Chapter 3 #2
My smile wobbles. I force it wider. “Then I become terrifying, obviously. I’ll move to the edge of a small town and be the creepy spinster witch that all the kids are terrified of. I’ll become a goddamn legend. Best backup plan ever.”
Her lips purse like she wants to say more, but she doesn’t. She just gathers her things, patting my arm in that absent way that makes me feel twelve again.
When the door finally shuts behind her, the silence she leaves behind feels heavier than usual.
“You’re the one who named me October Halloway!” I yell at absolutely nothing. “You basically asked for this!”
The fog machine hisses in agreement from the kitchen like it’s my hype man.
I throw my arms wide, addressing the room like I’m on trial.
“What did she expect, naming me after the spookiest month? Did she think I’d grow up to love corn mazes and pumpkin spice lattes like some Pinterest bitch?
Please. The moment she wrote October on that birth certificate, she doomed me to cobweb lashes and jack-o’-lantern lingerie. It’s not my fault I leaned in.”
The mummy in the corner chooses that moment to join the party, his approval in his scream and jerks. I bow. “Thank you. Finally, some respect.”
The silence after my mother leaves feels bigger than it should, like my house is holding its breath. It always feels like this afterwards—as if her disapproval lingers like secondhand smoke, clinging to the curtains and crawling under my skin.
I hate it. Makes me itch.
So I crank up the chaos. That’s always the cure.
Music first: I blast my Beats by Dre-ad playlist—equal parts spooky soundtracks, riot girl punk, and that one creepy children’s choir that makes everything sound like an exorcism.
Then I stomp into the living room and start rearranging my skeleton militia into new poses, because nothing says I’m fine like putting Boa Gary and Detective Clawson into a romantic dip while a twelve-foot bony voyeur watches from the window.
My brain chatters the whole time: Should I reorganize the skull mugs by circumference instead of jaw width? Should I start my own Etsy shop for sexy skeleton lingerie? Should I send Mom a fuck-you bouquet made entirely of bloody, black roses and severed doll heads?
By the time the playlist loops back to the start, my smile’s back in place. Mostly.
I collapse onto the couch, cookie crumbs on my thighs, staring up at my neon Rest in Pieces sign like it might blink back advice.
“Cute now, but what happens when it isn’t,” I mock in a nasal tone, rolling my eyes so hard I nearly sprain something.
“Newsflash, Mom, Halloween is forever. Wrinkles aren’t scary—beige is. ”
I toss the last cookie into my mouth like a mic drop and grab my cauldron-shaped cocktail shaker from the bar cart, because if I’m going to sit here and stew in mother-induced angst, I’m at least going to be tipsy about it.
I reach for the bottle of Vampire Tears vodka, splash in some Witch’s Brew gin, and then—catastrophe.
The grenadine bottle is empty. Bone dry. Not even a sticky red drop left clinging to the rim.
I stare at it, offended. “Excuse me, what the actual fuck? How am I supposed to make my signature Bloody Good Time if I can’t make it look like actual blood?”
The neon Rest in Pieces sign flickers like it’s laughing at me.
“Oh, don’t you start,” I hiss, shaking the bottle upside down then right side up like it might magically refill itself like those toy baby bottles. Nothing. Just pathetic dribbles and the faint smell of artificial cherry.
Panic sets in. My whole aesthetic depends on red syrup. Without it, my drinks are just…regular cocktails. Beige cocktails. Mom wins.
“Unacceptable,” I declare, slamming the bottle into the recycling bin like a gauntlet. “This is war.”
Which is how I end up shoving on my thigh-high boots, grabbing my pumpkin-shaped purse, and announcing to my pumpkin family, “Mommy’s going to the store for emergency blood.”
Petunia looks judgmental. Harold looks abandoned. Gus, bless him, looks supportive as always.
The fog machine lets out a hiss behind me, which I take as approval.
I lock the door, strut down the walkway past my bone orgy art installation, and wave cheerily at my twelve-foot skeleton sentinels. “Hold the fort, boys. Don’t let anyone steal Gary’s boa, we’d have a massacre on our hands.”
The neighbors are outside again, pretending to garden while actually staring at me. Mrs. Webster across the street nearly drops her pruning shears when she sees me swing into my hearse-black convertible, glittery pink spider web decals gleaming in the sun.
“What?” I call sweetly, revving the engine. “It’s called commitment to theme, Brenda!”
She flinches like I hexed her and ducks behind her hedge.
I cackle, peel out of the driveway, and head straight for the closest store with a liquor aisle.
The store smells like cardboard and despair, which is exactly what I expected. Fluorescents buzz overhead, bleaching the shelves into something clinical. I strut past crying kids and coupon clippers straight toward mixers, heels clicking like a countdown.
And of course, fate serves me a side of irritation with my grenadine.
They’re there—three of them, clustered by the seltzers like vultures in matching athleisure.
Hair glossy, nails French-tipped, not a scuff mark between them.
They look like the kind of women who spend their Saturdays wine tasting at strip-mall bistros and their Sundays making passive-aggressive prayer requests on Facebook.
I spot the grenadine before they do, a single bottle glowing ruby on the shelf. My holy grail. My chalice. I pluck it free, triumphant.
“Oh my God,” one of them says, just loud enough, eyes raking me from ombré hair to thigh-high boots. “It’s her.”
“Her who?” I chirp, clutching the bottle to my chest like a newborn.
They exchange smirks like synchronized swimmers. “The Halloween house,” another supplies. “With the…bone orgy in the yard.”
I beam, delighted. “Thank you! Finally, someone calls it art.”
They blink, not sure whether to laugh or recoil. Perfect.
“You know,” the tallest one says carefully, “some of us just…decorate for the season. Pumpkins, mums, a wreath maybe. It doesn’t have to be…” Her hand flutters vaguely in my direction. “All this.”
Her tone makes all this sound like a diagnosis.
I lean in, voice sing-song sweet, but features twisted in confusion. “But a wreath doesn’t scream when you flush your toilet.”
The smallest one coughs into her latte, eyes darting away. The tallest tries again, a thin smile stretched across her face. “Just saying…you might be scaring the neighborhood kids.”
I tilt my head, doll-eyes wide, grenadine clutched tighter. “Good. Builds character. If they can’t handle a little latex gore and simulated demon possession, how are they going to survive adulthood?”
They go very still. One blinks rapidly, like I just threatened to eat her firstborn.
I hum, pleased, and drop the grenadine into my basket like a gavel strike. “Anyway. Good luck with your wreaths. May they rot as quickly as your husbands’ attention spans.”
Their mouths fall open, but I’m already strutting past them toward the register, humming the Monster Mash like it’s a hymn.
I hum my way toward the checkout, grenadine swinging in my basket like a ruby heart I just carved from a chest. The mean girls linger behind, whispering in their latte foam, and I pretend not to hear. Pretend, but store it away for later, like teeth in a jewelry box.
The cashier is a college kid with acne and a neck beard that looks like he glued lint to his skin. He scans my grenadine, glances at my purse, and smirks. “Trick-or-treating a little early, huh?”
I plaster on my sweetest smile. “Always.”
He doesn’t get it. They never do.
But then—betrayal. True, actual, cinematic betrayal.
The strap of my pumpkin purse snaps clean in half.
It hits the linoleum with a hollow thunk, pops open, and spills my entire survival kit across the floor: plastic fangs, a travel-sized Ouija board, three bat-shaped vibrators—long story, a bundle of cinnamon sticks tied with twine, a Sharpie and skull shaped notepad scrawled with all my best rituals and spells, and a severed Barbie head I was saving for a craft project.
Silence.
The cashier gawks. The mean girls who followed from the back of the store gasp in stereo. Somewhere, a child cries.
I crouch slowly, gathering my treasures like they’re relics. My cheeks ache with a smile that’s all enamel, no joy. “It’s called preparation,” I sing-song, tucking the Barbie head back inside. “You’d be surprised what comes in handy.”
The cashier blinks, mouth working like a goldfish. The mean girls whisper harder. One of them giggles—sharp, mean, the kind that slices deeper than it should.
Something in my chest snaps.
I stand cradling my poor abused purse like a newborn, petting it softly with the hand that has its strap dangling from it like intestines. My voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “Shhh. Don’t laugh too loud. The dead love the sound. It makes them curious.”
Their laughter falters. The tallest one’s smile drops just a little.
Victory tastes like grenadine on the tongue—thick, cherry, and promising violence.
I throw a tenner down, snatch the grenadine, and strut out without waiting for change.
My purse leaking fake fangs in my wake and the automatic doors hiss closed behind me like the gates of hell.
And just like that, the itch starts to amp up, replaced by that fizzy hum in my chest. The one that always kicks in right before I make a bad decision.
Which is fine.
Bad decisions are my cardio.