I set up my Killer’s office yesterday at work to a mixed bag. Some people loved it, some people were seriously repulsed (but commended me on it), some people didn’t get it, and one person mumbled, “I hate Halloween.”

But the greatest reward was that one of the analysts who never really talks much, to me or anyone, lingered by my desk to take it all in and actually showed emotion. I think it was the longest interaction we ever had.

The first thing you see when you walk down the hall is the pig mask propped on top of my closet thing. My boss stopped by last night to say goodnight and laughed heartily at it. “That’s perfect!” she shouted. Wait until you see the rest, I thought as I smiled nervously. I guess I’ll find out what she thinks today.

Aside from the pig mask, it’s fairly subtle.

Yes, I have my desk covered with blood-splattered plastic, but nothing’s really in-your-face. You have to stop and really look. My favorite is the page from a used car catalog that has an Econoline van for sale, which I circled with blood.

I found a handful of old photos of my mom and aunt* from the 70s and several old Polaroids of some of my friends* from when we were teenagers, so I’m using those as my victim collection.

I thought having actual photos would be scarier than just writing a list of names under a “Victim” heading. There’s a map of a random residential area which I hung up and as it gets closer to the end of the month, more and more victim photos will be taped up next to it with red lines drawn to the street where they were taken.

(* Susie and Christy, if you’re reading this—you’re two of the victims!)

Thank god I made Henry keep his old Weiss Meats coveralls (the ones that made him resemble Michael Myers and in turn made me like him; I’m sure he rues those coveralls now), because they add a nice touch, peeking out from my desk closet with a bone protruding from the pocket.

One of my co-workers came trolling past last night, stopped in her tracks when she saw the pig mask, and shot me a super condescending, “O-kaaaaaayyyyyy?” Then she hovered around my desk, inspecting all the details with this fucking “not impressed” smirk on her face and it put me in such a foul mood. I can’t wait to see the folk art she’s going to shit all over her desk. If she doesn’t have at least one pumpkin wearing a Leprechaun hat, I’ll write something nice about Katy Perry.

Today I need to find an old curtain or something that I can cut and hang up as a backdrop because it’s way too white in there. I need something that will give it a seedier ambiance.

Once I have it all complete, I’ll take real photos.

Also, how wonderful that this coincides perfectly with employee evaluations.

Thank god I have a friend like Casey who finds YouTube gems for me. This has been the only thing that’s succeeded in getting the psycho Russian girls’ cover of Demi Lovato’s “Skyscraper” out of my head. It has a very Wicker Man*-esque vibe to it.

I am beyond obsessed, perplexed and smitten with this video.

MAYBE ENOUGH TO BECOME A NUN.

(* The original, not that Nicolas Cage abomination.)

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.

Henry: I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with me being in THE SERVICE.

That was only three and a half years of my life.

Me: Three and a HALF? Why the half?

Henry: Because I left early.

Me: OH MY GOD, YOU WENT AWOL?

Henry: Wha–? No! They let me and a bunch of others leave early because there was no war or anything going on at the time so I wasn’t needed.

Me, suddenly understanding: Oh, you mean they didn’t need you because you weren’t good enough.

Henry, tired of talking about it: Yeah, that’s it exactly.