Other than the candy, it seemed to Otto, who was a simple man, that Halloween was an entire holiday devoted exclusively to fear, well beyond mischief night or the day itself, and being frightened was something he spent his entire life avoiding.
Otto had a big problem with Halloween. He liked the candy well enough, and he even liked children at least somewhat, especially when they were dressed up in a non-threatening costume and appeared to be having fun. There was something in his own simple mind that responded to the naivety of the young, even knowing most of them would grow up one day and emerge into adulthood while he remained the same. He also generally enjoyed the sight of people and out and about, the action outside of his window, a buzz in the back of his mind, letting him know he was alive and a part of some kind of community, though expressing this connection was well beyond his capabilities. To be sure, he certainly didn’t like crowds, even from a distance, much less being trapped in one himself, but he liked looking from his little house, peering through the blinds, and seeing people doing something, even if he couldn’t quite understand what or why. He knew, or rather felt, that it was important somehow for one whose world was confined to a handful of small, somewhat cluttered, rooms and a tiny garden in the back. Halloween, however, also came with some things that were undeniably bad in his mind, nor were these things confined to the day itself. Mischief night was particularly terrifying, as we’ve already discussed because Otto was an all-too easy target. He didn’t even mind the eggs or the toilet paper or the shaving cream, especially as he rarely cleaned any of it up, but the idea of strangers in his yard was truly frightening, enough to make him wish he could wake up in November somehow. Unfortunately, he’d never been a very sound sleeper for a night much less a month, tossing and turning, disturbed by even the slightest sounds. Even tight under the covers with the pillow against his ears, he could hear them just outside his bedroom on mischief night, scurrying about as furtive as ghosts. Indeed, he sometimes fancied them actual ghosts, or some other evil spirit he couldn’t properly name, a wraith, or a banshee, or perhaps a specter. From the sounds alone, it was easy to imagine they were scratching at the siding, looking for a way in, hoping to steal him away somehow, take him wherever the creatures of the night go when the sun comes up. One year, he gathered up the courage to take a peek outside while the local teens were having a grand time attacking his house, just to see with his own eyes what was going on, and the sight of a boy, all in black, hood over his face, skin pale in the moonlight, peering back at him through the window was enough to momentarily convince him his fears were real. There really were ghosts haunting him on this particular night, beyond all others. He screamed, leapt up, reached down, pulled the shades, and hid under the bed for the rest of the evening, the sound of the youth snickering through the glass. He was convinced whoever it was, a neighborhood kid probably, stayed there, right outside, haunting him until the break of day, while the sound of his laugh had broken through the window and continued echoing in his room.
Otto awoke the next morning, curled up on the floor, a cooling pool of spittle by his mouth, body aching, muscles still shaking. It took him a full forty minutes to extricate himself from that position, and another ten to dare approach the window again. More so than anything else, you see, Otto couldn’t bear being frightened. He was a skittish man by nature, the kind one might say jumped at his own shadow, and had long since devoted himself to doing everything possible in his own meager way to minimize the chances of being scared or even surprised. As such, he followed a strict routine, getting up at the same time every morning, 6.30 AM, having the same thing for breakfast, a slice of toast with a tiny bit of peanut butter. He relieved himself at the same time, using the same toilet paper, even the same number of flushes. He ate the same lunch, a hot dog with ketchup and half a bun, followed by the same dinner. In between, he would sit in his little garden, the only thing that seemed to change with the seasons. He preferred the spring or fall, when it was pleasant outside even if the random collection of shrubbery wasn’t in bloom, but he’d endure the heat or bundle himself up in the winter. To some extent, the change of the seasons was the only change he enjoyed, and even that was in some weird, inexplicable way, mainly because it was how he observed time and the world passing around him. Otherwise, he went to the same store on the same day at the same time every week, even using the same lane, and wherever possible, trying to find the same shopping cart and hoping for the same cashier. Now that he thought about it, the store was the other place where he could see the seasons change and the years pass, as the aisles and windows readied themselves for whatever holiday was fast approaching. He couldn’t say he liked these changes all that much, save for Christmas time, when everything just seemed to glow with warmth and plenty, and the people were truly happy for once. He watched the same programs on his old-fashioned TV every night, mainly old cartoons and children’s movies, or when he was feeling particularly adventurous, The Wizard of Oz on a VCR of all things. Occasionally, he would listen to an old record, something soft and soothing. Frequently, he feared even that must change, knowing nothing lasts forever. What would he do if the TV broke? Could anyone fix these things anymore? What if one of the tapes finally wore out? Where would he get another or would he just sit in the dark by himself?
These were questions he couldn’t answer, and yet neither could he avoid them entirely. Otto might be a simple man, but he was convinced that even animals knew that time passed somehow and the world was constantly changing. After all, how did the little squirrels that frequented his garden all spring, summer, and fall know to disappear in the winter or how many acorns to gather from the tree in the neighbor’s yard? What about those birds he saw flying overhead at certain times per year, or those big ugly, aggressive ones that gathered on his front lawn sporadically, leaving their noxious droppings? He chased them one day, only to find them chasing after him so violently, it was he who ended up running inside and slamming the door. Otto’s understanding might not be that much deeper than theirs, but he had some sense his attempts to preserve everything in the same constant state were doomed to fail, no matter how hard he tried or how much he wanted it to be so. Halloween, for some reason, made this sense real in a way he couldn’t explain or resist. Other than the candy, it seemed to him that this was an entire holiday devoted exclusively to fear, well beyond mischief night or the day itself. The costumes, other than a handful, were a motley collection of ghouls, goblins, and skeletons, vampires, zombies, and strange old creatures he couldn’t even name. Why would anyone wear such a thing except to spread fear in the world? Even those that weren’t intended to be frightening, such as the scandalous ones adults sometimes wore, could be incredibly intimidating, showing far, far too much flesh, flaunting what the bearer has in a way that seemed wrong, though he couldn’t properly express it and generally lacked sexual feelings of his own. Still, he knew that no one would dress like that under normal circumstances, and yet on Halloween it seemed all inhibitions, and Otto was full of those, were cast by the wayside, as though fear prompted people to behave in ways they never would otherwise. It wasn’t just the costumes either. The decorations alone could be terrifying, especially if he dared to take a walk at night, when those cursed jack-o-lanterns were all grinning at him, staring, the fire of hell in their poorly carved eyes. There was a particular one on his block this year that might’ve been the largest, ugliest pumpkin he’d ever seen outside a photograph. It sat there on the stoop, almost a yard around, with a huge, craggy toothed mouth and a narrow, slanted, evil gaze, like it was lying in wait to devour anyone that came past. Sometimes, there was a black cat creeping around nearby, somehow drawn to the beast, perhaps hoping for some scraps.
Otto only looked at it once, just once, and ever since then he avoided the place entirely. If he had to pass by, he ran, fast, floppy, and furious given he’d never been a very good athlete. As if all this wasn’t bad enough, there were also the movies, an entire season devoted to things no one should ever want to see ever, in his opinion. There were slashers where people were stalked – stalked – by a killer and the audience was supposed to enjoy watching them die, after the killer himself or herself jumped out from behind a tree, shocking the audience so their popcorn spilled all over the place. There were hauntings, where the residents of a house or some other normally pleasant location were tormented by some vengeful spirit. The people in those movies might survive, but only after they endured constant fear to the point of making them mad. One film in particular, something about shining, was said to combine both, but he’d never seen it for obvious reasons. They were monster movies that mixed elements of slashers and hauntings, where people were eaten alive by all sorts of creatures, many of which Otto couldn’t even properly conceive and certainly didn’t want to know. Most featured buckets of blood and gore, people with their intestines spilling out, trying to hold their guts in like a poor deer mauled by a bear, or their heads chopped off by a machete, perhaps stabbed, strangled, or even in some exceedingly worrisome films, thrown in a wood chipper or crushed. Otto could live for a million years or more, even forever devoted to thinking exclusively on this, but he’d never understand why anyone would subject themselves to any of this willingly. Someone would have to tie him down and hold his eyes open to watch more than a few minutes. He thought there was even movie with something like that in it along with an orange of all things, but obviously he’d never seen any of them, not when the Wicked Witch was frightening enough in his view. In fact, the mere existence of these so-called horror films was one of the reasons he didn’t watch live TV in the first place. He’d attempted to do so once upon a time, figuring it might better connect him to the world somehow, but come October 1, the advertisements alone made him forget the whole thing and retreat back into his routine. Still, there was no easy escape, not these days. They were advertised at the store, in public, in front of children, unavoidable as part of the overall season, forcing him to try to hide his eyes anytime he passed a movie poster, though strangely, even he found it hard to turn away as he wanted, drawn to it somehow like people would stare at an accident or a fire. Fire, he might be a little afraid of, but he liked it well enough and a small part of him, hard to explain, understood the appeal.
The candy he liked most of all, of course, but even that had a downside on Halloween itself. Namely, strangers, dozens of small ones, frequently with their larger and more intimidating parents, walking up to his door and ringing a bell that didn’t even work, asking Otto to give them goodies he would prefer to eat himself. Fortunately, he had a reputation as the outsider in the neighborhood even if he couldn’t properly express either fortune or an outcast state, the oddball you might wave to or offer a smile because he wasn’t unfriendly, but who you rarely approached directly, much less spoke to. There were few who chose to frequent his house and the risk of an unexpected intruder was relatively low, but still at least a handful showed up every year. He could handle it when they were young and dressed in costumes that weren’t frightening, but if they were a little older, almost as tall as he was, and dressed like a ghost or a vampire, it was a struggle not to slam the door in their face and hide in a corner. Recently, he’d taken to just putting out a little bowl with an arrow pointing down, “take one” written in his crooked lettering. That seemed to work, though he had a sneaking suspicion some of the kids took more than their fair share. Regardless, it was better than actually opening the door to a stranger in a costume designed to scare him, and had the added benefit that he could remain in front of the TV, pretending it was an ordinary evening, except one graced by a few pieces of candy of his own. So it was that he passed three years in peace, long enough he thought the danger was over if he set out enough candy, but one day the doorbell rang, loud enough he would’ve sworn some of the dead awoke around him, maybe buried right underneath him, knowing, against his will, there were also movies about that. Normally, Otto only kept track of time to wake up in the morning, letting the rest of the day run on the autopilot of his routine, but the unexpected tolling of the bell froze him, completely, as though he were a chicken finger forgotten in the freezer. The clock on his VCR flashed, seemingly aimed directly at him, 8:07, 8:07, 8:07 as though it was echoing the doorbell or repeating some incantation. At first, he tried to ignore it, stand there completely still, and maybe it would simply go away, but just when he was about to sit back down in his only chair, it rang again, repeating the process as 8:07 turned to 8:08. After another ring, he feared it might be his fate to be stuck there, forever, half up, half down, staring at the clock, a sound that should normally be soft blasting somehow in his ears like he was the top of a church steeple.
It seemed he had no choice except to answer, a calling he must heed, or continue indefinitely in purgatory, but even then he moved slowly, furtive in his own house, watching the shadows crawl across the walls while the bell itself rang at least two more times, louder than ever, or at least it seemed to in his head. The experience was so overwhelming, he couldn’t imagine what was happening except he was filled with dread, washing over him like the tide on a beach that almost drowned him once when he was young, drawing him down like a whirlpool, a heavy, sinking feeling that all was lost and would never be the same again, but somehow, he managed to make it all the way to the door. He stood looking at the closed, peeling wood for a moment, strangely wondering how he got there in the first place and what he could possibly do now until another ring shocked him from his stupor, lighting him up him from head to toe as though he’d been struck by a bolt of lightning. Still, he could only bring himself to reach for the handle slowly, ever so slowly, as though his body was held in wax and his head was full of it. Even after he had the nob in his sweaty, clammy, cold hand, he held it for another moment, as though by thinking, or wishing rather, really hard nothing was on the other side, he might make it so. Much to his surprise, there was a momentary relief that was truly the case when he finally turned the thing and swung up the door. At first, the view past his small tree, to his dilapidated fence, and out into the street was entirely empty, prompting him to consider, did a ghost really ring it, summoning him to his doom? There wasn’t a person on the block, nor an animal, nothing concerning save for a barely seen jack-o-lantern grinning at him across the street. He had a moment to let out a deep breath, one so drawn it seemed he would deflate. There was a passing sense of amusement at being so frightened for no reason, but then he looked down to discover the strangest little ghost he ever saw, looking up at him, wailing, wailing, wailing, as though his moment at had finally come and the fear returned, an ice pick jammed into his heart, paralyzing him again. Otto stumbled backwards, a flinching, lurching step, and he was about to run out the other side of the house and retreat into this garden, but for reasons that would never be clear, he remained where he was, confronting his worst nightmare. Perhaps it was because he heard ghosts can go right through walls, chasing him down anywhere, or perhaps simply because this ghost was not more than three feet tall and at second glance, was far from threatening. Instead, he found it stranger and more curious than anything else, staring down at this new arrival for some time, wondering what it could possibly be. Did ghosts really wear white sheets like that? Did they have little eyes behind the holes in their head and little sneakers sticking out from little legs underneath? Did ghosts cry? He wasn’t sure about that, but didn’t think so, at least not in any story he’d ever heard and yet this one was sobbing rather than wailing. What else could it be though? Thoughts didn’t come very quickly or smoothly to him, but they did come and after some unspecified period of time with the two just staring at each other like he’d been frozen again, Otto realized the ghost wasn’t a ghost at all.
It was a child, though whether a boy or girl, he couldn’t say until the thing spoke. “Mister, I’m scared,” she said in a voice even he could tell was halfway between pleading and petrified. He had no idea how to reply at first, or why he was ashamed for some reason. The state of another person’s mind was something he understood only a little from what he’d gleaned about the world in his limited way, observing it primarily from the outside. He knew in some sense that other people had feelings like he did and, at times, they could be frightened, but it never really occurred to him that the feeling could be as powerful and all consuming for anyone else, the ice up your spine, the pounding of your heart as though it could explode right in your chest, a wave of emotion you simply couldn’t control. It was as though he read about these things in a book, not that he was much of a reader, rather than experienced reality for real. The best he could offer after a slow moment or two was, “Me too.” The child seemed surprised by this fact, looking up at him with eyes wide and black through the holes in the sheet, as though some revelation had occurred to her as well as a result of this encounter. “Really? You’re scared like me?” She said, trying to process it all, the same as he was. “I think so,” Otto stammered, reasonably confident that he’d reached an important conclusion, but not having anything to add to the matter, so much so that he thought the conversation must be over and was about to close the door, though not in fear this time. “What are you scared of?” She asked in the innocent way of a child, working something out in their heads for the first time. Though he was certain it wasn’t her intention, he was immediately ashamed of his answer, more than when he was confronted by her fear the first time. “You, I guess,” he answered honestly, and if anything, her eyes might have gotten even wider than before. “How could you be afraid of me?” She asked, truly confused. Otto had to think on that one for a moment because he wasn’t sure why he’d ever been scared in the first place at this point, it all seemed so silly, like a strange, inexplicable dream more than anything else. “I don’t know,” he tried to answer the little ghost as best he could. “Maybe, I’m not, and just think I am. Anyway, what are you scared of?” He asked, half expecting her to say she was afraid of him, his house, the night, the dim light of the doorway, the jack-o-lantern across the street, all of which seemed far, far more frightening now. “I’m lost and I don’t know my way back home,” she said, though her fear might have been mostly embarrassment by that point, like she knew the way and had only forgotten somehow, and it was deeply concerning to her that she couldn’t remember, something a baby would do, not a young lady. Otto wasn’t good at many things, but he had a keen sense of direction and for perhaps the first time in his life, felt he could truly help someone who needed it. The feeling was entirely new to him, except to say that his fear was replaced by a much more positive swelling of his heart. He almost cried when he said, “Take my hand, I think I can walk you home.”
Confessions of a Conservative Atheist 