Halloweenie
A lifelong Spooky Gal gets her comeuppance
This piece originally ran on October 15, 2024 at the
Substack - the publishing company I run with my partner.I adore Halloween. I just do.
As a fashion obsessive, I love the costumes, from social-media memes to punny portmanteaus to clever re-creations of well-known pop-culture characters. And if you're going as a historical figure, complete with period-correct clothing, I'm salivating. Possibly on your fancy dress.
It should go without saying that I love the candy.
And I love the ghosts! I love to be deliciously spooked, whether with the tantalizing tidbit of a tragic story from days gone by or a good old-fashioned haunted-house movie to savor after dark. So yeah, when you add it all up, I pretty much wish it could be Halloween all year long.
When it actually is Halloween, I'm in my element. I'm all over it.
And so is my partner! The Writer and I both share an affinity for the creepy and the occult, and we have spooky stuff decorating our house year-round: mysterious old spellbooks; a life-sized raven figure perched atop a living-room bookcase; calaveras, or Día de los Muertos sugar skulls to remind us of the precious ephemerality of life - that death is just a transition to a higher plane of consciousness; nothing to fear.
For spooky people like us, Halloween season is a prime time to acquire year-round décor. So one October Saturday, the Writer went out to run a couple errands and came back with some Halloween decorations he figured would fit with our vibe. He brought back strings of lights shaped like ghosts and skulls, a wall hanging urging us to “Stay Spooky," a pair of “Nightmare Before Christmas"-themed gravestones - one labeled “Jack," and the other, unnervingly, labeled “Sally" (yes, I know I just said death is nothing to fear, but come on, now: a gravestone with my own name?!) - and one more item.
“I’ve saved the best for last," he called from the garage as I sat patiently in the living room, nursing my glass of cold brew. His tone was momentous, even reverent. "Close your eyes!” he commanded.
Rolling them first, I complied.
What followed was the sound of the Writer wrestling something inside for a few moments before he proclaimed, “All right, you may look!"
I opened my eyes to behold this sight:
Yes, it was a life-sized, somewhat gruesome-looking plastic skeleton. (It really is life-sized: its legs are dragging on the floor here.)
"Oh!” I sputtered. “Gosh!" I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how I felt! Borrowing a road-tested phrase from my brother, I settled on, "My, what a … skeleton!" This, not “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious," is what one properly says when one does not know what to say: just switch out the noun as the situation requires.
He flushed with pleasure. “It could not be passed up," he said simply, already at work clearing a place to display it.
"Clearly,” I responded dryly.
But he took no notice. "Just $35!” he marveled. "And look what it does!” He pushed a button dangling from the skeleton's shoulder.
This. This is what it does:
"Gahhh!” I yelped reflexively. "I mean, uhh. That's awesome." I was lying like a rug, and I hoped it was convincing.
Because, OK: This skeleton was weird, and I didn't like it. But it was absolutely the kind of thing we would have! It made perfect sense that he bought it. Indeed, there is almost nothing so weird that the Writer and I would not buy it for $35.
But I found this thing absolutely terrifying. This was not deliciously spooky. For me, for whatever reason, this was downright frightening.
Agitated, I took to my phone for relief. I scrolled through my texts and pulled up the group chat with just me and the Writer's parents.
“Your child bought this and put it in my home," I began, attaching the photo. "If I die of a sudden cardiac event in the night, you'll know why.”
He got the skeleton settled, and it watched us menacingly. I kind of wanted to move it out of my line of sight, but quickly decided I didn't want that thing watching me from anywhere I couldn't watch it right back.
That night, I woke up and came out to watch TV. I didn't have a cardiac event, but next to the TV, the awful thing was juuust visible enough - and I was just tired enough to be startled anew each time the corner of my eye clocked it:
Somehow I gathered all my courage and managed to walk past it to get back to the bedroom.
The next day, I confessed sheepishly that the skeleton had caught me off-guard the night before. After all, I pointed out, when you come out of the bathroom in the night, you're instantly face-to-profile with this:
Well, the Writer hit upon the idea to dress him up a little bit. That way, he'd be less frightening. Worth a shot! I thought.
“Oh, I know what!" the Writer said, scampering off and returning with his own neon vaporwave board shorts.
Skull-print. Naturally.
"This is the best idea there's ever been,” he said with characteristic humility as he admired his handiwork in securing the board shorts over the skeleton's thin hips. "I can't believe I had an idea that good!” He looked at me for confirmation. "It's just … the best possible idea, right?”
I blinked and cocked my head as I peered at it. “Umm ..” Adding goofy board shorts - with more skulls on them - was not a big enough change for me.
“You know,” the Writer said, stroking his beard thoughtfully, "I’m kind of getting a vibe that his name should be Rupert."
Rupert the skeleton? Fine. But board shorts or no, Rupert still scared the absolute crap out of me.
Chuckling and trying to play it cool, I nodded along as we added a visor, a pair of headphones, his own Adidas slides, a beach towel, and a bag containing a baby Yoda - some "Mandalorian" thing.
"See?” the Writer asked proudly. “He's carrying the little baby! Not so scary now, is he?"
“Oh, no way," I said feebly. Somehow, this was actually worse:
I would simply have to convince myself. He loved it so much! And I love him so much. I could not be the stick in the mud I felt like - not when he was so happy.
“Now he's just a … a very skinny surfer dude, babysitting a Yoda,” I said. "And we don't body-shame! It's great. Rupert is … great.”
I couldn't even look at him.
And that night, I couldn't sleep.
I stayed up as long as I could, so that I'd crash as soon as I hit the sack. Unlike every other night, I left all the lights on until about 3 AM, when I went to bed - which I accomplished by flipping the switch and then hurtling myself into the bedroom as quickly as I could.
That was when things started to get weird.
As I lay on my stomach, my back to the open door, the thought drifted across my mind that perhaps this was not safe.
We leave the bedroom door open for air flow and so Jasmine can come and go - her water is in the kitchen - but with the door open, I realized, Rupert could just barge right in if he were to somehow, oh, I don't know - come to life.
You know: or something. Whatever!
But this was a real worry. No, not the sheer insanity of that thought, but the ease with which I imagined Rupert coming to life, those awful red, glowing eyes activated without the use of the shoulder button, and then easing himself down from where we'd hung him in order to make his way into our bedroom, where he'd kill us right where we slept.
It was 3:30 in the morning. I was so tired. And I was so terrified.
After beating down a burgeoning panic attack, I was finally able to convince myself that the Writer would protect me if Rupert the plastic Halloween skeleton came to life and attacked us.
Sure he would! Of course he would. He killed that horrible spider that one time, didn't he? And come on, Sally, I told myself, that's half the reason women even have fiancés and husbands in the first place!
And Jasmine would just absolutely chew Rupert to shreds, I reassured myself. She'd be like - well - like a dog with a bone.
I settled into an uneasy sleep around 4.
When I woke up, I felt a little silly - until I stumbled tiredly out of the bathroom and yelped. There was Rupert.
Later that evening, we settled on the couch under Rupert's glowing red gaze: By now, his eyes burned like embers to me without anyone pressing the shoulder button.
“What else could we give him?" Dave wondered aloud. Changing Rupert’s outfits was believed to be half the fun, as if he were a cement front-porch goose and we were a pair of retirees circa 1992.
But how long could I keep this up? "Yeah, no, I don't know,” I answered vaguely, hoping he'd forget about it.
Then, before I even knew what was coming out of my mouth, I heard myself scoff, “He probably can't even really come to life at all."
Wordlessly, the Writer lifted the remote and hit "pause” on the TV and peered at me for a few long moments. Finally, he spoke.
“Sorry?" he asked, his voice heavy with concern. “Wh-what did you say?"
I blinked and felt my face get hot. “Well, you know! Like … coming to life,” I said defensively. "He, like, probably can't even do that at all. Loser,” I added with false bravado, immediately glancing up at Rupert to see if I'd angered him.
“Are you being serious?" the Writer asked.
Oh, hell. "I kind of … couldn't fall asleep last night because I was concerned about Rupert coming to life," I said. “And attacking us. Specifically, killing us in our sleep. Is what I imagine. He'd, uhhh … do," I said, losing steam. “But he probably can't even do that, I mean. So.” I took a sip of my Diet Coke, hoping to appear nonchalant.
My partner eyed me critically for a few seconds. "Why don't I move him?” he asked. "Over into the kitchen, maybe, or into the library?”
“No!" I shrieked. “If he's going to be in the house, I've gotta have eyes on him!"
He let out a long sigh. “Sally, let's just move him onto the porch," he said. “He can sit outside the door! Problem solved!"
“Oh, no, then you won't get to see him!" I protested. “Just give me, like, several more days. Many more days, actually. To get used to him. I'll get there!" I exclaimed when he looked skeptical. “Like, maybe if we painted him neon pink and added a coat of glitter!"
But the Writer just shook his head. “It's not any fun for me to see him if I know you're terrified," he explained.
And with that, I crumpled. "Oh, my God, I am!” I wailed. “I really am. I'm absolutely terrified of him! I'm so sorry!”
"I'm so sorry! I didn't know! But it's no trouble," Dave reassured me. "Here, look!”
He removed a few of Rupert's accessories that we wouldn't want stolen by street youths, then retrieved a lawn chair from the yard and set it up near the front door. He got Rupert situated out there, and as he carried him through the front door and out of the house, I felt a weight lift.
“Ooh, I've got an idea!" Dave and I exclaimed at the same time. We ran off in separate directions and returned: Dave carrying an empty Mountain Dew can and a roll of tape, and me with a beach hat.
Less than five minutes after the intent was declared, this was the result:
Don't get me wrong: I know this is still a little grim. If you ask me, Rupert looks a bit too much like an old desert hippie waiting for it to cool off a little. And I still have to walk past him to take Jasmine for her midnight potty-and-zoomies break.
But at least I don't have to look at him inside! And I'm reasonably certain that he's not looking at me, either. Definitely not now that he's got a girlfriend! Somehow, one of them is scary, but two of them are just goofy:
Well - I don’t think he's looking at me.
Pretty sure.