On Halloween Past

For three years in a row, I was a black cat. With long whiskers and a little nose drawn on my face with eyeliner, a tight headband with felt ears, and a black turtleneck and leggings, I pranced around our neighborhood, meowing, hissing, and embracing my role with verve and vigor. Sure, I wasn’t the most creative at dressing up for Halloween, but it was a holiday I loved nonetheless.

I looked forward to scooping squishy handfuls of guts and seeds out of big orange pumpkins. On such occasions, Mama would cover the kitchen table in yesterday’s newspaper, preparing the work space of the family artist: Daddy. Daddy’s deft hand would then trace that year’s masterpiece onto the surface of the pumpkin. I loved to watch him, as he cut out each sliver and chunk, the spooky face of the gourd emerging before my very eyes.

After the carving was complete and as the sun was setting, we’d deliver, with much ceremony, the finished Jack O’Lantern to its rightful spot on the front porch. Mama would place a small tea-light in the bottom, light the wick, and Jack would come to life, glowing spookily in the early dusk of the October night.

These memories of early Halloweens are still treasured, and the same sort of excitement that gripped me as a child when the air would cool and pumpkins would start popping up on front porches still bubbles up every fall.

In a perfect recreation of that childhood ritual, Jeremy and I line the kitchen table with newspaper. The perfect pumpkin, which has been chosen with much consideration to carving surface, stem, and color, graces the table, as my mad scientist husband brews up a suitably unique theme. Last year was “Cannipumpkin,” in which a smaller pumpkin was affixed to the larger one as if it was being eaten. This year the theme seems to be leaning towards zombies; they’re trendy right now, and we want to be as timely as possible.

Cannipumpkin

My grown-up Halloween doesn't include the trick-or-treating of childhood days gone by, and to be honest, I sometimes miss the process of going door-to-door, smiling shyly, and receiving the fruits of my labor. I miss getting home from a hard day’s night and dumping that plastic pumpkin and all of its treasure into the living room floor. Organized child that I was, I would group my candy by type and color. The bounty of Snickers bars, Smarties, and Dum-dum pops would sustain my sweet tooth for days.

Nowadays, I have to purchase my own trick-or-treat candy for those potential ghosts and goblins that will grace my front porch on Halloween night. I wish I could attest to being one of the “good houses” with the best candy, but alas, the alarmingly high price of that “best candy” means we offer mostly off-brand fare. Nevertheless, we still get to enjoy the antics of trick-or-treaters, even though we’re a little bit too big to join them. I’m lucky enough to live in a big, friendly neighborhood with lots of families…which is an even bigger reason we have to go with the cheaper candy.

There’s just something really special about Halloween. It’s the only holiday that occurs during my favorite month. It’s at the perfect time of the year weather-wise. It’s got candy. And even more important, it’s got that special combination of mystery, spookiness, and family-time that makes for some wonderful memories.

Happy Halloween! May your trick-or-treat bag be filled with Snickers, Milk Duds, and Skittles and all the other great goodies of the "good houses."

 

The Eighth Year

This post originally appeared as a guest post at one of my favorite blogs Narragansett No. 7, but I thought it was appropriate to share it here as part of "The Living Nightmare" Halloween prompt at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug. 

The Eighth Year

The sleeping patterns and habits of an eight-year old rarely make any kind of sense, and my sleeping habits were even more of an enigma than that of most eight-year olds. I know I gave my mom fits as a child. Constantly fighting sleep. Constantly crying out her name in the middle of the night. I can remember our mutual frustration in trying to figure out what was keeping me awake. Even so, sleeping didn’t become a major issue for me until my eighth year.

That eighth year was eventful. I remember a lot from my childhood then. I’ve been blessed (sometimes it’s a curse) with an active mind and can hold onto most memories well, and it seems that most of the memories from my childhood come from that turbulent and tumultuous year.

Daddy had just gotten laid off from his job. He is and will always be the hardest working man I’ve ever known, and during the time between his old job and what would become his new and better job, he did everything in his power to provide for our family.  As an eight-year old, I probably couldn’t fully appreciate the sacrifices that he and Mama were making during that time of struggle for our family, but looking back on it as an adult, I do. I realize just how much that period of my life shaped the person I am today, and I couldn’t be more grateful for the lessons learned then. To this day, I try to never take anything for granted.

When Daddy did land his new job, it was two hours away. Until we could all move to our new town, the family was separated, and the rock and protector of the house was missing. Thus began my sleeping woes. Or at least that’s where I think they began. I can still clearly see myself as if looking down from above. There I am, lying in my tiny twin bed, the ruffled and flowered bedspread covering my slight eight-year old form, an army of stuffed animals arranged around me in a protective ring. When it comes to the dark, I’m a chicken through and through. For as long as I can remember, I’ve feared not the dark itself but what may be waiting in the dark, what the dark hides from me. The dozens of stuffed animals that I slept with as a child were a form of comfort to me, a symbolic means of protection from what was hidden in the dark.

Via

In addition to the stuffed animals standing sentry over me, I took the measure of pulling the sheets over my face when I slept. I still practiced this habit until I got married a few years ago. If I couldn't see the dark, then it couldn’t see me. To avoid looking into the darkness is the key. 

To this day, I avoid dark windows. When I look out into that cold expanse of darkness, I can’t help but feel that Something, somewhere is looking back at me. I have stood at windows for long stretches, staring hard into the night, looking for a glimpse of whatever is out there watching me through depthless eyes. Daring whatever it is to jump out and reveal itself. 

Lying in bed at night, the fear is of waking up and seeing Something or someone standing beside my bed, looking down at me. This particular fear is more acute, probably because it actually happened to me during my eventful eighth year. 

After what had already been a long night of going back and forth between her bedroom and mine, trying desperately to get me to go to sleep, Mama finally let me crawl into bed with her. The comfort and relief I felt when I snuggled up to her warm body was indescribable. You see, I had convinced myself as long as someone was in the room with me whatever was lurking in the dark would stay away. 

I was wrong.

I woke in the middle of the night, as I had before and have millions of times since, with the feeling that Something was watching me. I kept my eyes squeezed shut, unwilling to let a drop of the darkness in. I listened.  Mama's soft snores interrupted the silence of the night, but there was another noise, something I've never heard before or since. I don't think I can even describe it, other than it sounded heavy, as heavy and thick as the air in the room felt.

When I finally gathered the courage to open my eyes, a dark figure stood at the side of the bed, bent down over where Mama slept. It was watching her, and it knew that I was watching it. I felt its eyes transfer to me, and pure dread settled into my child's heart. I gasped. I snapped my eyes shut and scrambled to pull the thin sheet back over my face. I lay there for hours, too terrified to move, too paralyzed with fear to even wake my mother who lay sleeping peacefully beside me. I didn't open my eyes until I felt the warmth of morning sunlight on my face. It chased the black void from the room and closed that gateway to Hell.

I still feel eyes watching me sometimes, resting upon me as I move through the darkness of our house, as I settle down to sleep at night. Over the years, I've grown more comfortable with these feelings. I have never seen a ghost, but I have experienced things, especially in my eighth year, that leave me knowing, without a doubt, that something else is out there, watching from the darkness.