Home & Garden

I moved a lot as a kid, but it was never particularly traumatic. The only transition came from having to memorize a new street address because we always moved within the same city.

It was always thrilling, imagining the lives that had been led in those empty houses before we arrived. Wondering … what forced the previous owners to leave, to abandon clothes at the top of a closet or an old bike, forgotten and rusting in the backyard? Just junk to them, but to me, these were clues in a diabolical mystery.

I can still hear the lonely echoes of my tiny feet tapping across hardwood floors, my pace quickening as imagined ghosts chased me from room to room, warning me against unforeseen horrors.

Not even the dizzying smell of fresh paint and professionally cleaned carpets could mask the malevolent scent of death, of blood and terror.

Every shadow had teeth. Every noise was vengeful.

Inevitably, I'd sneak up to the real estate lady and with my best first-day-of-school, trust-me-I'm-an-angel smile, I'd look up at her.

"So has anybody ever died here," I'd ask in all seriousness. "Come on. You can tell me."

The answer was always, "Of course not."

But there was something in her voice — in all of their voices. Something in the way her eyes drifted to an invisible spot in the living room, den or kitchen. Something told me she was keeping secrets, worried that the terrifying truth would give me nightmares.

No matter what they said, the monsters were real. Just because I couldn't see them, didn't mean they weren't there. They waited — either in the closet or under the bed.

And I waited too. But they never came. So when I grew up, I brought in my own ghosts. And now, I'm proud to say that my house is haunted.

Sadly, there's no Moaning Myrtle. No Headless Horseman. No Blair Witch. No Alice in Chains … wait, that's a '90s grunge band (different kind of haunting).

Instead these apparitions are the kind that causes passing neighbors to stop and stare while turning embarrassed Divas into gasping, eye-rolling, foot-stomping … well, Divas.

Halloween is my Christmas.

And while I'm supposedly "too big" and "too old" for dressing up and trick-or-treating (or so say the local police officers in charge of such costumed oppression), I play dress-up with my house.

When My Lovely Wife (who gets as giddy as I do) finally gives me permission to go spelunking into the abyss that is our basement storage room, I can hardly contain my excitement.

Soon as the silly bat's hung on the mantle with care, the severed heads are dangling over the dinner table and the singing skeleton is propped up in the front porch rocking chair, an inexpressible joy warms my heart.

Halloween makes me happy.

I've even written a song about it (in the tune of "My Favorite Things" … ya know, from Sound of Music):

Pumpkins with faces and witches on broomsticks
Vampires with sharp teeth and banshees that look sick
Demon bugs that can shimmy, dangling from string
These are a few of my Halloween things.
When the dogs bark. When the drain's clogged
When Auburn's playing bad.
I just remember my Halloween things, and then I don't feel … so mad.

Now that's haunting.