“What, are you scared or something?” Before me stood the rotting wooden door of a two story house. Paint that had at one point in time been white, peeled off of the side paneling. From where I was standing, right at the foot of the concrete stairs that led to the entrance, two side windows were within my view. Cobwebs clung to the outside of each and thick curtains that blocked out sunlight sat just behind the glass, isolating whatever hid inside. As I turned back to face the door, I could have sworn that out of the corner of my eye I saw one of those curtains move.
“Come on,” she said, taking my wrist and escorting me up the stairs, “It’ll be fun.” This was not my friend who wanted me to join her in a haunted house excursion. This was not the neighborhood bully who dared me to survive the local pumpkin patch’s house of horrors. This was my mom.
For as long as I can remember, I have always been scared by my mom. Not scared of her, even though she did have a tone that would settle even the rowdiest of children, but scared by her. Popping out from around the corner, dressing up in some of the most terrifying outfits and dragging me along to every haunted house attraction within a 60 mile radius of our town were her favorite past times. Naturally, with a love for scaring, Halloween is her favorite holiday. Growing up with a mom who treats October 31st with all the respect of a religious holiday meant a few things for my life.
It meant that the first Saturday of every October I dressed for whatever the Nebraska weather was, either 80 degrees or somewhere in the low 20’s, and spent the day decorating our entire front yard for the Halloween season. I am talking about hay bales, scarecrows, inflatable monsters and of course a strategically placed pile of leaves, just big enough for someone to hide in. By the time I was in junior high, I was practically a "pro" at yard decorating.
It meant that I developed the horrible desire to seize every opportunity I had at scaring someone. Unfortunately enough, my little sister, who is three years younger than I am, fell victim countless times to my terrifying tactics. Let’s just say that she might have developed a life long fear of werewolves. Not only do I get joy out of scaring anyone and everyone who walks into one of my traps, I need it. I am fairly certain it has advanced to the point of addiction.
Finally, it meant that I was, am and forever destined to a long life of loving Halloween. Every October, I clear my schedule to make time for watching every horror movie special shown on TV. I map out the nearest haunted houses and borderline harass my friends to accompany me. Pumpkin carving, ghost tales and of course costumes, consume my every thought during the 31 days that it is acceptable to display my love for a specific holiday. While at the time I might have despised my thrill seeking, scare-loving mother for ever dragging me through too many haunted houses to count, I can attribute my undying love for Halloween directly to her.
