Some might say it's about the candy. True, it is the one night of the year that our moms encourage us to horde semi-truck loads of sugary poison wrapped in pretty packaging inside our pillow cases. It's the only time our mothers will grin an approving grin while we gorge ourselves into a diabetic stupor.
But if it were only about the candy, heck, we could avoid all of the hassle of hunting the Value Village costume, risking our lives on the dark, forboding streets at night and the humiliation of begging door to door in the acquisition of sweet stuff that our neighbours payed good money for.
We could just convince Mom to hire the same front-end loader filled with candy for the neigbours kids, turn out the front door light and induce the same approving grin on Mother's face. (Likely, though, her approving grin is directly attached to the fact that her kids are busily stuffing their faces at someone else's expense for a change. If so, she likely failed economics 101).
No, it's about the thrill, the blood-curdling cries of werewolves at night, the headless monsters and the 50 pound spiders that creep out of hiding on Halloween night. It's about spiked levels of hormones from the medulla of the adrenal glands - adrenaline.
It was just such a high that brought these adrenaline seeking adults - myself, my son, my daughter, my husband and a few friends - to a historic all-time low. Creating the haunted house that would make those little ones drop their bags of candy and run home to momma.
It began with creepy music pumped out at ear-piercing decibals, drawing zombies from near and far. It continued with gore - not the real kind - your average party store variety.
It included sophisticated gimmickry to make snakes hiss, skulls jump out at you, floors vibrate and ugly masks pop out of boxes...
The stage was set, the sun descended and the deranged adults took their positions. I, likely being the most gullible, was assigned to Hanibal, the overstuffed dummy-come-to-life-who-grabs-at-your-legs-and-shrieks-as-you-whimper-past. I had a cold, giving my shrieks a level of authenticity as the pain seared through my raw throat with every howl. I was committed to the task.
Things were going well; screams were filling the air and bladders were trickling uncontrollably. Young boys approached me with feigned bravado, sticking a foot out to jab at my knee, taunting me to flinch, then leaping into their friends clutches as I made my move at just the right moment.
The girls feigned no bravado. They revelled in the way their own screams cut through the night air, reaching far into outer space, being picked up by satellite dishes and sent back to Earth. They would come around again for more, and more and still more.
Then, one fateful moment that couldn't have been predicted by myself or the best psychic in Amityville. She was a girl of about 10, sandwiched neatly between her terror-stricken friends, whiter than my nuclear-waste-site costume, fear refelecting from her eyes. She would become my next victim. I waited until the pretty little damsel came just within reach, then grabbed...and howled.
I whipped off the gloves, the gauntlet had been dropped, and my hands flew to my nose, pain coursing through my head. "I'm sorry." She giggled somewhere beyond my blurred, teared vision, then continued on in a sugar-hungry quest.
She'd hit me, right square in the schnoz, like an effeminate Rocky Balboa. I mused at the power packed into that tender little hand as the stars made their dizzying course around my head.
If you're reading this, young lady, I'd like to speak to your mother some time. I'd like to tell her what you did to that innocent Hanibal, who could have been spending a relaxing evening drinking tea with a lovely book, but instead forfeited an evening to bring you a little Halloween mirth.
I'd like to tell your mother that she should be proud. She's raised a daughter who won't quickly be taken advantage of in a cruel, ugly world.
As for me, well, I think I'll retire my spooky threads and dish out the candy next year.
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