You Put Out the Pumpkins, You Put Out the Lights
Trick or Treat
You put out the pumpkins, you put out the lights.
Every year, the same. The same creeping awareness of the coming, as death grips the world around you, rending the very leaves from the trees, and filling the air with a chill so profuse and acidic that the wind howls the pain of it through the night.
Soon the terrible round-headed boy will collect his rocks on the television, and his only friend’s faith will be shattered again, as he waits all night in vain, as you must also do, as you must always do. And you find solace, if only for a moment, in the way the devils’ yearly games are played for humor, but it hides the fearful malice more poorly than the television volume hides the buzz of the flies.
You put out the pumpkins, you put out the lights.
You plant your feet on the tattered linoleum of the living room floor and peel them away repeatedly, savoring the familiar stickiness and grit, but the comfort is fleeting. There is work to do.
It’ll be here soon, the parade of grotesques. Sweat-soaked monsters, in their skins of plastic and polyester, scrabbling from door to door, gibbering devilspeak and prancing in crimson celebration.
“Trick or treat!” they’ll howl, as if to them they are not the same. But you know better — to trick you is a treat to them.
Some of them, especially those with the less horrifying disfigurements, almost pass for human, but if you’re brave, and you peer past the crinkling princess dresses and laughably flammable firefighter outfits, you can see what they really are. It’s in the eyes. You’d have thought those eyes would be dull and glassy, blank as the marbles you jam inside your dolls’ gentle little heads, but they aren’t.
No, those all-pupil peepers contain dark, boundless depths, and if you truly look into them, your bravery is rewarded with a plunge into an expanse so cold it doesn’t feel like anything, and so black, it robs you of your sight. And yes, of course, when you gaze into them, they also gaze into you. How could they not?
And they can see so much more deeply. And they can stare for so much longer.
You put out the pumpkins, you put out the lights.
So you do the rituals. You practice the rites.
Leave the offering on the mantle, as far from the front door as is permissible. You don’t know what they use the candy for, but it is expected. You buy the best you can find — king-sized corn syrup monstrosities as big as your forearm, and that does seem to placate them.
“These people are awesome!” you heard last year, as you stood, back pressed against the door, sweat running into your mouth and ears. “This house always has the best stuff. I’ve never even seen who lives here, but who cares? I didn’t know they made Snickers this big!” You listened to them greedily rummaging through the traditional plastic cauldron, tittering like insane birds, and you silently begged any god that would hear you to let them pass you by like the last group. Your mouth moved through this desperate prayer, as you ran your finger against the knife clutched in your hand, tearing through the ragged callous, making sure it was sharp enough. Just in case, just in case, just in case just — and then they were gone. Scampering down the street, laughing at your helplessness. Your ineptitude. Your impotency.
You peered through the window, recounting the contents of the offering for the hundredth time that night. And you know it will be the same this year. Because it’s always the same.
You put out the pumpkins, you put out the lights.
You don’t know if it’s the toll of the years, or the thickening of the film on the windows, but you’ve had to try extra hard this year to feel safe, even several sleeps before the night itself. You’ve assigned more talismans than ever this year: papier-mâché skeletons and construction paper witches standing guard in cluttered knots around the front door, the enormous chicken wire spider on the weed-choked lawn, and the scarecrow cobbled from clothes valiantly donated by your dolls and stuffed with leaves from the neighbor’s oak.
“Well, hi there!” the buffoon bellowed from his doorstep as you hurriedly bagged his leaves, desperate to be away from the outside air. “Thanks for doing that! I’m glad they’ll get used for something. Throwing them away always seems like such a waste, but I’m not as crafty as you. You’re so festive!”
You bit your lip to keep from sobbing at this unexpected onslaught (How vile, how truly detestable to make light of your preparations), and frantically finished your task, scrambling to the door like some cousin of your galant wire spider. You felt his stare scorching your many sweaters and jackets like hellfire, and you had to dispose of the top two layers in the furnace to remain uncontaminated. He’s an associate of the devils, and it appears that poisoning his dog last month wasn’t message enough to ward him off.
He’ll need further dissuasion.
You put out the pumpkins, you put out the lights.
You have finally gathered your supplies. It took so long, and required so many offerings to obtain everything you needed, but here they are. You place the cigar cutter and miniature welding torch on the pile (Please just tell me where the acetylene is, please, and I won’t have to take so much of you home with me.) and hastily reapply the tape to the edges of the door to keep the syrupy rot smell in. You allow yourself a moment to admire the collection months of searching and dozens of acts of righteous cruelty have resulted in, then begin transferring the small mountain to the crawlspace.
There is work to be done, and you must move quickly.
Fortunately, you already had more than enough soundproofing foam from your last project, so one of the more time-consuming elements is already taken care of. Unfortunately, there’s so much metalwork to do you almost don’t know where to begin (So silly! Don’t get overwhelmed.), but Mother did say perhaps one useful thing before you quieted her down, and that was to start with the small things and build up to the large. So, you begin by making the manacles.
YouTube University was exceedingly helpful with this task (Oh, what a world now, what a world!), though the tutorials on shaping and fusing metal strips weren’t necessarily intended for this sort of project. But angels do make varied use of simple tools. And what are you, but a simple thing used for a higher purpose? Graciously called from that old life of such meaningless numbers and greed, and tasked with this weighty trial. It’s enough to bring tears to your dry, vein-threaded eyes at what divine providence has led these strips to be bent into ringlets small enough to hold tiny, crafty wrists and ankles, and welded to chains, bolted to walls.
How holy this steel! How blessed this concrete!
You lay the pliers, the hammer, the hacksaw, and the syringes out on the little plastic cart, and position it next to the cage, ready for easy access.
You put out the pumpkins, you put out the lights.
You have worked for many days, barely stopping to wrap your burns and cuts with strips of clothing you could spare from your collection, stiff from old blood from old owners, and now nearly every inch of your skin aches with the feverish burn. The pus squelches between the bandages, soaking into your bottom layers and adding a savory note to the fly-buzzing sweetness of the air around you.
The television chatters away to itself in the background, but it seems to be speaking a foreign language at this point. You’ve ascended too far to be concerned with what they call news, even as you are dimly aware that those devil collaborators are beginning to become aware of you, beginning to connect all the different ways you collected your tools. You hear the words “triangulate” and “location,” used worryingly in the same sentence, and some small part of you shackled in the deepest recess of your mind reacts with fear and resignation.
Don’t worry! You’re so very close, and for the first time in these haunted, desperate years, you’ve awakened on Halloween with hope. With determination.
With excitement.
“Smell my feet! Give me something good to eat!” you crow to the bundles of hair that hang from the ceiling, and they sway appreciatively as you laugh with such delight that the impending arrival of the tiny devils barely even frightens you anymore. But they still do. Of course they do. It feels good for a hunter to have a powerful weapon and much ammunition, but it would be foolish not to fear the bear as it approaches.
You scrape away a patch in the window scum and peer between the blinds, listening to their ragged, lunatic giggles as they prance and toddle up and down the street. For now, with the hateful sun still low in the sky, most are accompanied by their human collaborators (Parents, they call them! Parents! As if something so vile could be spawned so normally as by parents!), who seem to instinctively avoid your home, somehow unconsciously aware of your trap. Not to fear, though. The larger devils do not hide behind such paltry guardians, and will rove the sidewalks in packs after dark, and they will come for your offering.
The offering!
You clutch the plastic cauldron to your chest and fling the door open, nearly tearing down the “HAUNTED HOUSE! ENTER IF YOU DARE!” sign carefully tacked up over the knob. You set it down on the altar next to the sign and freeze in fear as one of the tiniest devils makes eye contact with you from within the arms of its human collaborator.
Your heart races, sending blood to pound violently against your temples, and for a moment you’re sure that it ends here. Perhaps the smaller devils are less disciplined, and will destroy you regardless of the offering in punishment for allowing yourself to be seen. But no, it wails madly and clutches at its collaborator, who glares at you reproachfully.
“Jesus,” she says. “That’s the scariest goddamn costume I’ve ever seen. Henry, they’re doing a haunted house over there! It looks like they’re going really all-out. Why don’t you text Kyle and let them know before they head out. He and his little friends have been obsessed with horror lately, so maybe they’ll like that.”
They wave in mock good humor (so hideous, so cruel), and continue down the sidewalk to the homes of other collaborators, who greet them in perverted parodies of delight and festivity.
You center the cauldron on the altar and back shakily through the doorway, slamming the door shut and sinking to the ground in desperate sobs, like a person who has just survived a near-death experience. Like you have.
You reach up to begin the process of fastening all the locks, but stop yourself.
Not this year.
Every other year, you’ve fortified yourself within this fragile bubble of safety and waited fitfully for the night to end. But this time is different. This time, you’ve empowered yourself. You flip the switch on the wall, wrapping the sentries out front in orange and purple glow and the spooky sounds of a CD purchased from the drugstore many years ago, and you can see the flickering of the Jack-o-Lantern’s eyes diffuse behind the blinds.
This year is the year of victory, and while of course there is fear (Is that the sound of sirens? Somewhere there are sirens.), there is also strength. You pat the knives you’ve taped to your back, just in case, and gratefully note the last rays of sunlight dying out. You can hear the devils jeering and cackling, and your heart leaps as they turn up the walkway to your door, nattering about the haunted house, daring each other to go inside.
Your muscles clench.
You’re ready.
You put out the pumpkins, you put out the lights.
