I dream of October all year. It’s always been so.
Long before the pumpkin spice mafia claimed the season, it was mine. My mother tells me as much.
Every year on my birthday, she says without fail, “You were a little late. You were supposed to have been born on the 31st.”
I count on this story like I do a new candle appearing on my cake, placing me as the last triplet of Bradbury’s “Something Wicked This Way Comes,” Will Halloway, Jim Nightshade, and then, me– siblings whose beginnings circle a holiday draped in all things dark, bizarre and unusual.
All Hallow’s Eve.
Eve of All Saints.
Eve of Samhain.
Halloween.
When you tell them you stayed up until midnight binging Mike Flanagan’s “Midnight Mass” for the eighth time, and no one bats an eye.
When pristine lawns are scattered with styrofoam gravestones and 12-foot-tall skeletons from Home Depot.
When Martha Stewart and Rob Zombie are on the same page when it comes to choosing the perfect planchette-shaped cheese plate.
A time when a 40-year-old man can swing by a McDonald’s for the sole purpose of obtaining a Boo Bucket happy meal for himself.
“Picking this up for the kiddo at home?” the woman asks at the drive-through window.
“Oh, hell, that’s right,” I say, clearing the cobwebs of nostalgia. “Better give me two more.”
The world turns a little upside down on Halloween. Rules held to the other 364 days of the year are thrown out. Growing up in the 1980s, I saw this firsthand.
As a child, I was bombarded with talk shows stoking the bonfires of the Satanic Panic. Hosts like Phil Donahue and Geraldo Rivera pleaded with me to stay away from those listening to Mega Death and other rock metal bands unless I wanted to become the next sacrifice to Beelzebub.
And, when not being threatened by the danger of abandoned refrigerators, I was promised that, at some point, I’d be approached by an insidious individual with copious amounts of Tootsie Rolls and Nerds, coaxing me inside a blacked-out window van where unspeakable horrors would be done to me. Causing me to become the next face on a milk carton. My story told on “Unsolved Mysteries” or “America’s Most Wanted.”
I learned early on that the world was a scary place. Yet, at Halloween, all bets were off.
What was it like? Imagine an adolescent version of “The Purge”— a lawless 24-hour period during which all expectations and formalities were thrown out the window.
At the age of 11, I was dropped off in a neighborhood where I had an equal chance of getting a full-sized chocolate bar or being snatched into a serial killer’s basement. My parents, who warned me to fear everyone, pulled a 180 as soon as they lit the first jack-o-lantern.
“Go, they said. “Put on this latex mask. Hold onto this carton of eggs and this industrial-size bundle of toilet paper. Get a little mischievous. Put the trick before the treat if you need to. See all those houses filled with people you don’t know? When you’re done committing light vandalism, go up and knock on their doors if the lights are on. When someone answers, talk to them, look them in the eye and beg them for candy! Oh, and take your little sister with you! Got it? I’ll pick you up in a couple of hours.”
On those nights, under the autumn moon and starless sky, wandering unknown streets, I felt like I’d gained entrance into an abandoned carnival. Every moment filled with equal parts terror and excitement— magic and mayhem woven together.
It’s a feeling I’ve tried to pass down to my children.
They’ve adapted nicely. We watch spooky movies all year. You’re as likely to find us watching “Coraline” or “Hocus Pocus” in June as you are in October.
However, even at a young age, they know that when the weather gets chilly, the thermostat and the dial for all things creepy get turned up.
And while I’d like to think it’s because they love spiders, bones and Wednesday Addams as much as their mother and me, I know sugary treats play a big part. They’ve been scoping at homes on the main drag of our town for weeks.
The folks here in New England do Halloween better than most. Pumpkins, witches, ghosts, you name it.
People sit out on their porches or in lawn chairs. Fire pits blaze and shadows dance across faces I think I recognize. Some houses even have airplane bottles filled with different spirits for parents.
One year, we walked upon a house fitted with Mind Flayer straight out of “Stranger Things.” Another year, a disturbing-looking scarecrow caused my oldest to cling to me a little closer than usual when we stopped in front of an old Victorian. Once she saw the cauldron full of candy, her bravery returned.
There’s another house whose owners have perfected the jump scare. You know it’s coming, just not where it’s coming from. They even went as far as to post a lookout to tell them to tone it down when smaller kids approach.
Over the past few years, I’ve come to expect certain houses to have certain ghoulish garnishings. In some odd way, I was starting to believe I was getting to know people through their Halloween displays.
However, this year’s presidential election has challenged what I thought I knew. More precisely, who I thought I knew.
Political propaganda covers yards. The Harris/Walz signs seem tame.
They contain nothing but names, sometimes accompanied by the slogan “We’re Not Going Back.” There are a few “Veterans For Harris” signs.
The MAGA merchandise takes it up several notches.
Trump flags beat inches underneath Old Glory on poles. Sometimes, they read Trump/Vance. Others still can’t part with “Let’s Go Brandon”— like racism and American exceptionalism, it’s something they’re never going to let go of.
On some, the profile of the 45th president is plastered against what looks like a harvest moon. In at least one field, hay bales declaring”VOTE TRUMP” in large blue lettering keep crows and anything resembling empathy away.
As we’ve approached November 5th, I’ve seen more signs, flags, and banners find their way into yards, all telling me one very hard and shameful truth: I really don’t know a damn thing about the people who live near me.
Most of them are just strangers, and on Halloween Night, I’ll pass their ideology-identifying markers as I walk up to their front porch with my family. Many of the steps I climb will be at the homes of people who will actively vote against my daughters’ rights over their own bodies and against friends in marginalized groups.
It’s surreal to think about and the more I do, the more I conclude that maybe obtaining a handful of Smarties and one or two Reese’s cups just isn’t worth it. We may skip certain houses this year.
Maybe I’ll tell my kids, “Baby, we don’t know them. They are strangers, and we don’t take candy from folks we don’t know, do we?”
It’s a good rule for them to learn: Stranger Danger. Especially during an election year.
received his theological education from Campbell University and Wake Forest University School of Divinity. He is an ordained minister affiliated with the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship and enrolled in the doctor of ministry program at McAfee School of Theology. When not spending time with his spouse and daughters, he can be found writing and baking late into the night. He currently resides in New England with his family. His thoughts and reflections are his own.
