Halloween Sayings And Quotes

I know there's a proverb which that says 'To err is human,' but a human error is nothing to what a computer can do if it tries.

Being alone is not the most awful thing in the world. You visit your museums and cultivate your interests and remind yourself how lucky you are not to be one of those spindly Sudanese children with flies beading their mouths. You make out To Do lists - reorganise linen cupboard, learn two sonnets. You dole out little treats to yourself - slices of ice-cream cake, concerts at Wigmore Hall. And then, every once in a while, you wake up and gaze out of the window at another bloody daybreak, and think, I cannot do this anymore. I cannot pull myself together again and spend the next fifteen hours of wakefulness fending off the fact of my own misery. People like Sheba think that they know what it's like to be lonely. They cast their minds back to the time they broke up with a boyfriend in 1975 and endured a whole month before meeting someone new. Or the week they spent in a Bavarian steel town when they were fifteen years old, visiting their greasy-haired German pen pal and discovering that her hand-writing was the best thing about her. But about the drip drip of long-haul, no-end-in-sight solitude, they know nothing. They don't know what it is to construct an entire weekend around a visit to the laundrette. Or to sit in a darkened flat on Halloween night, because you can't bear to expose your bleak evening to a crowd of jeering trick-or-treaters. Or to have the librarian smile pityingly and say, ‘Goodness, you're a quick reader!’ when you bring back seven books, read from cover to cover, a week after taking them out. They don't know what it is to be so chronically untouched that the accidental brush of a bus conductor's hand on your shoulder sends a jolt of longing straight to your groin. I have sat on park benches and trains and schoolroom chairs, feeling the great store of unused, objectless love sitting in my belly like a stone until I was sure I would cry out and fall, flailing, to the ground. About all of this, Sheba and her like have no clue.

They say it's the woman's prerogative to change her mind. But that's wrong. Guys are the one who get to say, "You know what? I don't want to be with you after all." They get to say it after they've sucked all the sweetness out of you, just like those cheap, liquid filled wax candy things we used to get for Halloween. They leave you dried up, empty piece of wax, and head off to find somebody else who still has some sweetness inside.

So did Caspian leave this behind when he went off to college or something?' 'No.' Don't say it. Please don't say it. 'He died a little more than two years ago in a car accident. Right after Halloween

I watched Maximoff Hale on-screen profess his undying love for Power Rangers and excitedly say, 'I hope that if I have a brother or a sister, they'll like Power Rangers too.' Public Fact: Xander Hale is a Power Ranger every year for Halloween.

But about the drip drip of long-haul, no-end-in-sight solitude, they know nothing. They don't know what it is to construct an entire weekend around a visit to the laundrette. Or to sit in a darkened flat on Halloween night, because you can't bear to expose your bleak evening to a crowd of jeering trick-or-treaters. Or to have the librarian smile pityingly and say, ‘Goodness, you're a quick reader!’ when you bring back seven books, read from cover to cover, a week after taking them out. They don't know what it is to be so chronically untouched that the accidental brush of a bus conductor's hand on your shoulder sends a jolt of longing straight to your groin.

Brendan suddenly 'came out' to me. In my experience, the hardest thing about having someone 'come out' to you is the 'pretending to be surprised' part. You want him to feel like what he’s telling you is Big. It’s like, if somebody tells you they’re pregnant, you don’t say, 'I did notice you’ve been eating like a hog lately.' Your gay friend has obviously made a big decision to say the words out loud. You don’t want him to realize that everybody’s known this since he was ten and he wanted to be Bert Lahr for Halloween. Not the Cowardly Lion, but Bert Lahr. 'Oh, my gosh, no waaaay?' You stall, trying to think of something more substantial to say. 'Is everyone, like, freaking out? What a… wow.

When faced with a seemingly insurmountable problem... your only option is to act swiftly, some might even say irrationally. Removing the most dangerous elements first... and methodically attacking each subsequent challenge in a separate, but deliberate manner.

First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys. Not that all months aren’t rare. But there be bad and good, as the pirates say. Take September, a bad month: school begins. Consider August, a good month: school hasn’t begun yet. July, well, July’s really fine: there’s no chance in the world for school. June, no doubting it, June’s best of all, for the school doors spring wide and September’s a billion years away. But you take October, now. School’s been on a month and you’re riding easier in the reins, jogging along. You got time to think of the garbage you’ll dump on old man Prickett’s porch, or the hairy-ape costume you’ll wear to the YMCA the last night of the month. And if it’s around October twentieth and everything smoky-smelling and the sky orange and ash gray at twilight, it seems Halloween will never come in a fall of broomsticks and a soft flap of bedsheets around corners.

Most people live their lives laying prostrate before a false god, waiting for a cue to rise. There are no cues, only decisions. Shall I have dessert? Shall I have the best of the wine? Shall I love the person next to me? They can all be brought to your table. Rise, I say, rise and look within to the truth, to the light, and tell it your decision.

Nobody moved. Everybody sat in the dark cellar, suspended in the suddenly frozen task of this October game; the wind blew outside, banging the house, the smell of pumpkins and apples filled the room with smell of the objects in their fingers while one boy cried, “I'll go upstairs and look!” and he ran upstairs hopefully and out around the house, four times around the house, calling, “Marion, Marion, Marion!” over and over and at last coming slowly down the stairs into the waiting breathing cellar and saying to the darkness, “I can't find her.” Then... some idiot turned on the lights. ("The October Game")

When People Ask How I’m Doing I want to say, my depression is an angry deity, a jealous god a thirsty shadow that wrings my joy like a dishrag and makes juice out of my smile. I want to say, getting out of bed has become a magic trick. I am probably the worst magician I know. I want to say, this sadness is the only clean shirt I have left and my washing machine has been broken for months, but I’d rather not ruin someone’s day with my tragic honesty so instead I treat my face like a pumpkin. I pretend that it’s Halloween. I carve it into something acceptable. I laugh and I say, “I’m doing alright.

Please, please, help me grow to be like them, the ones'll soon be here, who never grow old, can't die, that's what they say, can't die, no matter what, or maybe they died a long time ago but Cecy calls, and Mother and Father call, and Grandmere who only whispers, and now they're coming and I'm nothing, not like them who pass through walls and live in trees or live underneath until seventeen-year rains flood them up and out, and the ones who run in packs, let me be the one! If they live forever, why not me?

So," said Moundshroud. "If we fly fast, maybe we can catch Pipkin. Grab his sweet Halloween corn-candy soul. Bring him back, pop him in bed, toast him warm, save his breath. What say, lads? Search and seek for lost Pipkin, and solve Halloween, all in one fell dark blow?" They thought of All Hallows' Night and the billion ghosts awandering the lonely lanes in cold winds and strange smokes. They thought of Pipkin, no more than a thimbleful of boy and sheer summer delight, torn out like a tooth and carried off on a black tide of web and horn and black soot. And, almost as one, they murmured: "Yes.

I think what you wear on Halloween is important. It says something about you--who you are and what you want to be. There's got to be a reason so many girls go around dressed as princesses and witches.

Old sins have long shadows,” quoted Poirot. “As we advance through life, we learn the truth of that saying.

As the Great Magician says, there will always be trouble in the world. That’s why I say, there will always be a time for heroes.

But that was last year,” I protested as we walked through school on Tuesday, three days before Halloween. “I’m serious, you know how people are. They forget about things.” “Oh, really?” Roux said, then turned and smiled at a brunette passing us. “Hey, Julia, what’s up? How are things?” “Slut,” Julia responded, and kept walking. Roux just looked back at me knowingly. “You were saying?

By the way, the next time you see a little girl who's excited for Halloween,and she says,"I want to be Cinderella! I want to be Cinderella!" you'll know that what she's actually saying is,"I want to be Toilet Cleaner! I want to be Toilet Cleaner!" But don't tell her that, because she'll cry.

But that’s what makes it so fun! Life is scary. So why wouldn’t we enjoy and make fun of that fear? It’s like life is trying to makes us fear it, and on this day we just mock its attempts and say ‘no, not today, today I’m not scared of anything you throw at me'.

Go put on your mask. Say 'trick-or-treat' in costume. It’s All Hallows Eve.

Once you’ve passed, say, fifty, comfort is the only thing that matters.

I didn’t say it was majestic. It’s a dick, not a bald eagle in flight.

I don't think our purpose is to prevent all the bad things in the world.' he says, 'I think our purpose is to help people endure those things.

Silly little monster” all would say. They’d scratch its head and turn away until it snatched their tiny noses. They couldn’t even smell the roses! Ever after, every child dreaded monsters, fierce or mild.

The whispers you hear in your ear that you fear in the air everywhere, they are ghosts. The moans and the groans in the lowest of tones no one owns or condones, they are ghosts. You might deem them gremlins or water or wind, while others say shadows or rodents or sin. But oh! I say no! ‘Tis not so, child, for lo! The chills that you feel in a thrill that proves goose bumps are frightfully real, they are ghosts!

was suspicious, had always been suspicious, of mercy—too much mercy, that is to say. Too much mercy, as he knew from former experience both in Belgium and this country, often resulted in further crimes which were fatal to innocent victims who need not have been victims if justice had been put first and mercy second.

What will that mean to each of you? “It will mean that those of you who might have lived to be seventy-one must die at seventy. Some of you who might have lived to be eighty-six must cough up your ghost at eighty-five. That’s a great age. A year more or less doesn’t sound like much. When the time comes, boys, you may regret. But, you will be able to say, this year I spent well, I gave for Pip, I made a loan of life for sweet Pipkin, the fairest apple that ever almost fell too early off the harvest tree. Some of you at forty-nine must cross life off at forty-eight. Some at fifty-five must lay them down to Forever’s Sleep at fifty-four. Do you catch the whole thing intact now, boys? Do you add the figures? Is the arithmetic plain? A year! Who will bid three hundred and sixty-five entire days from out his own soul, to get old Pipkin back? Think, boys. Silence. Then, speak.

Bwahahahahaha! Happy Halloweeeeen!” I turn away from the closet—where I was just in the process of trying to find a Halloween-esque outfit that’s not a costume because I fucking hate dressing up—and gawk at the creature gracing my doorway. I can’t make heads or tails of what Allie is wearing. All I see is a skintight blue bodysuit, lots of feathers, and…are those cat ears? I steal Allie’s trademark phrase by demanding, “What on God’s green planet are you supposed to be?” “I’m a cat-bird.” Then she gives me a look that says, uh-doy. “A cat bird? What is…okay…why?” “Because I couldn’t decide if I wanted to be a cat or a bird, so Sean was like, just be both, and I was like, you know what? Brilliant idea, boyfriend.” She grins at me. “I’m pretty sure he was being a smartass, but I decided to treat the suggestion as gospel.” I have to laugh. “He’s going to wish he suggested something less ridiculous, like sexy nurse, or sexy witch, or—” “Sexy ghost, sexy tree, sexy box of Kleenex.” Allie sighs. “Gee, let’s just throw the word sexy in front of any mundane noun and look! A costume! Because here’s the thing, if you want to dress like a ho-bag, why not just go as a ho-bag? You know what? I hate Halloween.

I’m Groomer, princess,” he says, laughing quietly in my ear. “I promise you’ll see the irony later tonight.

Halloween would be . . . okay," she says, with all the deliberation of a somewhat uncertain judge delivering a verdict. "But no sexy catgirls. Or boys. No catpeople.

Nietzsche’s words that relate to this with respect to masks and the processes of life. He speaks of three stages in the life of the spirit incarnate in each of us. Three transformations of the spirit, he calls it. The first is that of the camel which gets down on its knees and asks, “Put a load on me.” That’s the period of these dear little children. This is the just-born life that has come in and is receiving the imprint of the society. The primary mask. “Put a load on me. Teach me what I must know to live in this society.” Once heavily loaded, the camel struggles to its feet and goes out into the desert — into the desert of the realization of its own individual nature. This must follow the reception of the culture good. It must not precede it. First is humility, and obedience, and the reception of the primary mask. Then comes the turning inward, which happens automatically in adolescence, to find your own inward life. Nietzsche calls this the transformation of the camel into a lion. Then the lion attacks a dragon; and the dragon’s name is Thou Shalt. The dragon is the concretization of all those imprints that the society has put upon you. The function of the lion is to kill the dragon Thou Shalt. On every scale is a “Thou Shalt,” some of them dating from 2000 b.c., others from this morning’s newspaper. And, when the dragon Thou Shalt has been killed — that is to say, when you have made the transition from simple obedience to authority over your own life — the third transformation is to that of being a child moving spontaneously out of the energy of its own center. Nietzsche calls it a wheel rolling out of its own center.

Experts say that the movie King Kong (1933) released the pent-up rage of the Great Depression. Well, COVID-19 Halloween displays could do the same for our feelings about the 2020 lockdown.

I don't want any Halloween parties here tomorrow. Don't want anyone saying anything sweet about me; I said it all in my time and my pride. I've tasted every victual and danced every dance; now there's one last tart I haven't bit on, one tune I haven't whistled. But I'm not afraid. I'm truly curious. Death won't get a crumb by my mouth I won't keep and savor. So don't you worry over me. Now, all of you go, and let me find my sleep...

It’s interesting to observe the fascination children have with fear. Whether it’s movies, books, or Halloween, part of them wants to be scared at the same time another part doesn’t. It’s like being tickled. There’s delight in fright. Perhaps it’s their way of learning about fear, of gradually coming to know the difference between what’s real and imagined. It’s a knack that takes continual practice. But as we mature, society convinces us that fear is a weakness, and we stop exploring it. Sure, we may still go to horror movies and read Stephen King novels, but we no longer engage fear like we used to. And as a result, we lose our perspective. Instead of flinching when someone says, “Boo!” we slide further into our cocoons.

Last fall, I was sitting at the kitchen table of two friends who have been together since 1972. They tell me a story about how they got together. She couldn't decide between two suitors, so she left New York City to spend the summer in an ashram. (Did I mention was 1972?) One of the suitors sent her postcards while she was gone, the famous postcards that came inside the sleeve of the Rolling Stones' Exile on Main Street. Needless to say, he was the suitor that won her hand. They tell me this story, laughing and interrupting each other, as their teenage daughter walks through the kitchen on her way out to a Halloween party. I've heard of these postcards - over the years, I've heard plenty of record-collector guys boast that they own the original vinyl Exile on Main Street with the original postcards, intact and pristine in the virgin sleeve. I've never heard of anybody getting rid of their prized Exile postcards, much less actually writing on them and sending them through the mail to a girl. I watch these two, laughing over this story at the same kitchen table they've shared for thirty years. I realize that I will never fully understand the millions of bizarre ways that music brings people together.

some nights . . .” “They say the moon is made of green cheese,” Butch said. “And I’m going to turn into a pumpkin at midnight if we don’t get out of here.” He took my hand and led the way across the room. Louise Jane called out to me one last time. “It shouldn’t be a problem leading the haunted lighthouse tour into the Lady’s room, Lucy. You’ll be gone by Halloween, isn’t that right?” Chapter 15 “I hope you had a nice evening, despite how it ended,” Butch said as we walked to his car.

In the morn when they woke, it was Halloween Day. There was bobbing for apples and rides in the hay. There were costume parties, and games to be played. Cupcakes and candy and, of course, a parade! After dinner was served, and the kids were done eating, it was finally time to go trick-or-treating! Moms re-painted faces, and straightened clown hats, put wings back on fairies, angels, and bats. Jack-o-lanterns were set out on porches with care. Their grins seemed to say, “Knock if you dare.

Blythe smelled like starlight. I realize that’s a stupid thing to say, but something about her smelled like the darkness in the first chill of October. Somber in all its breathtaking beauty. Her scent suited her, and it drew me to her like a werewolf to the full moon.

When Peter comes to pick me up, I run outside and open the passenger-side door and scream when I see him. His hair is blond! “Oh my God!” I shriek, touching his hair. “Did you bleach it?” He grins a self-satisfied kind of grin. “It’s spray. My mom found it for me. I can use it again when we do Romeo and Juliet for Halloween.” He’s eyeing me in my getup. “I like those shoes. You look sexy.” I can feel my cheeks warm up. “Be quiet.” As he backs out of my driveway, he glances at me again and says, “It’s the truth, though.” I give him a shove. “All I’m saying is, people better know who I am.” “I’ve got you covered,” he assures me. And he does. When we walk down the senior hallway, Peter cues up the Pixies’ “Where Is My Mind?” on his phone, loud, and people actually clap for us. Not one person asks if I’m a manga character.

Sunday night is my personal weekly Halloween. I walk along slowly and drag my fingertips along the bars of chocolate. Goddamn, you sexy little squares. Dark, milk, white, I do not discriminate. I eat it all. Those fluorescent sour candies that only obnoxious little boys like. I suck candy apples clean. If an envelope seal is sweet, I’ll lick it twice. Growing up, I was that kid who would easily get lured into a van with the promise of a lollipop. Sometimes, I let the retail seduction last for twenty minutes, ignoring Marco and feeling up the merchandise, but I’m so tired of male voices. “Five bags of marshmallows,” Marco says in a resigned tone. “Wine. And a can of cat food.” “Cat food is low carb.” He makes no move to scan anything, so I scan each item myself and unroll a few notes from my tips. “Your job involves selling things. Sell them. Change, please.” “I just don’t know why you do this to yourself.” Marco looks at the register with a moral dilemma in his eyes. “Every week you come and do this.” He hesitates and looks over his shoulder where his sugar book sits under a layer of dust. He knows not to try to slip it into my bag with my purchases. “I don’t know why you care, dude. Just serve me. I don’t need your help.” He’s not entirely wrong about my being an addict. I would lick a line of icing sugar off this counter right now if no one were around. I would walk into a cane plantation and bite right in... “Give me my change or I swear to God …” I squeeze my eyes shut and try to tamp down my temper. “Just treat me like any other customer.” He gives me a few coins’ change and bags my sweet, spongy drugs.

And it can also be hard to be a part of the oppressed culture, and stand up for your ownership over your cultural art and practices, and know that other people from your culture may disagree with you and give permission for what is sacred to you to be used and changed. However this debate plays out for the individual situations you may find yourself in, know that it cannot end well if it does not start with enough respect for the marginalized culture in question to listen when somebody says "this hurts me." And if that means that your conscience won't allow you to dress as a geisha for Halloween, know that even then, in the grand scheme of things - you are not the victim.

I suppose the real reason Ginny Weasley's like this is because she opened her heart and spilled all her secrets to an invisible stranger." "What are you talking about?" said Harry. "The diary," said Riddle. "My diary. Little Ginny's been writing in it for months and months, telling me all her pitiful worries and woes- how her brothers tease her, how she had come to school with secondhand robes and books, how"- Riddle's eyes glinted- "how she didn't think famous, good, great Harry Potter would ever like her..." All the time he spoke, Riddle's eyes never left Harry's face. There was an almost hungry look in them. "It's very boring, having to listen to the silly little troubles of an eleven-year-old girl," he went on. "But I was patient. I wrote back. I was sympathetic, I was kind. Ginny simply loved me. No one's ever understood me like you, Tom... I'm so glad I've got this diary to confide in.... It's like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket...." Riddle laughed, a high, cold laugh that didn't suit him. It made the hairs stand up on the back of Harry's neck. "If I say it myself, Harry, I've always been able to charm the people I needed. So Ginny poured out her soul to me, and her soul happened to be exactly what I wanted.... I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful, more powerful than little Miss Weasley. Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul into her..." "What d'you mean?" said Harry, whose mouth had gone dry. "Haven't you guessed yet, Harry Potter?" said Riddle softly. "Ginny Weasley opened the Chamber of Secrets. She strangled the school roosters and daubed threatening messages on the walls. She set the Serpent of Slytherin on four Mudbloods, and the Squib's cat." "No," Harry whispered. "Yes," said Riddle, calmly. "Of course, she didn't know what she was doing at first. It was very amusing. I wish you could have seen her new diary entries... far more interesting, they became... Dear Tom," he recited, watching Harry's horrified face, "I think I'm losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes and I don't know how they got there. Dear Tom, I can't remember what I did on the night of Halloween, but a cat was attacked and I've got paint all down my front. Dear Tom, Percy keeps telling me I'm pale and I'm not myself. I think he suspects me.... There was another attack today and I don't know where I was. Tom, what am I going to do? I think I'm going mad.... I think I'm the one attacking everyone, Tom!

Style” comes on and we all go crazy, screaming in each other’s faces and jumping up and down. Peter goes craziest of all. He keeps asking me if I’m having fun. He only asks out loud once, but with his eyes he asks me again and again. They are bright and hopeful, alight with expectation. With my eyes I tell him, Yes yes yes I am having fun. We’re starting to get the hang of slow dancing, too. Maybe we should take a ballroom-dancing class when I get to UVA so we can actually get good at it. I tell him this, and fondly he says, “You always want to take things to the next level. Next-level chocolate chip cookies.” “I gave up on those.” “Next-level Halloween costumes.” “I like for things to feel special.” At this, Peter smiles down at me and I say, “It’s just too bad we’ll never dance cheek to cheek.” “Maybe we could order you some dancing stilts.” “Oh, you mean high heels?” He snickers. “I don’t think there’s such a thing as ten-inch heels.” I ignore him. “And it’s too bad your noodle arms aren’t strong enough to pick me up.” Peter lets out a roar like an injured lion and swoops me up and swings me around, just like I knew he would. It’s a rare thing, to know someone so well, whether they’ll pivot left or right. Outside of my family, I think he might be the person I know best of all.

Hey!” “What is it, Eggers?” Dad walks out of the kitchen in his windbreaker and running shorts and looks up the stairs. “Do I have to walk around with Church and Sully for Halloween this year?” Dad frowns. “Church and Sully are doing Halloween this year? Are they too old for that yet?” He asks it honestly, because he really doesn’t remember. He knows they’re in the same grade, and that they’re under fourteen because they play on all U-14 sports teams, but anything beyond that is details. Sully is fourteen, Church is thirteen; born elevenmonths apart exactly, and most people think they’re twins. “They’re kind of too old for it, yeah,” I say. “Oh. Well, ask your mom.” “Is she home right now?” “No, she took Davy for her quick 10K with her marathon students.” “What? Davy can’t run a 10K!” He holds his hands up in surrender. “They’re jogging, and the slow students always take care of him anyway. He’s fine.

Victor Noir. He was a journalist shot by Pierre Bonaparte," St. Clair says, as if that explains anything. He pulls The Hat up off his eyes. "The statue on his grave is supposed to help...fertility." "His wang us rubbed shiny," Josh elaborates. "For luck." "Why are we talking about parts again?" Mer asks. "Can't we ever talk about anything else?" "Really?" I ask. "Shiny wang?" "Very," St. Clair says. "Now that's something I've gotta see." I gulp my coffee dregs, wipe the bread crumbs from my mouth, and hop up. "Where's Victor?" "Allow me." St. Clair springs up to his feet and takes off. I chase after him. He cuts through a stand of bare trees, and I crash through the twigs behind him. We're both laughing when we hit the pathway and run smack into a guard. He frowns at us from underneath his military-style cap. St. Clair gives an angelic smile and a small shrug. The guard shakes his head but allows us to pass. St. Clair gets away with everything. We stroll with exaggerated calm, and he points out an area occupied with people snapping pictures.We hang back and wait our turn. A scrawny black cat darts out from behind an altar strewn with roses and wine bottles,and rushes into the bushes. "Well.That was sufficiently creepy. Happy Halloween." "Did you know this place is home to three thousand cats?" St. Clair asks. "Sure.It's filed away in my brain under 'Felines,Paris.

There’s our homecoming picture. Last Halloween, when I dressed up as Mulan and Peter wore a dragon costume. There’s a receipt from Tart and Tangy. One of his notes to me, from before. If you make Josh’s dumb white-chocolate cranberry cookies and not my fruitcake ones, it’s over. Pictures of us from Senior Week. Prom. Dried rose petals from my corsage. The Sixteen Candles picture. There are some things I didn’t include, like the ticket stub from our first real date, the note he wrote me that said, I like you in blue. Those things are tucked away in my hatbox. I’ll never let those go. But the really special thing I’ve included is my letter, the one I wrote to him so long ago, the one that brought us together. I wanted to keep it, but something felt right about Peter having it. One day all of this will be proof, proof that we were here, proof that we loved each other. It’s the guarantee that no matter what happens to us in the future, this time was ours. When he gets to that page, Peter stops. “I thought you wanted to keep this,” he said. “I wanted to, but then I felt like you should have it. Just promise you’ll keep it forever.” He turns the page. It’s a picture from when we took my grandma to karaoke. I sang “You’re So Vain” and dedicated it to Peter. Peter got up and sang “Style” by Taylor Swift. Then he dueted “Unchained Melody” with my grandma, and after, she made us both promise to take a Korean language class at UVA. She and Peter took a ton of selfies together that night. She made one her home screen on her phone. Her friends at her apartment complex said he looked like a movie star. I made the mistake of telling Peter, and he crowed about it for days after. He stays on that page for a while. When he doesn’t say anything, I say, helpfully, “It’s something to remember us by.” He snaps the book shut. “Thanks,” he says, flashing me a quick smile. “This is awesome.

Stabler offers to take the children out for Halloween. he goes as Batman, buys a hard plastic mask. The children roll their eyes. Before they go out, his wife faces him. She reaches up and snatches the mask off his face. He seizes it back from her and slides it back on. She pulls it off again, so hard the band snaps and catches his face. "Ow," he says. "What are you doing that for?" She shoves the mask into his chest. "Doesn't feel very nice, does it?" she hisses through clenched teeth.

Life down here is kind of a permanent Halloween where you choose a costume more fitting for your self-image than reality could ever offer. Do you want to be a captain or a cowboy? No problem. People will call you by whatever title or name you choose. You say you’re a reincarnated pirate queen or the abandoned love child of a famous entertainer? That’s fine with me. We believe each other’s stories about who we were and who we are. Being an expat means you can have a whole new life. It’s a little like being in the Witness Relocation Program only with flip flops and margaritas.

Callie scrambled from under the covers, dashed around the bed, and flung herself into Luce's arms. "They kept telling me you were going to be okay, but in that lying, we're-also-completely-terrified-we're-just-not-going-to-explain-a-word-to-you kind of way. Do you even realize how thoroughly spooky that was? It was like you physically dropped off the face of the Earth-" Luce hugged her back tightly. As far as Callie knew, Luce had been gone only since the night before. "Okay, you two," Molly growled, pulling Luce away from Callie, "you can OMG your faces off later. I didn't lie in your bed in that cheap polyester wig all night enacting Luce-with-stomach-flue so you guys could blow our cover now." She rolled her eyes. "Amateurs." "Hold on. You did what?" Luce asked. "After you...disappeared," Callie said breathlessly, "we knew we could never explain it to your parents. I mean, I could barely fathom it after seeing it with my own eyes. When Gabbe fixed up the backyard, I told your parents you felt sick and had gone to bed, and Molly pretended to be you and-" "Lucky I found this in your closet." Molly twirled a short wavy black wig around one finger. "Halloween remnant?" "Wonder Woman." Luce winced, regretting her middle school Halloween costume, and not for the first time. "Well, it worked." It was strange to see Molly-who'd once sided with Lucifer-helping her. But even Molly, like Cam and Roland, didn't want to fall again. So here they were, a team, strange bedfellows. "You covered for me? I don't know what to say. Thank you." "Whatever." Molly jerked her head at Callie, anything to deflect Luce's gratitude. "She was the real silver-tongued devil. Thank her." She stuck one leg out the open window and turned to call back, "Think you guys can handle it from here? I have a Waffle House summit meeting to attend.

After Josh leaves and Kitty goes upstairs to watch TV, I’m tidying up the living room and Peter’s sprawled out on the couch watching me. I keep thinking he’s about to leave, but then he keeps lingering. Out of nowhere he says, “Remember back at Halloween how you were Cho Chang and Sanderson was Harry Potter? I bet you that wasn’t a coincidence. I bet you a million bucks he got Kitty to find out what your costume was and then he ran out and bought a Harry Potter costume. The kid is into you.” I freeze. “No, he isn’t. He loves my sister. He always has and he always will.” Peter waves this off. “Just you wait. As soon as you and I are done, he’s gonna pull some cheesy-ass move and, like, profess his love for you with a boom box. I’m telling you, I know how guys think.” I yank away the pillow he’s got cushioning his bac and put it on the recliner. “My sister will be home for winter break soon. I bet you a million dollars they get back together.” Peter holds his hand out for me to shake on it, and when I take it, he pulls me onto the couch next to him. Our legs touch. He has a mischievous glint in his eye, and I think maybe he’s going to kiss me, and I’m scared, but I’m excited, too. But then I hear Kitty’s footsteps coming down the stairs, and the moment’s over.

Laurie Halloween (1978) I ask you to tell me of a town where this hasn’t happened, where some brute dressed in black hasn’t donned a mask, shadowed a woman, called himself a monster to blot out his own mortality. Tell me why I should mythologize this. Let his shape grow larger than the women crouched with coat hangers, with makeshift daggers as sturdy as their hearts? Something can be vulnerable and powerful both at once, but you cannot understand this, and I have grown so weary trying to explain. You say you want to protect us, but the method, blunt pills forced to mouths, a technique for hysteria, is all wrong. It abrades. White fences are only made of wood, they splinter so easily.

When I moved to the U.S. at six, I was unrecognizable to my mother. I was angry, chronically dissatisfied, bratty. On my second day in America, she ran out of the room in tears after I angrily demanded that she buy me a pack of colored pencils. You're not you! she sputtered between sobs, which brought me to a standstill. She couldn't recognize me. That's what she told me later, that this was not the daughter she had last seen. Being too young, I didn't know enough to ask: But what did you expect? Who am I supposed to be to you? But if I was unrecognizable to her, she was also unrecognizable to me. In this new country, she was disciplinarian, restrictive, prone to angry outbursts, easily frustrated, so fascist with arbitrary rules that struck me, even as a six-year-old, as unreasonable. For most of my childhood and adolescence, my mother was my antagonist. Whenever she'd get mad, she'd take her index finger and poke me in the forehead. You you you you you, she'd say, as if accusing me of being me. She was quick to blame me for the slightest infractions, a spilled glass, a way of sitting while eating, my future ambitions (farmer or teacher), the way I dressed, what I ate, even the way I practiced English words in the car..She was the one to deny me: the extra dollar added to my allowance; an extra hour to my curfew; the money to buy my friends' birthday presents, so that I was forced to gift them, no matter what the season, leftover Halloween candy. In those early days, we lived so frugally that we even washed, alongside the dishes in the sink, used sheets of cling wrap for reuse. She was the one to punish me, sending me to kneel in the bathtub of the darkened bathroom, carrying my father's Casio watch with an alarm setting to account for when time was up. Yet it was I who would kneel for even longer, going further and further, taking more punishment just to spite her, just to show that it meant nothing. I could take more. The sun moved across the bathroom floor, from the window to the door.

Mostly I love Halloween because it is the orange-and-black beginning of a season that tumbles into Thanksgiving, which tumbles into Christmas. And Zombies just seem a little out of place in that. Thanksgiving should have nothing to do with armies of shuffling undead. Don’t get me started on Christmas. The only undead at Christmas should be Jacob Marley, wailing about greed. The iconic image of Halloween should be the pun’kin. The pun’kin, carved into faces that are scary only because we want them to be, winking from every porch. The pun’kin cast in plastic, swinging from the hands of knee-high princesses, leering back from department store shelves, until it gives way to tins of butter cookies. But I fear for the pun’kin. How long before before he is kicked down the street by zombie hordes, booted into obscurity? Young people tell me that no one—no one— wants to dress up like a pun’kin any more. All a pun’kin does they say is sit there, and glow. This may be true, all of it, but try to make a pie out of a zombie, and see where that gets you. Though I hear that, when it comes to pies, your canned zombie is the way to go.

At once, Raj set about finding some dry clothes for Ben and the Queen. However, all he had were his unsold costumes from Halloween. “This is your size, Your Majesty,” said Raj, handing her a lobster costume. “One has never dressed as a lobster before. What fun!” she said, taking the costume behind the card carousel to change. Next, Raj picked up one of his princess outfits. Before he could say a thing, Ben snapped, “NO!” “What do you mean, no?” asked Raj. “No means no! I am never, ever, ever dressing up as a princess!” “But you would look so pretty!” Raj implored. “NO!” “Well, the lobster outfits are too big for you.” The Queen reappeared with hers on. “Red is so your colour!” remarked Raj. “Oh, why thank you, Mr Raj. Now come on, Ben. You can’t stay in those wet things – you will catch your death of cold!” “But—” “No buts, Benjamin! Put it on! That’s an order from your Queen!” Ben harumphed and disappeared behind the card carousel. Moments later, he reappeared awkwardly. He was dressed as a princess with the grumpiest look on his face. “You know I said how pretty you would look as a princess?” began Raj. “Yep.” “I was wrong.” Then,

A text comes from Wallace. An actual text too, not a message through the forum app. I gave him my number awhile back, before Halloween, but not because I wanted him to call me or anything. I wrote it on the edge of our conversation paper in homeroom and slid it over to him because sometimes I see something and think, Wallace would laugh at that, I should send him a picture of it, but the messaging app is terrible with pictures and texting is way better. So he texts me now, and it’s a picture. A regular sweet potato pie. Beneath the picture, he says, I really like sweet potato pie. I text back, Yeah, so do I. Then he sends me a picture of his face, frowning, and says, No, you don’t understand. Then another picture, closer, just his eyes. I REALLY like sweet potato pie. A series of pictures comes in several-second intervals. The first is a triangular slice of pie in Wallace’s hand. Then Wallace holding that slice up to his face—it’s soft enough to start collapsing between his fingers. The next one has him stuffing the slice into his mouth, and in the final one it’s all the way in, his cheeks are puffed out like a chipmunk’s, and he’s letting his eyes roll back like it’s the best thing he’s ever eaten. I purse my lips to keep my laugh in, but my parents are fine-tuned to the slightest hint of amusement from me, and they both look up. “What’s so funny, Eggs?” Dad says. “Nothing,” I reply. Nothing makes a joke less funny than someone wanting in on it, especially parents. Wow, I say to Wallace. You really like sweet potato pie. He sends one more picture, this one with him embracing the pie pan, gazing lovingly at it. We’re to be married in the spring. An actual laugh escapes me. I really hope Wallace is having a better Thanksgiving than I am. It seems like he is. I take a picture of myself pouting and send it to him, saying, Aw, the cutest of cute couples. ... Another picture from Wallace waits for me. In this one, an empty pie pan littered withcrumbs sits on the floor beside a large knife. Wallace kneels next to it with morecrumbs on his sweater, expression horrified. NOOOO WHAT HAVE I DONE MY LOVE OUR MARRIAGE ’TIS ALL FOR NAUGHT I text back: Oh no!! Not sweet potato bride! Another picture comes: Wallace sprawled on the floor beside the pie pan, one arm thrown over his eyes. Let me only be accused of loving her too much. Wallace is definitely having a better Thanksgiving than me.

1. His back is full of knives. Notes are brittle around the blades. 2. He sleeps face down every night in a chalk outline of himself. 3. He has difficulties with metal detectors. 4. At birthday parties, someone might politely ask, may I borrow one of those knives to slice this chocolate cake? 5. He likes to stand with his back to walls. At restaurants, he likes the corner tables. 6. There is a detective who calls to ask him about the brittle notes. Also: a biographer, a woman who'd like to film a documentary, a curator of a museum, his mother. I can't read them, he says. They're on my back. 7. It would be a mistake for anyone to assume he wants the knives removed. 8. Most of the brittle notes are illegible. One of them, even, is written in French. 9. Every Halloween, he goes as a victim of a brutal stabbing. Once he tried going as a whale, but it was a hassle explaining away the knives. 10. He always wears the same bloody suit. 11. When he walks, he sounds like a tree still full of dead leaves holding on. 12. It is ok for children to count on his knives, but not to climb on them. 13. He saw his own shadow in a park. He moved his body to make the knives reach other people's shadows. He did it all evening. In the shadows, his knives looked like soft outstretched arms. 14. His back is running out of space. 15. On a trip to Paris, he fell in love and ended up staying for a few years. He got a job performing on the street with the country's best mimes. 16. The knives are what hold him together. It is the notes that are slowly killing him. 17. He is difficult to hold when he cries. 18. He will be very old when he dies and the Doctor will say, he was obviously stabbed, brutally and repeatedly. I'm sorry, the Doctor will say to a person in the room, but he's not going to make it.

I’m standing in front of Enrique’s Auto Body, doing deep-breathing exercises to keep from being nervous. Enrique’s Camry is nowhere in sight, so I know Alex is alone. I’m going to seduce Alex. If what I’m wearing doesn’t capture his attention, nothing will. I’m giving this my all…bringing out all the artillery. I rap on the door, then close my eyes tight and pray this goes as planned. I open my long, silver satin jacket and the cool night air rushes onto my exposed skin. When the creak of the door alerts me to Alex’s presence, I slowly open my eyes. But it’s not Alex’s black eyes staring at my scantily clad body. It’s Enrique--who’s staring at my pink lace bra and pom-pom skirt as if he’s won the lottery. Ripped with embarrassment, I wrap my coat around myself. If I could wrap it around twice, I would. “Uh, Alex,” Enrique laughs. “There’s a trick-or-treater here to see you.” My face is probably beet red, but I’m determined to see this through. I’m here to show Alex I’m not going to desert him. “Who is it?” comes Alex’s voice from somewhere inside the garage. “I was just leavin’,” Enrique says, slipping past me. “Tell Alex to lock up. Adiós.” Enrique walks across the darkened street, humming to himself. “Yo, Enrique. ¿Quién está ahi?” Alex’s voice fades when he reaches the front of the shop. He looks at me with contemp. “Need directions or your car fixed.” “None of the above,” I say. “Trick-or-treatin’ on my side of town?” “No.” “It’s over, mujer. ¿Me oyes? Why do you keep droppin’ into my life and fuckin’ with my head? Besides, aren’t you supposed to be at the Halloween dance with some college guy?” “I blew him off. Can we talk?” “Listen, I’ve got a shitload of work that still needs to get done. What did you come here for? And where’s Enrique?” “He, uh, left,” I say nervously. “I think I scared him away.” “You? I don’t think so.” “I showed him what I was wearing under my coat.” Alex’s eyebrows shoot up.

I open the box, and there are notes. Notes and notes and notes. Peter’s notes. Peter’s notes I threw away. “I found them when I was emptying your trash,” she says. Hastily she adds, “I only read a couple. And then I saved them because I could tell they were important.” I touch one that Peter folded into an airplane. “Kitty…you know Peter and I aren’t getting back together, right?” Kitty grabs the bowl of popcorn and says, “Just read them.” Then she goes into the living room and turns on the TV. I close the hatbox and take it with me upstairs. When I am in my room, I sit on the floor and spread them out around me. A lot of the notes just say things like “Meet you at your locker after school” and Can I borrow your chemistry notes from yesterday?” I find the spiderweb one from Halloween, and it makes me smile. Another one says, “Can you take the bus home today? I want to surprise Kitty and pick her up from school so she can show me and my car off to her friends.” “Thanks for coming to the estate sale with me this weekend. You made the day fun. I owe you one.” “Don’t forget to pack a Korean yogurt for me!” “If you make Josh’s dumb white-chocolate cranberry cookies and not my fruitcake ones, it’s over.” I laugh out loud. And then, the one I read over and over: “You look pretty today. I like you in blue.” I’ve never gotten a love letter before. But reading these notes like this, one after the other, it feels like I have. It’s like…it’s like there’s only ever been Peter. Like everyone else that came before him, they were all to prepare me for this. I think I see the difference now, between loving someone from afar and loving someone up close. When you see them up close, you see the real them, but they also get to see the real you. And Peter does. He sees me, and I see him. Love is scary: it changes; it can go away. That’s part of the risk. I don’t want to be scared anymore. I want to be brave, like Margot. It’s almost a new year, after all.

After the assembly I’m getting my chem book out of my locker when Peter comes over and leans his back against the locker next to mine. Through his mask he says, “Hey.” “Hey,” I say. And then he doesn’t say anything else; he just stands there. I close my locker door and spin the combination lock. “Congratulations on winning best group costume.” “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?” Huh? “What else am I supposed to say?” Just then Josh walks by with Jersey Mike, who’s dressed up as a hobbit, hairy feet and all. Walking backward, Josh points his wand at me and says, “Expelliarmus!” Automatically I point my wand back at him and say, “Avada Kedavra!” Josh clutches his chest like I’ve shot him. “Way harsh!” he calls out, and he disappears down the hallway. “Uh…don’t you think it’s weird for my supposed girlfriend to wear a couples costume with another guy?” Peter asks me. I roll my eyes. I’m still mad at him from this morning. “I’m sorry, I can’t talk to you when you look like this. How am I supposed to have a conversation with a person in head-to-toe latex?” Peter pushes his mask up. “I’m serious! How do you think it makes me look?” “First of all, it wasn’t planned. Second of all, nobody cares what my costume is! Who would even notice something like that?” “People notice,” Peter huffs. “I noticed.” “Well, I’m sorry. I’m very sorry that a coincidence like this would ever occur.” “I really doubt it was a coincidence,” Peter mutters. “What do you want me to do? Do you want me to pop over to the Halloween store during lunch and buy a red wig and be Mary Jane?” Smoothly Peter says, “Could you? That’d be great.” “No, I could not. You know why? Because I’m Asian, and people will just think I’m in a manga costume.” I hand him my wand. “Hold this.” I lean down and lift the hem of my robe so I can adjust my knee socks. Frowning, he says, “I could have been someone from the book if you’d told me in advance.” “Yes, well, today you’d make a really great Moaning Myrtle.

The long year passed slowly. Then one day, as October winds blew golden leaves around the farm, Autumn heard his mother say that even though her son was gone she would bake a pumpkin pie for Halloween. And of course she would need a pumpkin. At last an idea came to Autumn. If he could just get his mother to the barn and up to the loft she would find the magic pumpkin. Autumn began to pull at his mother’s apron. “What’s wrong with you today?” cried his mother. “I have many things to do and I have no time for playing.” But Autumn kept pulling on her apron until she was out of the house and in the barnyard. Then he ran into the barn, barking louder than he ever had. His mother followed him into the barn, where it was so dark she could not see the little dog. “Now where have you gone?” she cried. Autumn began barking again and it seemed to come from above her. She looked up and dimly saw Autumn at the top of the loft ladder, barking wildly. “What are you carrying on about up there? There’s nothing up in that old loft.” But Autumn did not stop barking. “All right, all right, I’ll come up and take a look,” she said as she began to climb the ladder. When she got to the top, the morning light lit up the corner of the loft where Autumn, smiling as much as a dog can smile, stood next to a very large pumpkin. It was one of the largest pumpkin she had ever seen. “Now, how did this pumpkin get up here?” Of course there was no one there to answer her question except Autumn and he could not talk. So she decided to use the pumpkin for the pie she planned to bake. She pulled at it and rolled it, and finally after a great effort she managed to get the magic pumpkin down the ladder and into the kitchen, where Autumn ran barking around the table. “Calm down, Autumn, and let me get to work on this pie.” As she was about to cut the stem from the pumpkin, she thought of the days when her husband carved the jack-o’-lantern for Angus. “Well, maybe I’ll just do the same.” She went to Angus’s room and found one of his old drawings. She traced a jack-o’-lantern face onto the pumpkin. Then, taking a large kitchen knife, she cut into the pumpkin. When only one eye was carved, there were streams of light. And when she carved the nose, and the smiling mouth, great shafts of light like sunbeams filled the room. Again Autumn began to bark. But when she turned to quiet him, there, standing in the wonderful light, was her son.

Deprive a cat of sleep and it would die in two weeks. Deprive a human and he would become psychotic. His work was killing people. How was he supposed to frighten these guys? Run up behind them in a halloween mask and shout boo? He never saw the point of views -- what did it matter if it was an ocean or a brick wall you were looking at? People travelled hundreds, sometimes thousands of miles to commit suicide someplace with a beautiful view. Did a view matter when oblivion beckoned? They could put him in a garbage bin after he was gone, for all he cared. That's all the human race was anyway. Garbage with attitude. A cutting word is worse than a bowstring. A cut may heal but a cut of the tongue does not. The Sakawa students were all from poor, underprivileged backgrounds. Sakawa was a mix of religious juju and modern internet technology. They were taught, in structured classes, the art of online fraud as well as arcane African rituals -- which included animal sacrifice -- to have a voodoo effect on their victims, ensuring the success of each fraud. of which there was a wide variety. The British Empire spend five hundred years plundering the world. The word is 'thanks'. 'That's what it is, Roy! He won't come out, he has locked the doors! What if he self-harms, Roy! I mean -- what if he kills himself?' 'I will have to take him off my Christmas list.' "Any chance you can recover any of it?' 'You sitting near a window, Gerry?' 'Near a window? Sure, right by a window?' 'Can you see the sky?' 'Uh-huh. Got a clear view.' 'See any pigs flying past?' To dream of death is good for those in fear, for the death have no more fears. '...Cleo took me to the opera once. I spent the whole time praying for a fat lady to come on stage and start singing. Or a heart attack --whichever come sooner.' '..there is something strongly powerful -- almost magnetic -- about internet romances. A connection that is far stronger than a traditional meeting of two people. Maybe because on the internet you can lie all the time, each person gives the other their good side. It's intoxicating. That's one of the things which makes it so dangerous -- and such easy pickings for fraudsters.' He was more than a little pleased that he was about to ruin his boss's morning -- and, with a bit of luck, his entire day. ..a guy who had been born angry and had just got even angrier with each passing year. '...Then at some point in the future, I'll probably die in an overcrowded hospital corridor with some bloody hung-over medical student jumping up and down on my chest because they couldn't find a defibrillator. 'Give me your hand, bro,' the shorter one said. 'That one, the right one, yeah.' On the screen the MasterChef contestant said, 'Now with a sharp knife...' Jules de Copland drove away from Gatwick Airport in.a new car, a small Kia, hired under a different name and card, from a different rental firm, Avis. 'I was talking about her attitude. But I'll tell you this, Roy. The day I can't say a woman -- or a man -- is plug ugly, that's the day I want to be taken out and shot.' It seems to me the world is in a strange place where everyone chooses to be offended all the time. 'But not too much in the way of brains,' GlennBranson chipped in. 'Would have needed the old Specialist Search Unite to find any trace of them.' 'Ever heard of knocking on a door?' 'Dunno that film -- was it on Netflix?' 'One word, four letters. Begins with an S for Sierra, ends with a T for Tango. Or if you'd like the longest version, we've been one word, six letters, begins with F for Foxtrot, ends with D for Delta.' No Cop liked entering a prison. In general there was a deep cultural dislike of all police officers by the inmates. And every officer entering.a prison, for whatever purposes, was always aware that if a riot kicked off while they were there, they could be both an instant hostage and a prime target for violence.

You’re okay, and you’re going to be okay.  I didn’t say you won’t be scared.  The anger, fear, anxiety, and depression you’ll feel are like masks at Halloween.  And, you’ll see them again and again in your life.  But it gets easier the older you get. 

Um," I point at his cape and gadgets. "You know you'll stand out, right?" He frowns at me. "You're none better," he says. I look down at my very medieval looking white gown and the two swords I carry. At least Yami is hidden as a dragon necklace. "You're right. I won't blend in either." He freezes. "Right, well, I'll just say it's Halloween." "But it's not." He raises an eyebrow.  "What do you mean?" "You can't just say it's Halloween. It has to be the actual day." "Really? Your human customs are so strange." He turns to the sink to wash his hands. I sigh. "Okay, we can say we're part of a fantasy game reenactment. Cosplay. That should give us a good cover." "Cosplay?" he says, holding the word in his mouth like a foreign thing he's afraid to taste. "Yeah, it's when humans dress up like characters from their favorite… " Ace's eyes are vacant and he looks bored. I sigh again. "Nevermind. Just let me do the talking if anyone questions our choice of clothing." He washes his hands, then gestures at the door. "After you." I lead, entering a place I once called a second home. Everything is familiar, everything makes me feel welcome. Jesus eyeing the naked sculptures. The Neon signs. The baby bottles filled with milk for customers' coffee. "Oh, Ari, sweetie. I didn't see you come in." Sheri runs up to me, wrapping me in a hug. "It's been so long. How have you been? And who's this dashing young man?" Ace raises his cape in front of his eyes. "It's Halloween." "No… no…" I shake my head and pull his cape down. "He's a friend. I'm just showing him the sights.

I think you're going to like these," she said, placing the stack on the table. "The whole class spent Monday and Tuesday painting them up." Raymond and Sean lifted up the top poster and stared. ARSE PRESENTS SUPER HALLOWEEN PARTY FOOD, DRINKS, GREAT MUSIC HALLOWEEN TRAMPOLINE COSTUME CONTEST FOR THE MYSTERY PRIZE DON'T MISS IT! She smiled proudly. "What do you think?" "Nice," said Sean, wondering why Raymond had suddenly gone so silent and so pale. Finally Raymond found his voice. "But Ashly, why does it say" —he pointed to the top line— "that?" "That? That's us. Our initials—Ashly, Raymond, Sean, and Eckerman—I couldn't remember his first name." "I get it," said Sean. Raymond was positively white. "The other kids who worked on them—they didn't—say anything about the posters? The wording maybe?" "The whole class really liked them," said Ashley. "I think everyone's favorite part was the initials thing. They thought it was clever." Raymond looked up at the ceiling. "Oh, it was.

Pish-posh and poppycock!!" Croome grumbled.

So you’re saying that you’re a comic book writer, have purple hair and a million inside jokes from movies and books I’ve never seen or read, and that your dog was a plain ol’ box for Halloween?” “I thought it was funny.

I suppose the family claimed that the balance of her mind had been disturbed, that there had been undue influence?” “I think probably it might have come to that,” said Spence. “But the lawyers, as I say, got on to the forgery sharply. It was not a very convincing forgery, apparently. They spotted it almost at once.” “Things came to light to show that the opera girl could have done it quite easily,” said Elspeth. “You see, she wrote a great many of Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe’s letters for her and it seems Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe had a great dislike of typed letters being sent to friends or anything like that. If it wasn’t a business letter, she’d always say ‘write it in handwriting and make it as much like mine as you can and sign it with my name.’ Mrs. Minden, the cleaning woman, heard her say that one day, and I suppose the girl got used to doing it and copying her employer’s handwriting and then it came to her suddenly that she could do this and get away with it. And that’s how it all came about. But as I say, the lawyers were too sharp and spotted it.

The lantern men of the marshes? Of course I have. They lead unwary travellers to their deaths. They’re linked to will-o’-the-wisps, spirits who are shut out of heaven and hell. Some say that the original was a blacksmith called Will who was so evil that he was condemned to walk the earth for ever, never ascending to heaven or descending to hell. The devil gave him a single coal from hell to keep him warm and he carried it in a pumpkin. That’s where jack-o’-lanterns come from. You know, the lighted pumpkins that children make on Halloween.

Ally tells me that you’ve been good friends.” I say with a forced smile. It’s a statement more than a question. I want him to know that I trust what she tells me but that I am questioning his intentions. He clears his throat before speaking.   “Yeah. She’s great. We’ve, uh, been friends for about a year.” He smiles uncomfortably at Ally after he answers.   “She hasn’t told me how you met though, Joshua. Care to share?” Ally reaches for my thigh, pinching the skin lightly but it just makes me smile as I keep my eyes on the boy.   “It’s just Josh.” He swallows. “We met at a Halloween party last year, she helped me clean up after I tipped a table over with a bunch of pumpkin desserts all over it... that’s why she calls me ‘Pumpkin’.” They both laugh at that. I clench my teeth at their adorable inside joke but keep the smile on my face.   “And why do you call her ‘Sweetheart’?” They laugh again. I hate him. “Well, obviously because she’s a sweetheart.” He says it like I’m stupid for questioning that, like I don’t know exactly how sweet she is. Fucker.   “Do you want to fuck my girl, Joshua?” I ask bluntly. Done playing games.   “Alexander!” Ally gasps. I can see Molly and Zeke staring open mouthed in my peripheral but I keep my eyes on Joshua as he gaps at me like a fish…

I WANDER THE film criticism district, formulating theories, grinding axes; it keeps me sane in these insane times to return to my roots, to praise those films and filmmakers worthy of an audience’s attention, to destroy those filmmakers who loose self-satisfied garbage onto the world. Consider Stranger Than Fiction, I say to my imagined lecture hall full of cinephiles: a wonderfully quirky film starring William Ferrell and the always adorkable Zooey Deschanel. The work done here by director Marc Forster (who directed the unfortunately misguided, misogynistic, and racistic Monster’s Ball) and screenwriter Zachary H. Elms is stellar in that all the metacinematic techniques work, its construction analogous to that of a fine Swiss watch (no accident that a wristwatch figures so prominently into the story!). Compare this to any mess written by Charlie Kaufman. Stranger Than Fiction is the film Kaufman would’ve written if he were able to plan and structure his work, rather than making it up as he goes along, throwing in half-baked concepts willy-nilly, using no criterion other than a hippy-dippy “that’d be cool, man.” Such a criterion might work if the person making that assessment had even a shred of humanism within his soul. Kaufman does not, and so he puts his characters through hellscapes with no hope of them achieving understanding or redemption. Will Ferrell learns to live fully in the course of Stranger Than Fiction. Dame Emily Thomson, who plays his “author,” learns her own lessons about compassion and the value and function of art. Had Kaufman written this film, it would have been a laundry list of “clever” ideas culminating in some unearned emotional brutality and a chain reaction of recursional activity wherein it is revealed that the author has an author who has an author who has an author who has an author, et chetera, thus leaving the audience depleted, depressed, and, most egregiously, cheated. What Kaufman does not understand is that such “high concepts” are not an end in themselves but an opportunity to explore actual mundane human issues. Kaufman is a monster, plain and simple, but a monster unaware of his staggering ineptitude (Dunning and Kruger could write a book about him!). Kaufman is Godzilla with dentures, Halloween’s Mike Myers with a rubber knife, Pennywise the Clown with contact dermatitis from living in a sewer. He is a pathetic—

I know there’s a proverb which says ‘To err is human,’ but a human error is nothing to what a computer can do if it tries.

Today, the theme is Unusual Hauntings and our challenge is to create a display with at least two ghosts or spirits hanging out somewhere you wouldn’t typically expect to find them. Like an arcade. Only we did that yesterday so I’m thinking the judges wouldn’t be too impressed if we built them another one. “This is tricky,” Auggie declares, running a hand through his shaggy hair as we try our best to come up with something original. “What makes you say that?” Terry asks. “Because ghosts can hang out anywhere. Ships, theme parks... I’ve even heard of Walmarts that are haunted!” “So, no grocery ghosts, then?” I remark. “Okay, let’s look at it this way. Ghosts can hang out anywhere, but that doesn’t mean that they do,” Terry points out. “I can think of a few places I wouldn’t want to spend my eternal afterlife. Like the dentist’s.” “Or a math class,” I shudder. “Or the reptile house at the zoo,” Auggie says. “What’s wrong with herpetariums?” Terry asks. “Geckos scare me,” Auggie replies like it’s a totally normal thing to say.

It’s Halloween,” is all I say. “What final girl doesn’t want to be chased by a man in a mask, then fucked by him?

Deprive a cat of sleep and it would die in two weeks. Deprive a human and he would become psychotic. His work was killing people. How was he supposed to frighten these guys? Run up behind them in a halloween mask and shout boo? He never saw the point of views -- what did it matter if it was an ocean or a brick wall you were looking at? People travelled hundreds, sometimes thousands of miles to commit suicide someplace with a beautiful view. Did a view matter when oblivion beckoned? They could put him in a garbage bin after he was gone, for all he cared. That's all the human race was anyway. Garbage with attitude. A cutting word is worse than a bowstring. A cut may heal but a cut of the tongue does not. The Sakawa students were all from poor, underprivileged backgrounds. Sakawa was a mix of religious juju and modern internet technology. They were taught, in structured classes, the art of online fraud as well as arcane African rituals -- which included animal sacrifice -- to have a voodoo effect on their victims, ensuring the success of each fraud. of which there was a wide variety. The British Empire spend five hundred years plundering the world. The word is 'thanks'. 'That's what it is, Roy! He won't come out, he has locked the doors! What if he self-harms, Roy! I mean -- what if he kills himself?' 'I will have to take him off my Christmas list.' "Any chance you can recover any of it?' 'You sitting near a window, Gerry?' 'Near a window? Sure, right by a window?' 'Can you see the sky?' 'Uh-huh. Got a clear view.' 'See any pigs flying past?' To dream of death is good for those in fear, for the death have no more fears. '...Cleo took me to the opera once. I spent the whole time praying for a fat lady to come on stage and start singing. Or a heart attack --whichever come sooner.' '..there is something strongly powerful -- almost magnetic -- about internet romances. A connection that is far stronger than a traditional meeting of two people. Maybe because on the internet you can lie all the time, each person gives the other their good side. It's intoxicating. That's one of the things which makes it so dangerous -- and such easy pickings for fraudsters.' He was more than a little pleased that he was about to ruin his boss's morning -- and, with a bit of luck, his entire day. ..a guy who had been born angry and had just got even angrier with each passing year. '...Then at some point in the future, I'll probably die in an overcrowded hospital corridor with some bloody hung-over medical student jumping up and down on my chest because they couldn't find a defibrillator. 'Give me your hand, bro,' the shorter one said. 'That one, the right one, yeah.' On the screen the MasterChef contestant said, 'Now with a sharp knife...' Jules de Copland drove away from Gatwick Airport in.a new car, a small Kia, hired under a different name and card, from a different rental firm, Avis. 'I was talking about her attitude. But I'll tell you this, Roy. The day I can't say a woman -- or a man -- is plug ugly, that's the day I want to be taken out and shot.' It seems to me the world is in a strange place where everyone chooses to be offended all the time. 'But not too much in the way of brains,' GlennBranson chipped in. 'Would have needed the old Specialist Search Unite to find any trace of them.' 'Ever heard of knocking on a door?' 'Dunno that film -- was it on Netflix?' 'One word, four letters. Begins with an S for Sierra, ends with a T for Tango. Or if you'd like the longest version, we've been one word, six letters, begins with F for Foxtrot, ends with D for Delta.' No Cop liked entering a prison. In general there was a deep cultural dislike of all police officers by the inmates. And every officer entering.a prison, for whatever purposes, was always aware that if a riot kicked off while they were there, they could be both an instant hostage and a prime target for violence.

Think about what pleases you, not just them." She paused, then added softly. "Even the Pumpkin King has a right to be happy." Jack nodded slowly, for a moment seeming lost in thought. Then he gave her a shy smile. "You know," he said thoughtfully. "We should talk more often, you and I." Sally's breath caught in her throat as Jack met her eyes with his own. She'd never seen them so close up, she realized wildly. Or noticed how dark and deep they were. She felt a shiver down her back, not entirely unpleasant. "I'd like that," she replied, her voice barely over a whisper. "I'd like that a lot." They fell into silence. Not an awkward silence, like the kind that came when she was having dinner with Dr. Finkelstein and ran out of polite things to say, but rather something almost comforting. As if they were somehow sharing a precious moment beyond words, side by side, under the bright orange Halloween moon. It was funny, Sally thought. If someone had told her yesterday she'd be out here on Halloween night, staring into the eyes of the Pumpkin King, she'd never have believed it. Up until now, they'd seemed worlds apart. But she'd seen another side of Jack tonight. And for two people who were so very different, they were more alike than she could have ever imagined.

I lied. You’d be worth it for me,” he says and looks away, brows pinching in anger as his hand falls away. He hates being emotional. Which makes moments like this one so precious. I grip his hair and make him look back at me. “And you, for me,” I say before I kiss him.

And then there were their dresses. Fancy cotton confections of candy-colored frills and bows, with puffed sleeves and ribbon sashes. Sally had never seen such dresses before, and for a moment, she felt a little inadequate when she gazed down at her own homemade ensemble, rather plain in comparison. But then, she'd made this dress herself, she thought. And who was to say she couldn't make one of theirs, too, if she just gave it a try? In fact, if she could find the right material, she was almost positive she could re-create one of these ensembles back in Halloween Town, adding her own special Sally touches, of course. For example, their sashes were practically screaming to be replaced by proper spiderwebs. And a few slashes with a serrated knife would give the puffed sleeves a lovely shredded flair. Her mouth curled as she imagined herself walking past the fountain in her hometown square, sashaying in a swish of silk and spiders. Halloween Town wouldn't know what hit them! And what if, her mind whirred, others wanted a dress like this, too? She could take orders. Charge money. Maybe even eventually open her own shop. Support herself so she would no longer be reliant on Dr. Finkelstein. She gasped at the idea. This could change everything! Feeling almost giddy, she studied the dolls' dresses, taking the time to memorize every detail while happily munching on her sugarplums. Christmas Town was truly amazing, she decided. Even if it was very different from home. And while she'd always be a fan of the grim and gruesome, she saw now that fun and festive was actually pretty great, too.

You drink root beer while you watch an NBA game? You are an American wannabe, aren’t you?” “That is perhaps the most horrid thing you could say to an Englishman.” “Worse than French wannabe?” “Well, there is that.” He sipped his soda. “I spent a summer in America and one night drank two six-packs of root beer on a dare. After that, the formerly vile-cough-syrupy taste suddenly became appealing. But wait just a moment, Miss I’ve-Just-Come-From-A-Rather-Dull-Game-Of-Whist, who’s pointing fingers and calling me a wannabe of anything?” “Yeah…” She smoothed the front of her empire waist and laughed at herself as best she could. “It’s, um, a Halloween costume. You know, trick or treat.” “Ah,” he said. “And my interest in basketball is just, you know, research into a curious cultural phenomenon.” “Pure research.” “Absolutely.” “But of course. Besides, you ruined me, you know. No wonder Wattlesbrook forbids anything modern to clash with the nineteenth century. Five minutes of conversation with you in the garden and I went cross-eyed trying to take myself seriously again in this getup.” “I have that effect on a lot of women. All it takes is five minutes with me and--er…that didn’t sound right.” “You’d better stop while you’re behind, there, sport.

That wasn’t completely my fault,” he says. “As you know. But I understand that I should have controlled myself. And I’m incredibly humiliated that you had to see it—and especially that the kids saw it.” “You were humiliated? Tell me something. Have you thought about trying to get some help in controlling yourself? Or with any of your other problems?” “Like what other problems?” “I don’t even really know anymore,” she says. “Whatever it is that’s making you so dissatisfied.” “Well, I’m hoping that I can use this time away to get a handle on some of that.” “But since you already spend as much time away from us as possible, I don’t quite see how this is supposed to help.” He says nothing. “You’re due back at work when?” she says. “October thirty-first. Halloween. Appropriate,

Halloween (known among European pagans as Samhain, pronounced “sa-wen”) is traditionally the day when the dead return to visit the living, similar to the Asian “Wandering Souls” festival mentioned above. It is the day when the gate between the living and the dead is open, a favorite day for evocations of spirits and demons. Candlemas, on the other hand, is the day of “quickening,” when the earth begins to wake from its slumber, a day of promise for the future, of the celebration of fertility, of anticipation for the bounty of the coming year. One could say, therefore, that the first rocket launch on Halloween was an evocation of the daimon of flight, or perhaps in a darker context a breaching of the barrier between this world and the next, an initiatic rending of the veil of the Temple: space being seen as the domain of both the dead and the higher spiritual forces. The actual birth of the American space program on Candlemas is, of course, also an auspicious event, ripe with mythical connotations. It is not the intention of this author to suggest that the selection of these dates was deliberate on the part of von Karman, Parsons, von Braun or the other space engineers. Indeed, by the time of the Explorer I launch in 1958 Parsons himself had already been dead six years. It is the intention, however, to point out these synchronicities as they occur, because they are evidence of deeper, more sinister, forces at work,

Yo momma's so ugly when people see her face they say "Hey,lady!It ain't Halloween yet!

Dad used to chop down trees and shit all the time,” Howie says. “He had a certain Ron Swansonocity.”   “That’s

Need directions or your car fixed.” “None of the above,” I say. “Trick-or-treatin’ on my side of town?” “No.” “It’s over, mujer. ¿Me oyes? Why do you keep droppin’ into my life and fuckin’ with my head? Besides, aren’t you supposed to be at the Halloween dance with some college guy?” “I blew him off. Can we talk?” “Listen, I’ve got a shitload of work that still needs to get done. What did you come here for? And where’s Enrique?” “He, uh, left,” I say nervously. “I think I scared him away.” “You? I don’t think so.” “I showed him what I was wearing under my coat.” Alex’s eyebrows shoot up. “Let me in before I freeze out here. Please.” I look behind me. The darkness seems inviting right now as my blood pumps harder. Pulling the coat tighter around me, my skin puckers with goose bumps. I shiver. Sighing, he leads me into the body shop and locks the door. There’s a space heater in the middle of the shop, thank goodness. I stand by it and rub my hands together. “Listen, truth is I’m glad you’re here. But didn’t we break up?” “I want to give us another try. Pretending we’re just chemistry partners in class has been torture. I miss you. Don’t you miss me?” He looks skeptical. His head is cocked to the side, as if he’s not quite sure he’s hearing correctly. “You know I’m still in the Blood.” “I know. I’ll take whatever you can give me, Alex.” “I’ll never be able to meet your expectations.” “What if I tell you I won’t have any expectations?” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. I can tell he’s thinking hard about this, because his expression turns serious. “I’ll tell you what,” he says. “You keep me company while I finish my dinner. I won’t even ask you what you have…or don’t have…under that coat. Deal?” I smile tentatively and smooth down my hair. “Deal.

My dad says he has doubts all the time, but he doesn't allow them to question that moment when he was nineteen.

You kids haven’t been touching these, have you?” asked Dr. Snood. “No, we--” Henry began. “Make sure you don’t,” said Dr. Snood in a stern voice. “And make sure the lid on that coffin stays closed.” “Of course--” said Jesse. Before she could say any more, he walked out. The Aldens stood still for a moment, stunned by Dr. Snood’s harsh behavior. At last Jessie said, “I don’t know which was stranger: the way he was looking at those artifacts or the way he just spoke to us.” The Mystery of the Mummy's Curse

Have you lived here a very long time?” the young woman asked the man, who was wearing a fishing vest today. “I’m trying to get information about those statues out at Skeleton Point. Nobody seems to know how old they are or where they came from.” “Or where some parts of the statues are going,” the man told the young woman. “Lots of fool stories are going around about somebody--or something--damaging the statues. Stay away from them, I say. Those old statues have been out there forever--before I was born, anyway. Leave ‘em be. Why do you want to know?” The young woman hesitated, then stopped to read the label on a jar of honey. “Um…just curious.” With that, the young woman left the store without buying anything. “Newcomers!” the man told Benny and Violet when he saw them standing there. “Always asking questions. You’d think from that young lady that Shady Lake was nothing but old statues covered with moss. What about our fishing? Why, our trout are practically jumping out of the lake.” “They are?” Benny asked, hoping to find out where he could see some of these jumping trout. The man left without answering Benny. The Mystery at Skeleton Point

When the children returned to the studio, the STUDIO CLOSED sign was still on the door. This didn’t stop the Aldens. “Hi, Hilda! It’s the Aldens,” Jessie yelled as she rapped on the window. Hilda whirled around, startled to see four pairs of eyes staring at her. She opened the door slightly. “What are you doing here? My studio is closed right now.” Violet looked past Hilda. “Oh, so you have the Clover Dodge statue,” she said before the young woman could block her view. “Are you fixing it? I’d love to see how.” Hilda stared at Violet. “I’m not here to teach art classes, Violet. I’m here to…well, I haven’t time to explain.” Henry, who was taller than Hilda, peered right over her shoulder. “Are you fixing the arm from the angel statue, too? Charlotte will be glad you got started on that.” Hilda studied the Aldens’ faces. “What do you mean? William was the one who got me working on the angel statue, not Charlotte. He told me she left most of the decisions up to him.” Hilda pushed the door to keep the children back. “I really must get back to my work. I’ll see you at Skeleton Point later this afternoon.” The Aldens had a lot more to say, but they never got the chance. After she slammed the door, Hilda walked over to the windows and pulled the shade down one by one. The Mystery at Skeleton Point

Yo mama is so ugly… when she walks down the street in September, people say “Wow, is it Halloween already?”   Yo

There was a full-sized seated skeleton in front of them on the steps. “The Walking Skeleton!” Benny said. Henry chuckled. “No, I guess you’d have to call it the Sitting Skeleton. It’s just sitting there as if it stopped to take a rest.” “I’m not afraid of Halloween tricks even when it’s not Halloween.” Benny scurried past the skeleton. Henry looked very serious. “Now I know someone is trying to scare us away from Skeleton Point again,” he said. “You’re probably right, Henry,” said Jessie. “But who could it be?” “William Mason and Hilda Stone,” said Benny, almost immediately. “They’re mean to us, and they don’t want us around.” “You’re right, Benny. Remember that man in town said William Mason wanted to buy Skeleton Point for himself? Maybe he’s mad at Charlotte for buying it first.” Jessie looked thoughtful. “What about Greeny?” she asked. “We know he doesn’t want us around, either--and we know he’s taking things from the house. Maybe he wants to scare us away so we won’t figure out what he’s up to. We should still keep an eye on him.” Henry agreed. “In fact, we should keep an eye on all of them.” When they returned to the house, the Aldens found that William had joined Hilda outside. Jessie waved. “Hi!” she called out, as if she had come straight from her errand across the lake. “Sorry we took so long. The hardware store was out of those light switches.” Hilda and William kept working. It seemed neither of them wanted to say anything. Finally Hilda spoke up. “Oh, it turns out we don’t need them after all.” William pushed back the brim of his red hat and checked his watch. “Half the day’s gone. I don’t see much use for you kids sticking around here. Hilda and I are doing some technical work Charlotte asked us to do--not something suitable for children.” “We know how to measure, too” Benny said. “I learned in kindergarten.” Hilda hesitated. “What we’re doing is a little more complicated than what you do in school. Now, why don’t you children go for a bike ride. Or a swim,” she suggested before going into the house. Henry turned to William. “We already went for a swim,” he said. “An unplanned one.” William didn’t say anything about untying the Alden’s boat, but he looked away and cleared his throat. “Well, then, go for a planned one this afternoon. Take tomorrow off, too. Everything’s under control here.” Before William turned to go into the house, the Aldens looked down. Just as they suspected, William was wearing heavy work boots that left deep prints just like the ones near the statue. The Mystery at Skeleton Point

Well, young fellow, I hope you’re not trying to see what cards I’m holding,” one of the cardplayers said with a twinkle in his eye. “Your eyes are bigger than my ice-cream bowl.” Benny felt his ears get red. “Are you playing Go Fish?” he asked. “That’s what we played in the car when we drove from Greenfield. Only now it’s time for Go Eat Ice Cream, not Go Fish.” Everyone at the table chuckled. “I’m getting chocolate ice cream,” Benny continued. “And know what? We’re going to Skeleton Point. Grandfather’s cousin Charlotte bought it--even the skeletons. She asked us to help her fix up the house. We might even get to stay there overnight.” The players looked up from their cards when they heard this. “Well,” one silver-haired lady said, “you must be very brave. A lot of strange things have been going on at Skeleton Point ever since Charlotte bought Dr. Tibbs’s old place.” Another man at the table put his finger to his lips. “Now, don’t go scaring the boy with all that foolish talk about the Walking Skeleton.” The woman ignored the man. “Well, don’t say we didn’t warn you. I heard from William Mason, who’s working out there, that there’s a skeleton in the house trying to turn into a real person again. If you ask me, that’s why some of those statues have missing parts.” Now Benny’s eyes were bigger than dinner plates. “Everything’s been falling down at Skeleton Point for years, especially those statues. I was glad to hear Charlotte’s going to fix up the place. That’ll stop all this Walking Skeleton nonsense.” “Maybe the Walking Skeleton is a real person already,” Benny said. “I’m a walking skeleton, too. Only I have muscles on top of my skeleton.” The cardplayers laughed again and returned to their game. When the Aldens got their cones, they sat on the front porch of the general store to enjoy their ice cream. “Where to next?” Grandfather asked when everyone had finished. “As if I didn’t know.” “Skeleton Point!” the children cried at the same time. “Skeleton Point it is,” Grandfather said. The Mystery at Skeleton Point

Amateur musical performances were extremely important for all of us during the war, and my experience of them started at the age of ten or eleven, when my friends and I took part in a custom that was very popular back then but now seems to have died out altogether. It was carried out at Halloween, but instead of going round asking for trick or treats we did something called ‘Guising’. A group of us lads would go to the front door of a house we thought might be welcoming and politely ask if we could come in and perform. Our particular playlet was suggested by my father; it was one he had performed when he was a lad, although whether there was any deeper tradition behind the verses we recited I cannot say. We were all dressed up in costumes, with one boy dressed as a king with a cardboard crown on his head. Once all were in the house most of us would cluster behind the sitting-room door, then the first boy would enter the room on his own and say, ‘Red up sticks and red up stools here comes in a pack of fools, a pack of fools behind that door. Step in King George and clear the floor.’ The boy with the crown on his head would enter and recite, ‘King George is my name, sword and pistol by my side, I hope to win the game.’ The first boy would answer, ‘The game, sir, the game, sir, is not within your power. I will slash you and slay you within half an hour.’ These two boys would then have a duel with toy swords and the first boy would drop down as though dead, at which the king would kneel down and say, ‘Is there a doctor in the town?’ A small boy with a little attaché case would then pop out from behind the door saying, ‘My name is Doctor Brown, the best little doctor in the town. A little to his nose and a little to his bum, now rise up, jock, and sing a song.’ It was an absurd little sketch, but we used to get showered with pieces of cake and home-made toffees and fudge, and we would pass from house to house performing the same sketch. Even now I can recall the words perfectly.

How do you make God laugh?" "I have no idea," I say. "Make a plan," he says, then pauses for a moment to let it sink in. "That's it: Make. A. Plan.

I think what you wear on Halloween is important. It says something about you--who you are and what you want to be. There's got to be a reason so many girls go around dressed as princesses and witches.

Yo momma is so ugly… she turned Medusa to stone!   Yo momma is so ugly… for Halloween she trick-or-treats on the phone!   Yo momma is so ugly… even Rice Krispies won't talk to her!   Yo momma is so ugly… she tried to take a bath and the water jumped out!   Yo momma is so ugly… when they took her to the beautician it took 12 hours for a quote!   Yo momma is so ugly… she made an onion cry.   Yo momma is so ugly… when she walks down the street in September, people say “Wow, is it Halloween already?”   Yo momma is so ugly… her mom had to tie a steak around her neck to

Jessie reached into the box and took out an envelope. On the front was printed THE ALDEN CHILDREN. She opened the envelope, took out a piece of paper, read it, and gasped. “What does it say?” Henry asked. Jessie handed the letter to Henry. He read, “Aldens: Go home and stay home.” “I’ll bet Mr. Carter wrote it. He said he didn’t like neighbors,” Benny said. Henry said firmly, “We certainly aren’t going to let whoever wrote it scare us away. Are we?” “No!” Jessie said. “We aren’t,” Benny agreed. “I guess not,” Violet said. The Mystery of the Singing Ghost

There was only one more thing to do--go into the haunted house. “You first,” said Beaver, pushing Franklin toward the door. It creaked open. A skeleton rattled. Chains clanged. There were moans. Franklin stepped on something crunchy. Suddenly, a big hairy hand reached out of the darkness. Franklin’s heart beat hard and fast. But before he could scream, a light was flicked on. “Trick or treat!” shouted Mr. Mole. Franklin looked around nervously. Then he laughed. The hairy hand was only Mr. Mole’s mop. “Here’s a treat for braving the haunted house,” said Mr. Mole. “A ghost came before you. He got so scared he flew away.” “But Bear can’t fly,” said Franklin. “It wasn’t Bear,” explained Mr. Mole. “Bear is home sick with a nasty cold.” Franklin shuddered. “If Bear wasn’t the ghost, then who was?” He ran back to his friends, who were waiting in line for the haunted house. “Was it that scary?” asked Fox. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” “Maybe I did,” said Franklin. He told them what Mr. Mole had said. “You mean that Bear was never here?” asked Beaver. Franklin shook his head. The ghost flew over them. It swooped low and called, “Whooo!” Rabbit twitched. “So what is white, says ‘Whooo,’ and flies?” “A real ghost,” answered Goose. “Run!

After dinner was served, and the kids were done eating, it was finally time to go trick-or-treating! Moms re-painted faces, and straightened clown hats, put wings back on fairies, angels, and bats. Jack-o’-lanterns were set out on porches with care. Their grins seemed to say, “Knock if you dare.” Gypsies and pirates and zombies in rags, grabbed their bright flashlights and trick-or-treat bags. They walked down each lane, avenue, and street, rang every doorbell and said, “Trick or treat!

On the way out I pass another sales clerk. She’s a bit older and rather on the chubby side. As I’m about to push one of the glass doors open I hear her say, “Hey, you’re going to lose your head!

Of course, we respect your decision, Farmer Ben,” he said. “I’d like to make one last request, if I may. Would you allow us cubs to sleep in the barn tomorrow night? Sort of our way of saying good-bye to the farm.” “A sleepover?” said Ben. “Why, sure. After everything you cubs have done for Mrs. Ben and me, it’s the least I can do.” “Then perhaps you’ll grant me another last request,” said Ferdy. “Would you and the cubs wait while I go home and get my camera and tripod? I’d like to take a group photo right here in the living room.” “I’d be honored,” said Farmer Ben. “Go on, son. Git!” Trudy went with Ferdy so she could carry the camera while he carried the tripod. As they headed down the drive to the front gate, Trudy said, “A sleepover and group photo are wonderful ideas, Ferd. Very sweet.” “Sweet has nothing to do with it,” said Ferdy. “I think I know how to save the Halloween Festival--and, thus, the farm!