Halloween Horror

I’ve never been the biggest fan of Halloween. Sure, I liked getting candy, but I was never a true Halloween enthusiast, even as a kid. I think for four years running I was a pirate. Same costume, just a little shorter in the legs and arms each year. And I think I liked being a pirate because then I could talk like a pirate the whole time I was trick or treating, and let’s be honest, anytime you can yell, “To the plank with you wenches!” and wave my sword at friends and not get in trouble by an adult is a good thing. Cause yelling that shit on a regular day was frowned upon in my neck of the woods.

I grew up on a dead-end street with a great bunch of kids all around the same age, so it was awesome. We’d traipse around the neighbourhood with our pillowcases as bags, running as fast as we could, house to house. Back then, no one seemed to worry about kids being out on their own, so once we reached about 10 years old, we were allowed to take off on our own. Everyone in the neighbourhood pretty much knew who was who, and the parents who were out and about, always keep an eye out for everyone. Innocent and simpler times for sure.

Once we returned home, my siblings and I, at least those of us who went out, would pour our haul on our section on the rec room carpet. Then the sorting would begin. Chocolate bars in one pile, chips in another, rockets, and sour sucks in another. There was always a pile for our “shit candy”, dedicated to the packages of black licorice, crappy gum, and anything else our unappreciative asses deemed unworthy of eating. This was the pile we offered to the non-trick or treating members of the family. I know, we were quite generous kids.

As my brothers, and then my sister, aged out of the tradition, a new tradition was born – jump on the piles of your baby sisters’ candy and try to steal as much as you could. I hated this tradition. If I only had to fend off one of them, I might have been okay, but I have three older brothers and one older sister, and there was no way in hell I was going to win. So, in order to even the odds, I’d lose my shit and scream for my parents. Worked every time.

“LEAVE YOUR LITTLE SISTER ALONE!”

“STAY OUT OF HER CANDY!”

“BOYS!”

It usually took a few bellows from my Mom for the scavengers to back off, but eventually they did. My Dad would come down and pretend to be an authoritarian dictator, all the while, his eyes would be firmly on my chocolate bars and chips. Being the youngest was a bitch, nothing was sacred, especially my Reese Peanut Butter Cups.

By far, the best part of Halloween was the prep and the lead up. We didn’t really decorate too much, only the traditional Jack o’ Lantern on the front porch. Of course, I’d always be part of the carving ceremony. Usually one of my older brothers would be tasked with helping me, especially with the actual carving because knives are sharp, and pumpkins are hard.

I remember one particular Halloween, I’d spent hours working on the pumpkin and it was a masterpiece. I was so proud and couldn’t wait until it got dark so I could light the candle and see her in all her glory.

“It’s so spooky Mom!”

“Yes it is! You did a good job! Now get going, time to trick or treat. Have fun!”

I went on my way, having no inkling about the ensuing tragedy about to occur. I was still only about seven years old, so my Dad walked around with me and we had a great time. Since I was still quite young, we came home after an hour or so, then I’d help my Mom hand out candy.

My Mom saw the police car pull into the driveway first.

“Tricia, go get your father please.”

“He’s watching T.V. Why can’t I stay here?”

“Just go get your Dad.” Her tone was firm, not angry, but I knew to do what I told.

By the time I’d gotten my Dad, the police officer was standing in the front reception area with one of my brothers – who I shall not name to preserve his current reputable standing in the community. The officer was speaking to my Mom, and my brother stood there with his chin on his chest, not saying a flipping word or moving a muscle.

My little self was terrified. Why was this police officer in my house and why did he have my brother? I just couldn’t understand. I snuck into the dining room and hid behind the louvered door so I could get a better vantage point.

“We’re going to have to take the pumpkin Mrs. Faber.”

“I understand Officer.”

TAKE THE PUMPKIN? MY PUMPKIN? WHAT BLASPHEMY WAS THIS?

“I’m sorry Mom,” my brother mumbled, not daring to look her in the eyes.

“I will deal with you later. Now take the pumpkin and go with the Officer.”

I couldn’t take it any longer and burst through the door.

“YOU CAN’T TAKE MY PUMPKIN!”

Tears exploded from my face and a once fearless pirate was a sobbing, uncontrollable mess.

“MOMMY WHY DO THEY HAVE TO TAKE OUR PUMPKIN?”

“It’s okay honey,” answered my Mom cradling my head against her leg. “It’s going to be okay.”

She turned to comfort me, as my Dad walked the officer and my brother to the front porch and the unsuspecting Jack o’ Lantern. I couldn’t watch. The Jack o’ Lantern hadn’t done a darn thing wrong and yet she was being sent away, to a new home, to a new family. They didn’t know her like I’d knew her. I gave her life. She poured out her insides for me. We had a bond, and now she was gone.

“I don’t understand Mommy. Why did they have to take our pumpkin? I worked so hard on it.”

“I know you did sweetie, and I’m so sorry, and I know your brother is sorry too. He made a bad decision and unfortunately as a consequence, we had to give another family our pumpkin.”

I don’t really remember what exactly happened next, but I know that she never told me the actual reason we had to give up our pumpkin. All I remember was the devastation I felt in my heart and the sheer scorn and anger I leveled at my brother for a long time after that. Let’s just say, there were no good treats from my stash for him that year. He was black licorice and candy corn all the way.

What did he do? Him and his dumb-ass teenage rebellious, vigilante, up-to-no-good, did I say dumb-ass friends, decided it would be fun to run around the neighbourhood and smash people’s pumpkins. And of course, my brother was the only one that got caught by the police. Dumb-ass.

The other family had young children and were understandably upset at having their pumpkin destroyed, so to make it right, we had to forfeit our pumpkin. So one family happy, and a little sister devastated. Now I know you’re probably thinking I overreacted to the whole situation and that I’ve perhaps exaggerated the drama of the situation in my recollections, but I assure you, I have not.

Even in the writing of this story, I’ve had to go pour myself a glass of wine to help me deal with the pain and the stress of the memory of that fateful Halloween, 1970.

I live in a different city now. I haven’t carved a pumpkin in years. The joy is gone I’m afraid. I’m now that house that shuts all the curtains and turns out all the lights.

“Didn’t they used to give out pop?” The neighbourhood kids whisper.

Yes, yes, I did. But that was then, and this is now. I’ve done my time giving out candy over the past fifty years. I don’t even want it in my house because I just have to look at it and it lands on my ass, and I’m already doing a hundred squats a day. I’m not anti-Halloween by any means, and I love to see those who embrace the season and go all out. Good for you! I see you and raise you at Christmas time!

So, what did I do last night on Halloween? Absolutely nothing, and it was glorious. Okay maybe that’s not entirely true. I may have thrown on my old pirate costume for another go. Just for old times sake. It didn’t fit and I spilt the ass in two.

Halloween just isn’t my gig, I guess. How many days until Christmas?