There are displays of Hallowe’en spookiness on the streets today. The air prickles with stories, and with rain, of course.
Little children pasting their hello hallowe’ens to the street. The best perhaps are the charity shops in my local area, who have been trying to outdo one another. The blood covered fox-headed bride and penguin-headed bridegroom were a favourite. But I think I’ve found the most frightening display ever:
I can name one film reference here, in the little child’s red coat – Don’t Look Now (one of my favourites). Or perhaps it’s little red riding hood. The strawbodies, I’m not sure. Bogles of hay. Farm ghosties. An open ended fairytale it is indeed.
What will you be doing for the thinnest night, where the ghosts can slip through like glints of a knife?
There are plastic buckets of pumpkins, there are wee neep lanterns and pumpkin behemoths being carved as I write this. Wee children anticipating parties and dooking for apples, biting hanging treacle scones, anticipating, like me, being safely scared.
It’s an X-files marathon for D and I, a hit of nostalgia. I haven’t seen it since I was what, 16? I remember being unsettled, and thrilled. I do love to experience the uncanny, the creeping, but carefully delineated dread of ghost and horror stories. And this October has been so deliciously misty and liminal and dark. I’ll hold today tight. I’ll write and I’ll pretend that the fears in my story are of entirely natural kinds. But my eye will be turning to the margins, to the shift of shadows. The inflection of the ghost in the text.
After all, I live in Edinburgh now, how can I do any less?