I find that, in those long hours where people tend to lazily comb the internet, people will let slip their true tastes. When people are purposeful, specific, they will seek out scientific articles and philosophical treatises in order to impress onto some audience their high pallete. I know, for I am perhaps the most guilty of this behavior. However, when time eeks out like molasses and I have nothing to do but waste it, well, I feel like a more honest (if not totally true) interest will rear its head.

In no time I wander onto websites and wikis that archive the weird and macabre. I often conjure up an excuse, that these excursions are for inspiration, and every once in awhile it will shake out this way. I believe, ultimately, that I seek out the disturbing to protect myself from the vacuous silence of my mind. When I am left undisturbed, without thought or pontification, I quickly know a mellon-baller to hollow out my torso. In other words, my spelunking for the dark and unreal prevents me from falling into something grey and immediate.

Anyhow, the point of this story is not to wallow in my own morbid routines. No, the point of this story is to feed you, my dear reader, with a gift to unquiet your mind. One good turn, as the saying goes, begets another. Here I choose to recount an event that occurred not but two years back from where I write today. It was October, a time of harvest for my mind, and the events culminated on my favorite holiday (you guessed it) Halloween.

Those days I was diving head first into a subject that I have been chronically enamored with: Halloween costumes. Speaking specifically, Halloween costumes from the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries. From the most decadent to the most shabby, I found the custom-made attire endlessly appealing. I’m sure you’ve heard before the speal against modern costumes, in all their store-bought glory, so I will spare you that here. Still, the aesthetic of homemade costumes, made mostly with common rubbish, overtook my imagination. A few of my favorites were a lovingly crafted Donald Duck with anatomically correct skull, a pair of gnarled and decrepit dwarves whose hats made up half their body weight, and a stout man with a mailbox for a head, adorned with surprisingly realistic teeth.

That October I decided that I would pester my friends until they either ceased to be my friends, or agreed to participate in an old fashion Halloween party. My then boyfriend Garrett gifted me a number of invitations he himself crafted for my party. Garrett was a young Mozart with photography and design, and such artistry was not overlooked in my evaluation of the birthday present. I could tell that the cards were printed from a laser printer, as the stack was still warm. A gaunt model towered on the cover, dressed like a scarecrow with shiny grease-stained overalls rendered in sepia tone. On the inside was a collection of children clutching pillowcases, each masked by paper plates painted up as witches and other gremlins. I still can’t tell if these were his typical models, as with the scarecrow’s wide hat all of their faces had been hidden.

On the inside, Garrett had typed out the invitation using a font modeled after his own loopy and slanting cursive. It read: “You are hereby invited to [my name]’s Halloween party, a spooky, old-fashion bash for all those ghouls and goblins hidden behind your skin. An event conceived by the master of horror himself, with planning assisted by his magnificent better-half Garrett. A costume is required and must not be bought, nor look much younger than your great grandmother. If you fail to comply with these rules, such that we discover a loose tag on your pumpkin head, then do not be surprised to find your skull bobbing with the apples.”

I had chuckled at his absurd and grandiose invitation, and at the same time felt a genuine warmth for the fellow being so appreciative of me to create this. I do not have the pride to deny it, for I then cried. Through my tears and weak smile I asked him, “and have you a costume Mr. better-half?” His lips curled into a wicked grin and pronounced that he very much did have one, but it was to be kept a surprise until the fateful night. I playfully prodded him for some hint, else he knew that my imagination would run wild. “Fine,” Garrett said, “then know that while I am the man of your dreams, I am also the slimy, nonsensical horror of your nightmares.”

The next two weeks, while mulling over the myriad of possible forms my boyfriend might take, I worked with the ancient arts and crafts to synthesize my own design. I began with only a slight inclination to my disguises silhouette, an uncanny figure with a bulbous head. I wrapped soggy layers of newspaper around an over bloated party balloon before carving a hole at the base like a newsprint jack-’o-lantern. My hands are that of a writer, stained with graphite and ink, and suited more to a quick, utilitarian scrawl than the precision of sewing and papiermache. Still, my clumsy skill only strengthened the appeal of the project. I have long believed that creativity thrives within limits, and that everything truly original can only arise from mistakes. Such was the rationale behind my love for those ramshackle garments in the first place.

Examining it, I could see that the hollow ovoid would collapse if the slightest force was applied, thus I added a few more layers of paper and a rigging of Popsicle sticks near the top. The resulting head was much too lumpy and ungainly, even for my tastes, so I wrapped strips of old flannel cloth around the papiermache. The problem arose of seeing and breathing, so hastily I punched two holes in relatively random areas. Putting on the mask, I could not see, so I made more accurate holes coupled with a large quantity of holes on the head to look less out of place. The final resemblance seemed that of a strawberry, and as such the conceit of my costume was solved.

I painted the cloth strips in a deep and vivid red and resigned myself to further work. I awkwardly sewed three table decorations vaguely suggesting leaves, meant for placing silverware, onto the top of the head. My leaves somewhat sagged and shook when I moved, but this only added to the charm. To match the leaves, I cut up little green bits of construction paper and stuck them onto the hems and sleeves on my grandfather’s old, fuzzy, moth-bitten footie pajamas. I amended two dirty rubber gloves and, for the piece de resistance, had my mother sew a little strawberry badge to the left breast. I was perfectly elated with my lovely strawberry.

This whole process took place up to an hour before the party itself began, for, as with everything, I had to add on ever growing final touches. I kept on appending extra tidbits of construction paper while I texted Garrett about the party. We had decided that my basement would be the best (and cheapest) venue for such an occasion. Together we had filled the basement with smiling skulls and grimacing jack-’o-lanterns. Garrett had made sure that no corner was left untouched, that the television was covered with cobwebs and the couch with spiders, that a shabby witch’s cloak was hung on the coat rack, even an old tub of apples lazing in the water, which we had to haul down the staircase. Considering all this work, I had expected him to be there, but I sympathized with him when he told me that he himself was taking the utmost care to finish his masterpiece of a costume.

The next hour and a half crept by as parties are wont to do, especially for a host as unbefitting as I. Despite my ambitions, it was really Garrett’s party, most everyone at the party was one of his friends and had come expecting my more outgoing half. Awkward greetings and stretched smiles abound as we all waited for the man of the hour in the orange glow of lamplight. As time spinned on, I fed my anxiety by critiquing the costumes of guests to pinpoint exactly why they were inferior to mine. The rat by the punch bowl was little more than a gray morph suit with a conical party hat as a muzzle. The scarecrow talking to the rat had a pristine jacket and straw hat, only indicating her facade with rudimentary face paint. The fly in the corner had duct-taped tennis rackets for wings that they didn’t even bother to paint over the logo.

I went on ridiculing each and every person I was lucky to even have show up, until I came to another costume, crouching in the shadows by the banister. The outfit was hulking, probably seven feet at full extension, something I would’ve noticed if I had welcomed it. Not only this, but even in the fading, artificial light I could tell that this costume put mine to shame in every respect. The figure’s stance was that of a frog preparing to leap, and so it was. This frog, however, was a decayed thing, done up in filthy gauze to emulate a mummy, and the impression of emaciated flesh came through the bandages. While crouched, its gaping, wooden head was eye level, and I could tell even in shadow the individual teeth masterfully crafted to make up the lower jaw, complimented further by two cartoon-esque, but pitch black, eyes sprouting from the half ellipsis of the skull. To top everything off, it held an adorable wicker basket painted up like a jack-’o-lantern in its brown, webbed and grisly paws.

“Well hello gruesome,” I said as I approached its dry carapace.