Barb convinced the boss to let us have a Halloween decorating contest. We were cleared to go all-out so long as there’s nothing that makes noise (because god forbid people annoy each other with something other than repetitive, murderous paper stamping) and I imagine anything involving permanent damage is also out, which sucks because I was trying to get Ty Pennington in there to build me the facade of Bates Motel.
While I would love to run out to the Halloween store and drop a few Benjamins, I’m broke. And then some people were all, “You’re totally going to win this” when really, I’m pretty terrible (read: lazy) at decorating. Halloween is my favorite holiday but I don’t really do anything special for it because that’s what’s inside me all the other 364 days of the year. I don’t need to throw up spiderwebs and blacklights to quantify my love for scary shit. Still, I felt pressured.
My desk already has zombies, plush Michael Myers, CLOWNS, and pictures of my kid and Marcy on it. That’s some scary shit in itself, not to mention my Christ in the Smokies souvenir guide.
But I really want to play, too! And it occurred to me Friday night that I don’t have to really spend any money at all. Not if I go with what I know best: serial killer motif.
So far, the only thing I spent money on was a composition book. Borrowing from “Seven,” I wanted to quickly make the journal of a killer. I soaked it in the sink to give it an aged, warped feel and then pasted random newspaper clippings about murder, scattered thoughts scrawled with my left hand, and I even taped down a small clump of hair I pulled off a brush.
“Do you think that’s too much?” I asked Henry.
“Why? They already know you’re weird.”
Still, I was mindful not to get too crazy with it.
That hand mirror had been in this house for god only knows how long before I moved in. I found it one day when I dragged a chair into the bathroom to see if anything was on the top shelf of the closet, and there it was, all antiqued and dented.
“It’s probably not as old as you think it is,” Henry said today, being his usual killjoy self. “It’s probably only from the 70s.”
“And the dent?” I asked snidely.
“Probably fell off the counter.”
“Or! It’s from the 1800s and the dent was from bashing in someone’s head,” I offered, tuning out the rest of what Henry had to contribute.
I sprayed it with blood and it looks even better.
Then I created a small library.
“Why is one of these books my high school yearbook?” Henry asked suspiciously.
Yeah, that was intentional.
I knew one day, Chooch’s teeth would come in handy.
I also have a map of a residential area & a classifieds auto page with random vans for sale circled, and a little box with a finger resting on a bed of bloodied cotton.
I printed out photos of a slaughterhouse (I need to be creeped out, too!), John Wayne Gacy, Lizzie Borden and H.H. Holmes to replace Chooch’s pictures in my frames.
This is all I have so far, but it’s enough to get me started tomorrow. I pretty much did nothing all weekend but collect all these small details, and I think there were moments when Henry was genuinely concerned.
I’m so stoked! Hopefully I won’t get fired or forced into a psych evaluation.