

As memories work I think only of every moment I’ve screamed in terror or cried realizing my voice held no sound. At six, seven, eight, nine, ten and eleven, waking from a terrifying dream where my sisters turned into Gremlins when they babysat me. No comfort as I trembled and told myself it was just a dream. The twins slept in my same room and if it wasn’t a dream then I’d see their bubbly green skin.

Same age, one same sister and broad daylight. Heather waits for me to walk down the basement hallway. I feel her watching me and calmly turn to look her in the eye. Years pass and we hold the gaze. A glint in her eye and a faint smiling twitch, she cries boo and I scream until tears run down my cheeks. Really those nightmares had lasting effects.

Sitting on the floor of Laura’s bedroom I see the soft pink light casting shadows across my friends’ faces. In hushed tones we hear the fate of a young girl. A child’s game of getting ready ended with her head crushed behind her dresser. My back rests against Laura’s dresser and I see my friends’ eyes widen. The horror in their expressions matches my own. I choke back any sounds, the room falls silent. They think it’s a dramatic ending to the story I just told. Really I’m trying to picture unicorns and flowers after scaring myself.

Sitting on Rich’s bed wondering why it blocked a door. A glass door. He proceeds to tell me the door doesn’t lock and his mom put the bed there to keep out unwanted visitors. Visitors like the man staring at me through the door. I stopped breathing and a strange gurgling sound escaped from my lips. I moaned, then screamed, then hit Rich and then grabbed him. Unfortunately I scared the daylights out of him and he started screaming which set me off again. I had the shakes for about an hour. He never played a “joke” on me again.

Waiting for Stacey to come home, I undress in the hallway as I pace between her cracked bedroom door and mine. I reach for the handle then stop, leave and come back. I’m dying to talk to her. I reach for the handle again. As if I’ve moved too close to a flame I withdraw. I peer into the deep black of her room. Holding my breath I search for the outline of her bed, visible by the streetlight outside her window. I see nothing. In my head someone shouts, “Go To Bed.” I listen and the next morning we discovery a missing computer. Piecing together the night Stacey and I realize that the thief stood holding her door still while I darted back and forth. It easily swung open from the weight of her shoes. The bright streetlight only dimmed when blocked by the form of a man.

And still I’m excited for the potential scares of the holiday. Besides how often do I get to pretend I’m a punk rocker?