In rolled another October off the coast, dreamy and dewy and watercolored, as far as New England scenery goes.
Pumpkins, some carved too soon, plopped outside vestibules. Cinnamon and squash scents, heated over cast-irons, warmed the breeze still blowing through screens on their last stretch of buffering the salty elements this year. Most families put up store-bought decorations, inflatable witches or spiders assembled with Allen wrenches. Virginia dragged out her old black cat flag, fussing over nobody mounting it for her, despite her snootily declining several dad’s, and one mom’s, offers to assist.
Still waters run deep, they say. And Mr. Water had been so still up there, someone should have known.
One morning mid-October, neighbors woke to see he’d also decorated. Wrapped his property in shiny caution tape. This titillated the older kids especially.
“I knew it! It’s gonna be sick, a real haunted house!” Delilah Green, who fantasized about smashing pumpkins and sucking face, said.
Everyone started buzzing even more than their October baseline, speculating Mr. Water would create the most spectacular haunted house. Professional props, special effects that would blow all their cheap lawn ornaments out of the water? Who knew! They hadn’t understood how Hollywood worked, and this, at least, made sense now.
October had that kind of escalating, intoxicating effect on people. Candy-apple thick