The rules of haunting
Here's some hard-earned knowledge I'm willing to share
Every year (save for earlier in the pandemic), my local library has haunted itself, following the vision of our creative and crafts-y librarian, Elizabeth.
The haunting is part of a day-long town-wide party that starts with a road race and winds itself through face-painting and carriage rides and pumpkin carving and free hot dogs and Irish dancers and some credible witches. We shut down streets and practice our fright screams.
By the time we close the library doors, everyone is a little giddy but WORTH IT. It is my favorite day of the year, and I include birthday and Christmas in that.
The haunting is a team effort, but I like to think of myself as Elizabeth’s special Halloween elf. I help set up the night before. I help tear down the morning after. And in between, I haunt.
This year, two of the grandkids joined us — the girl as what was supposed to be a Greek statue, but turned out to be an eerie ghost holding a three-headed baby, the boy as a devil who stood silently behind an ornate antique chair for hours and scared the pants off everyone when he so much as turned his head. This young man is always in motion, and a couple of times I went over to check on him to see if he’d fallen asleep standing up. He had not. He was waiting for a likely victim who might enjoy a fright.
I stood in what was supposed to be the dining room, before a huge antique table I set with old dishes, and plastic rats, snakes, skulls, and eyeballs, all covered in fake cobwebs. The team created an effectively spooky place.
Halloween is my high holy day and has been since I was a kid. For that, I’d like to thank my fundamentalist church, which deemed the holiday a tinge too demonic. My life in church was a long series of unbreakable rules, and so Halloween was one day of the year when you could let it fly. The grownups faded into the background, and life became an awesome kind of spooky Lord-of-the-Flies-type situation. We kids ruled the chilly streets as we scampered from house to house, and the moon looked on.
I still remember my favorite costume (age 10, a homemade silvery witch dress), and the pillowcases of candy I collected, consumed, and used to help push myself toward ill health. That one night, in a life constricted by rules, there were none.
But you learn, over the years, that not everyone embraces the holiday, and so, for the next time you haunt someplace, let me offer you some rules:
A giggle is as good as a scream. Dressed as a Victorian zombie, few things are more incongruous than an attempt to moonwalk in costume.
If a small child looks up at you and starts to cry, drop to your knees, do not move forward, and compliment them on their own costume. If they seem happy to toddle by without noticing you, stand still and let them pass. There is no honor in frightening a 2-year old.
Have a schtick ready. In my case, it was “Oh! You’re here for dinner. You’re late,” which got a giggle every time, standing by the cobwebbed table. Then if the child was game, we discussed who ate the dinner I’d set. I usually said that the rats did, and that if they could find the rats, perhaps the rats would share. It was the rats, or the snakes, and if they could find my missing snakes, that would be awesome, too.
Be prepared for teenagers, who are too cool to be scared, and move in packs. They are actually kids with bodies that confuse them, and they really do want to be scared, and engaged.
Be prepared for handsy little kids, who want to pick up everything. They have been trapped in a cage for two years, so let ‘em.
Remember that if you smile, your white makeup makes your teeth look really yellow, and scary, so smile a lot.
At the end of the evening, walk out into the chill night and feel that moment again, when you’re a little snaggle-toothed kid who almost believes she could grab a nearby broom, and take off over the trees.
Frightful, yet incongruously delightful!
Boo!