Spooky

Witches, skeletons, and season energy.

Dust off your broom. It is riding season, the group chat is already forty-seven messages deep, and the hats are steamed, the capes are dramatic, and the attitude is calibrated to don’t even. Around here spooky is not a holiday, it is a personality with excellent lighting. The witch is not arguing with you either — she is explaining why you are wrong at a speed your brain can handle, in a Scottish accent, from six feet in the air.

The skeleton peaked in September and is somehow already exhausted on day one, buried under decoration boxes, a fog machine manual he refuses to read, and last year’s candy. The bat has looked at this world from both directions and picked upside down, and honestly he makes a strong case. The ghost is not haunting you, he is commuting — you are standing in his hallway, he has done this route for two hundred years, and you are the traffic jam. The black cat crossed your path and gave you the most exciting moment of your whole week. You are welcome. So light the orange lights, lean into the cackle, and stay a while. Spooky season is short, the nights are long, and nobody here is doing a normal October. Bonus points if you read the whole page after dark, with the porch light flickering, pretending you are absolutely not checking over your shoulder.