Halloween Fever

As Halloween season dawns upon the Western Hemisphere, the winds grow colder, and there’s a certain chill in the air you can’t find during the springtime. One can almost hear the gentle whistle from the northern winds, rushing through the aging trees. As the winds die out in the bustling metropolis, there will be a mortician somewhere preparing to receive the possible bodies of racist Halloween costumes—hopefully—toilet papered houses, and fresh food posing as surrogate-wrapped candy. Without a shadow of a doubt, Halloween has always been an evolving holiday since its more morbid beginnings. But after the tumultuous start to 2020, Halloween will surely never be the same. On these frigid and dry days, I like to reflect on my past with this haunting celebration and wonder if I’ll miss trading lollipops or painting whiskers on my face.

Back in 2012, I was just another girl guide—a Canadian Girl Scout—swept up on the wave of Halloween spirit. As I sat in a group circle holding my guide book, Leader Snowy Owl clapped her hands as she asked what everyone was wearing to the costume party. Like drunken college students, my troop went nuts, cheering and screaming the princesses they wanted to be or if they were allowed to bring an axe to the party. Though I was not prepared nor looking forward to this instance, I smiled brightly, nodding to my patrol as they boasted about their seamstress mothers. That night, I stared at the magnetic calendar on my bedroom door, nervously counting the days until my troop's costume party.

There was a pile of pumpkin guts and seeds sitting in my stomach, reminding me to find a costume so I wouldn't make a fool of myself in front of my friends. Unfortunately, my parents weren't awfully keen on buying me a new costume that I'd only wear once, convinced I would outgrow it or throw it away before the following year. Being a smaller-than-average first-grader, everything from my preschool years fit me, including a flimsy red dress with a spider-webbed tulle overskirt and black velvety angel sleeves, an old costume my mother bought for my second Halloween in school. It must have been part of a costume set, but I couldn’t find any of the other garments or accessories. My mind assumed it was a vampire dress at the time, but I never ended up figuring out what that dress was supposed to be.

As I sat in the car, pressing my face against the ice-cold window, I looked at all the whimsical decorations dotting my neighbors’ front yards. This distraction was full of bright jack-o’-lanterns, gravestones, a giant moving cat, and hundreds of spiderwebs sprawled over shrubs. Awe turned into fondness, which turned into a twisted worry that no one was going to stop by my house—gated, tall, and hard to get into—to trick-or-treat. Though it resembled a haunted house at night, most kids skipped over it, thinking we were either asleep or out for flesh. This thought made me wonder if the giant, sparkly spider and neon purple webs were enough to draw people in. As we pulled over to my school, I unbuckled my seat belt and hopped out of the car, stepping over the wrapper of a Rocket.

Hand clutched against the steely gym door handle, I crept in late. The scene I stumbled upon was full of ghosts, zombies, princesses, fairies, and serial killers, all gathered around a stack of guide books, chanting their Girl Guide Promise: “I promise I will do my best to be true to myself, my beliefs, and Canada; I will take action for a better world and respect the Brownie Law.” I shivered, not knowing if my chills were from the blasting air conditioning or the creepy air that surrounded our troop as we all rose up and dispersed into our own ritual circles.

Sitting in the Elves group, I absentmindedly listened to my group leader and stared as they handed out lollipops and themed playing cards. It seemed as if no one else noticed the shuttered blinds, opened back door, and spilled fruit punch as they exchanged their Smarties and Kit Kats. Were they all hypnotized by a soul-sucking enchantress, or had their brains been gobbled up? I wasn't sure, but I knew that if I stuck out, something was going to come out to get me, the conscious head in a sea of mindlessness. Sighing as someone asked what I was, I accidentally told them I was a witch. As Leader Brown Owl came around with a box of chip bags, I looked behind to see nothing peeking out of the gym divider and grabbed some Doritos.

I woke up the next morning, dizzy and confused about what happened the night before. With my pillowcase soaked in sweat and my floors covered in Maynards wrappers, I sank into my mattress and stared up at the ceiling. Through the window shone a bright white light, and I smiled, happy to skip a day of school. Thinking there must have been something watching over me, I asked my bedroom ceiling for a new costume and my health to go out again on the next frigid Hallows Eve. The evil spirit in the air listened and granted me four new cavities and a high fever the next Halloween, leaving me in my pajamas to hand out Sour Patch Kids to my schoolmates from my house. Something inside me danced as I watched more and more kids stop by with their garbage bags and baskets, choking that dying excitement to wear my flimsy red witch dress.

As an eighth-grader, I sat in the middle of my homeroom, smiling at the sight of a classmate with glued-on fur and fangs. She giggled with her plainly dressed friends as the boys snickered behind her; the next period, I couldn't help but stare at her as the Halloween fever took over her bones, overwhelming the will to finish her math worksheet. I wondered where that old dress was after my father dropped off all my past costumes at Value Village back in Canada. My hands couldn't help but sketch out a layered, velvet black formal dress with a giant cape during social studies as I let my mind daydream my perfect, imaginary Halloween costume. Unfortunately, the dream was cut short when my teacher called on me, asking me to pay attention to the 19th-century prohibition.