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They call me Doctor Dave. I don’t mind that so much, after all, the exotic syllables of Darvan Kapoor can be tricky. Better than many of the things I’ve been called. I’m a junior doctor in a city centre emergency department. It’s not all blood and doom. Sometimes I’ll get a call from a female doctor – the patient is requesting a second opinion. We both savour that moment as the thick brows furrow at the choice to be made: lady doctor, or towel head can’t speak proper English like wot I do.

I get the call about a tricky case so I’m instantly on edge. In the treatment room I look at two hostile faces. A man and a woman – I think. Definitely one woman. She has nice legs and a firm chest, but a face screwed so far past disgust that I begin to worry about the pickled herrings I ate three weeks ago.

And the other? A man.

Probably.

But pigtails, and pale face makeup. He is standing awkwardly, elbows resting on the bed, bent a little at the waist. He smiles weakly, shifts a little, and then winces.

There isn’t a hint of compassion from the woman when she says, ‘Oh, darling, does it smart?’

The man straightens. He says, ‘Just like our wedding day.’

He faces me. His long black coat is actually a long black dress, bunched in thick folds around his waist. I’ve seen many things in my time, but nothing as disturbing as those pasty white legs sticking out below that flapping hem.

Quickly, he says, ‘Halloween. My costume.’

The wife cuts in, ‘_My_ costume.’

‘Halloween,’ I say, just for something to say.

The man nods. ‘I know it’s tomorrow, but I wanted to try out the costume, make sure it fits.’

‘For Halloween?’

‘That’s right. You must have something similar in your culture, honouring the dead, bringing your dead relatives into your homes, or something. You know, Halloween, pumpkins and trick or treat.’

I smile. ‘Oh. That’s what that is! Halloween, and I thought hordes of small children demanding sweets was merely the decline of western civilisation. Well, then. What seems to be the problem?’

The man looks nervous once more, the woman triumphant. She presents me with something wrapped up in a plastic bag. It feels light, but firm.

She smirks. ‘Perhaps you can reattach it.’

The man squirms as slowly I unwrap the package. It has the look of a large cucumber, but dried.

‘It’s a loofah,’ the man says. ‘For sloughing off dead skin.’

‘I came back from shopping with it,’

I look from one to the other. He squirms, and looks away. She seems almost two feet taller.

‘And what do I find? Him! Dressed as Wednesday Addams, receiving a tasty treat from Uncle Fester.’

‘Who? Huh?’

The wife strides past me. ‘I’ll leave you to it, doctor.’

She pauses at the door to look at me.

‘Actually, it’s most of a loofah.’

“What about this one,” Emma said, holding up a dark, raven black dress.

“Well, it’s another black dress, much like the past three.” Grilda sighed.

“Don't be silly, this is raven black, the others were dark-soul, summer-night and spilt-ink.”

Grilda, put her phone down and rolled her eyes at her.

Emma twitched her hand and laughed as a dress flew crashing into Grilda’s face. “Oh god, just 24 hours” Emma sighed. “What if he doesn't recognise me?”

“Hmgh pfgh” came the reply as Grilda slowly untangled her-self. “He finds you every year Emma. And just watch what you do with that finger. Halloween might be a special night for us, but we still have to be careful.”

“Yes, i know. Can’t you just let me enjoy the moment.” Emma was still switching between dresses in the mirror.

“You know this pining isnt very feminist, or Witch like.”

“Well neither is your insta account Grild.”

Grilda ignored her.

“I think dark-soul is the best, it reminds me of him,” Emma decided.

“They don't come in muddy grave is it?” Grilda shot back with a wicked grin.

“Shut your hag face, this is my night. Once a year we get to see each other, and last year he finally came and talked to me. After how many years? This year i’m not going to waste time.”

Grildas eye roll was as deep as a grave. “Also this thing is hungry again,” she said pointing at a dark mass of fur that hat wrapped itself around her leg . “Shall I get the pickled herring? Honestly i don't know why you bother, cats are such a cliche.”

“I like them, and they keep me company. Since you two are always off doing whatever it is you seem to spend most of your time doing,” Emma muttered defensively.

“Its called fucking and living, Em. We are exceptionally powerful people, it’s about time you started embracing that and not wasting the whole year waiting for one dead-beat, who's taken 100 years to talk to you.” Grilda was now fending off a number of cats, who had appeared as if by magic at the sound of a tasty treat being opened. “Jesus, how many of them have you got now?”

“As I said, I like them. And it may be 100 years, but it’s only one day a year, so that’s only 100 da…”

“So 3 years then?” Grilda cut in sardonically.

“Well...um. Shit. Ok fine, he's not the fastest moving, but ‘they’ never are, are they?” Emma paused, irritated. “Besides this year’s going to be different. Firstly i know where he lives...sleeps...rests-in-peace..? You know what i mean.”

Grilda grimaced a little, she certainly did know what she meant. 364 days in the ground wasn't a good look for anyone, let alone this guy. But, she wisely held her tongue.

“We talked so much last year. He is so funny, honestly, just you wait. He kept saying about how his back was always itching and it drove him mad, but not as mad as the thought of me.” Emma blushed. “And so this year, im going to get him a loofah, so he can reach his back, you know when he’s down there. Anyway i thought it was nice,“ Emma continued, ignoring Grilda’s concealed laughter. “I know what you think of him, but he’s different, he’s so…”

“Down to earth?” Grilda offered.

Emma paused. “You know, I think you’ve hit the nail on the coffin there.

Grilda fell back on the bed laughing. “Oh Emma, you are really something you know.”

Cap’n Bradleigh Salterton, skipper of the Seahorse was exhausted. His latest parrot, who insisted on being addressed as “Twinkleclawed Dance Leviathan Craig Revel Horwood”, was training him up for the Strictly Come Hornpiping Hallowe’en Special in which he would compete against other Pirates for a treasure chest from the Spanish Main. His bitter enemies Blackbeard, Fakebeard, the female pirate and clumsy 25 stone buccaneer Eggbeard were all competing too.

Horwood was a stern taskmaster and the latest session, to the merriment of Bradleigh’s crew was not going well. “Those toes darling!” shuddered the sharp-tongued Psittaforme, “A pigeon wouldn’t thank you for them!” Salterton tried again, pirouette to the left, hop to the right. It was hard with crossed arms. “No, no, no” exclaimed his feathered tormentor “Halloween is quite scary enough without the sight of your nobbly knees knocking! Once more! With Style!”

By lunchtime Bradleigh was sure that if he never heard a concertina again it would be too soon, his feet were cut to ribbons and every muscle ached. He chewed a pickled herring (part of his unappetising dancer’s diet) sadly. Meanwhile Horwood enjoyed a tasty treat of Belgian Chocolate plundered by Salterton only a week before.

Things were no better on Fakebeard’s ship, her dance teacher had not yet managed to persuade her to be more ladylike and follow rather than leading. Both were doing tolerably however compared to Blackbeard, who had two left wooden legs. Sharks made a beeline for his ship as petrified dance teachers were dispatched to the plank.

The Parrot had extra motivation to win. His identical twin brother Gary had been appointed chief judge despite Craig being the more renowned dancer and was now acting in a very haughty manner at family gatherings. If Craig could get an idiot like Salterton to win it would prove who the star of the family really was. He continued to work the unfortunate pirate like a dog.

On the night Fakebeard scored a 3, 4, 4 and 5 and Blackbeard, a stunningly consistent 4 noughts. Bradleigh gave it his all, remembered his steps and got two 7s and an 8, making up for the 3 issued by the parrot’s churlish twin. The laughable Eggbeard took to the floor, only he stood between Horwood and the prize of humiliating his brother.

The stunned crowd gasped as, with a straight back and unusual elan, Eggbeard demonstrated that he was born to dance! “10, 10, 10, 10”. The judges were unanimous. He stood triumphant crying tears of joy as he was crowned. Bradleigh Salterton, relieved it was over all soaked in a relaxing bath with loofah, shower cap and rubber duck.

Blackbeard however wasn’t happy, he’d come to win! He vowed to take his revenge on the judges but alas they were alerted to his approach and fled their dressing room.

As he left the theatre though, he saw one of them, or at least he thought he did. That small feathery green one was sitting alone at the bar crying into his beer. With a swish of his mighty cutlass he slit the chest of Twinkleclawed Dance Leviathan Craig Revel Horwood from gullet to Gizzard. “That’ll teach you for giving me a zero” he cried, before returning to his ship and vowing never to dance again.

Arthur watched them bitterly through narrowed eyes. The woman stared into the mirror, turning this way and that, the deathly pallor and the blood that trickled from her eyes was belied by the plump, healthy cleavage prominently displayed through her bandaged chest. The child was flapping the corners of its sheet excitedly and moaning. It waved a loofah with pipe cleaners stuck on it like spider legs.

“Bloody ridiculous, if you ask me. Look at the pair of them.” grumbled Arthur. Mary didn’t look up from her knitting. She knew what was coming, best sit back and let it wash over her. He did it every year.

“It’s an American thing. I don’t know when we all started losing our heads over this Halloween nonsense. Trick or treat my foot! Just another way to con more money out of us poor working folks. Like Valentines Day and Easter. Made up holidays. And it’s not even until tomorrow, anyway.”

“The children do enjoy it Arthur, and where’s the harm? A couple of tasty treats, a bit of dressing up? Hmm?”

“Well what about their teeth, for a start? All them sweets, I ask you. Slice of bread and a pickled herring was good enough for me. And the wandering around at night? None of that for my kids, thank you very much."

.

“Arthur, you haven’t got any kids.”

“That’s besides the point. And another thing -”

Here it came. Breath deeply Mary, count your stitches, let him have his rant then he’ll wear himself out.

“ - these people haven’t a clue what they’re about. It’s all stereotyping. It’s not like we’re all the same, you know, because we’re not. I’ve never moaned or rattled a chain in all my life, though I’m sure there’s some that do.”

“You’re having a bloody good moan now, though, aren’t you?” muttered Mary under her breath.

“Fifteen years I’ve been dead and not once have I worn a bedsheet, or said ‘boo’. No, I’ve just sat quietly, minding my own business, waiting patiently for the End Of Days.

"It's not like I've not done my share of scaring. Remember that time, Mary, remember when i knocked that woman's pot plant over? She jumped out of her skin."

He chuckled fondly at the memory.

Poor Arthur, thought Mary, he didn't have the imagination to be creatively dead. Halloween was such a hard time for him. Death was what made him interesting to himself, how dare the living encroach on his patch?

" ...and these people come along and have the audacity, the temerity to pretend to be us for one day of the year? Picking and choosing their favourite bits of dead culture to show off? To parade in front of their friends? It’s cultural appropriation, that’s what it is and I’ll not stand for it.”

Before Mary could stop him Arthur slid through the wall and into the bedroom. The child stared, open-mouthed, unable to speak, unable to comprehend what it saw.

Mary saw the woman continue to primp at the mirror, obliviously, though if she’d looked behind her reflection, she would have caught the palest glimpse of a tall, thin man with a straggly moustache and a neck twisted horribly out of shape standing just over her shoulder...

It was a brisk, autumn day—October 30th— in southeast Texas, the humidity mild after the unbearable summer, and I was out with my wooden walking stick, my red ball cap, my large oval sunglasses, and my light grey, nondescript sweatshirt. For a young man, I pulled off an old man quite well.

The bird lady—so called because she ran a bird sanctuary from her home, with all manner of birds squawking and screeching from her jungle backyard—was outside in her front yard, pretty red hair pulled up tight in a bun, long and lean body stretched out in God’s Glory as she hung a few last minute Halloween decorations and filled her giant orange hollowed out pumpkin with tasty treats for the children. I waved to her as I walked past her home—on the overgrown path between her yard and the drainage ditch—continuing beyond her property toward the sticky woods and the safety of solitude.

Once behind her property and out of sight, I took out the trash back stored underneath my sweater and plopped it behind a large gnarled oak tree. I rummaged through it to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything: rope, spooky goblin mask with green skin and yellow teeth and big ears, large kitchen knife, and duct tape. All was as planned. I stuffed the bag under some dead branches and leaves, concealing it well from anyone that might happen by on their own little adventure, and followed the drainage ditch on its southwest journey a half mile to my home.

I spent the rest of the day masturbating to porn on my computer and preparing some pickled herring—my two favorite hobbies. I took a nap at 4 p.m., woke up at dark, ate the rest of the herring, along with some cottage cheese and brown rice, and settled in for browsing online ads of single women in my area. I look for the redheads—much like the bird lady. I slept well that night, under a bright white moon and stained yellow sheets.

The next morning, I fixed myself a breakfast of scrambled eggs and plain yogurt with a black coffee to wash it down. I took a shower and shaved my body clean of all hair—afterward scrubbing my skin raw with my favorite purple loofah, so as to leave as little evidence of my presence as possible—and then spent the remainder of the day going over my routes of attack and escape, confident I had thought of every scenario.

The evening light came, and I put on the dark pants and sweatshirt I’d bought from the mall the week before. I removed all tags and wiped the clothes down with a lint brush, strapped on my new black boots, and sprinted to the oak tree. Sweat dripped down my underarms with exertion and nerves.

I arrive unseen, using the drainage ditch as cover, and put on my goblin mask. I stuff the rope in my back pocket and my knife in my belt. I shove the duct tape down my pants, next to my engorged penis. I double knot my shoelaces.

The sun finally falls, the excited shrieks of children fill the air, and I quietly approach the shrouded backyard of the bird ladies’ home. I listen to the chaotic chirping of the birds—a desperate plea for their master to heed—and slide open the screen door. It makes a gentle creak.

The house is filled with the calm glow of candles and the sweet scent of apples.

I’ve waited a long time for this. A year, in fact, since my last meal.

I love Halloween.