I
wouldn’t have paid the plastic, child-sized hand a second glance if the
cotton cobwebs crawling up its sleeve hadn’t made it obvious someone
had tossed a box of Halloween rubbish in the dumpster.
Halloween’s trappings have influenced every aspect of my life, from my favorite color (pumpkin orange) to my favorite candy (Reese’s Pieces – they only come in harvest colors). I love old monster movies and cemetery tours, and I even love the weather, when the smell of crispy golden leaves permeates the air and the temperature falls just far enough for me to huddle up in my sweatshirt.
And anyway, I’m not a dumpster-diver. Or at least I wasn’t.
The doll wore a cartoon vampire costume, with oily hair swept back into the collar of a flowing cape, white paint spread across the face despite the peach tone of the arms beneath the tuxedo sleeves, and a golden star medallion dangling from a red ribbon around his neck. He looked like a baby-faced trick-or-treater, but the creepy laugh he loosed when you squeezed his hand gave me the impression he was fresh out of “treat.” He even had those eyelids that slid down when you tilted him… Ugh.
He was eerie, and he was perfect. I couldn’t leave an unsettling piece of Halloween junk to die, especially not with working electronics. So I did something I told myself I would never do: I reached into the dumpster and fished the two-foot terror out just as the first peal of autumn thunder cracked the cool September sky. Then I got myself home and cleaned up my new toy before the first rain drops fell.
I sat my little vampire on the mantle above my ancient television, turned down the lights, and tossed in an old VHS copy of Phantasm. Angus Scrimm’s voice bellowed through the halls as I tread back to the kitchen to wash dishes and start dinner. I returned to the couch with a bowl of penne just as Fred Myrow’s haunting score followed Jody through the basement window of Morningside Mortuary. Both the cheesy pasta and the cheesy movie on the screen kept me so busy I failed to notice for quite some time the doll had been moved to the other end of the couch and angled to “watch” the TV with me.
Suddenly I found myself crawling like a spider over the arm of the sofa, bowl fallen to the floor as I skittered backward into the kitchen. I stood in the dark and stared at the miniature monster in my den as shotguns racked and musical stings stung. The bluish glow of my old television played across the doll’s face as it turned slowly toward me. One suited arm raised in a slow, smooth motion, placing its hand across its mouth as if to shush me. Then it turned back to the movie.
And the much larger arm that moved the doll pulled back into the shadows behind the couch.
Halloween’s trappings have influenced every aspect of my life, from my favorite color (pumpkin orange) to my favorite candy (Reese’s Pieces – they only come in harvest colors). I love old monster movies and cemetery tours, and I even love the weather, when the smell of crispy golden leaves permeates the air and the temperature falls just far enough for me to huddle up in my sweatshirt.
And anyway, I’m not a dumpster-diver. Or at least I wasn’t.
The doll wore a cartoon vampire costume, with oily hair swept back into the collar of a flowing cape, white paint spread across the face despite the peach tone of the arms beneath the tuxedo sleeves, and a golden star medallion dangling from a red ribbon around his neck. He looked like a baby-faced trick-or-treater, but the creepy laugh he loosed when you squeezed his hand gave me the impression he was fresh out of “treat.” He even had those eyelids that slid down when you tilted him… Ugh.
He was eerie, and he was perfect. I couldn’t leave an unsettling piece of Halloween junk to die, especially not with working electronics. So I did something I told myself I would never do: I reached into the dumpster and fished the two-foot terror out just as the first peal of autumn thunder cracked the cool September sky. Then I got myself home and cleaned up my new toy before the first rain drops fell.
I sat my little vampire on the mantle above my ancient television, turned down the lights, and tossed in an old VHS copy of Phantasm. Angus Scrimm’s voice bellowed through the halls as I tread back to the kitchen to wash dishes and start dinner. I returned to the couch with a bowl of penne just as Fred Myrow’s haunting score followed Jody through the basement window of Morningside Mortuary. Both the cheesy pasta and the cheesy movie on the screen kept me so busy I failed to notice for quite some time the doll had been moved to the other end of the couch and angled to “watch” the TV with me.
Suddenly I found myself crawling like a spider over the arm of the sofa, bowl fallen to the floor as I skittered backward into the kitchen. I stood in the dark and stared at the miniature monster in my den as shotguns racked and musical stings stung. The bluish glow of my old television played across the doll’s face as it turned slowly toward me. One suited arm raised in a slow, smooth motion, placing its hand across its mouth as if to shush me. Then it turned back to the movie.
And the much larger arm that moved the doll pulled back into the shadows behind the couch.
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