Halloween is the one night, it seems, that kids in this city can roam freely again and strangers are welcomed, not avoided.
By: Catherine Porter Columnist,
A giant plywood castle was erected on my neighbour’s lawn this week.
It has black dungeon-style doors, turrets and matching medieval torches that emit glowing fake flames. Two skeletons grip the bars of its prison-cell windows.
Paul Campbell was affixing a giant skull mask to the façade when I brought him a cup of tea.
He is not my neighbour. He is my neighbour’s older brother.
He started trucking over his ghoulish props eight years ago, after his own kids had outgrown Halloween and the kids of his neighbourhood had grown up. Our East Danforth pocket teems with trick-or-treaters.
“I love Halloween because everyone is treated equal. It doesn’t matter if you are rich or poor, all you have to do is put on a mask and you get candy,” Campbell explained. “It’s my Christmas.”
His display gets more elaborate every year. There are strobe lights, a fog machine, creepy music streaming from a loudspeaker. There are stone gargoyles, Styrofoam tombstones, a Chucky doll armed with a plastic knife. There are two life-size coffins. Campbell built the first one with the remains of a pool table. He painted it black.
Two years ago, he spent Halloween night lying quietly inside of it. A small sign, printed by hand, instructed visitors: “Knock for candy.”
My kids wouldn’t dare. Like most of the neighbourhood’s younger trick-or-treaters, they gave my neighbour’s house a wide berth.
The older kids travel to the casket like pilgrims. They were greeted by Campbell, dressed as Jason from Friday the 13th — white hockey mask, blue coveralls, fake machete in hand. He opened the lid, sat up and — without speaking a word — dropped candy in their bags.
“It’s all about shocking people, rather than terrifying them,” he explained.
His terror threshold is higher than mine.
This is a therapist’s gold mine — delving into our dark desires, our suppressed inner selves, our adrenalin addiction, our need for attention, our nostalgia for our own childhood.
It’s also a retailer’s gold mine. Americans now spend more on adult costumes ($1.4 billion) than kids’ ones ($1.1 billion), the National Retail Federation reports.
Campbell figures he’s spent $20,000 on his Halloween collection over the past two decades.
“I get a lot of satisfaction from it,” he said. “I like feeling appreciated.”
A flutter has grown in my belly, watching his display go up this week. I love Halloween more now than I did as a kid.
Back then, it was just about getting candy. There were no theme park houses or jack-o’-lantern stencil kits. The night before Halloween, my parents got a bag of candy, a pumpkin and their carving knife, and voila, we were in business.
My costumes were last-minute throw-togethers, and you rarely saw them anyway beneath my garbage bag (rain protection.)
We roamed the streets in packs, slowing only to swap insider information on the prize doors that offered chocolate bars or pop.
“There were no displays,” agreed Campbell, 51. He grew up a few blocks from my house. His mom gave out homemade cookies. “It was strictly for kids. They didn’t even have synthetic spider webs.”
Being out unsupervised wasn’t a big deal then, either. We did that most nights. Our parents didn’t drive us to lessons or play dates. They sent us outside to make up our own games. There was no fear of kidnapping.
Perhaps that’s why I’ve fallen for Halloween. For one night, it seems, kids in this city can roam freely again and strangers are welcomed, not avoided.
“I have a handmade card on the bulletin board over my desk. It’s from a kid down the street thanking me for making Halloween so much fun for them,” said Margaret McKone over the phone. Her house is another Halloween landmark in my neighbourhood. She puts up a screen, sets out chairs and blankets on her lawn and plays Halloween movies. This year’s program: Despicable Me 2. She’s dressing up as a deranged, purple minion.
“It’s a great opportunity to talk to the neighbours,” she said. “It’s the last hurrah before we all disappear into our homes for winter.”
I am grateful to her and Campbell. Their efforts feed us all. When my kids are older, they will spin wondrous tales about these homes.
There’s the irony though: Their memories will be curated by adults, not made freely on their own. Even when we are not helicoptering, we parents are in control.
This year, Campbell’s display is spreading onto my small lawn for the first time. He’s planning some tombstones, severed limbs and the second casket to be laid out there.
My 13-year-old neighbour Adam, Campbell’s nephew, plans to lie inside it, dressed as Leatherface from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
He’s inherited the family bug.
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