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I saw that this book was voted as the #1 best Halloween book in a Goodreads list. So I decided to take a chance on it, even though I don’t like the only other Bradbury book I’ve ever read, Fahrenheit 451. (I never reviewed it, but my thoughts align with H.R.R. Gorman’s.)

Well, I’m happy to say The Halloween Tree is much better. It starts off with a group of costumed boys gathering to go trick-or-treating on Halloween night. But the leader of the group, a lad named Pipkin, is late. They go to find him, and discover the normally energetic and happy boy is looking unwell. Indeed, he is whisked away in the very claws of Death itself before their eyes.

But a strange figure named Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud appears from the land on which grows the titular tree, and offers the boys a chance to pursue Pipkin’s spirit, in hopes of saving him from an early demise. Mr. Moundshroud then leads them back into the darkest days of pre-history, explaining how early humans feared the death of the sun in the winter, and from there leads them on a tour of proto-Halloween rites throughout western history, from Egypt to Greece and Rome, into Europe and finally to the Americas. At each step they find, and then lose again, some manifestation of Pipkin’s spirit.

It’s a good overview of festivals of the dead throughout history, and Bradbury doesn’t shy away from the darker aspects, like sacrifices. The one thing I don’t quite understand is why he devotes a whole chapter to gargoyles and grotesques. These never struck me as particularly scary. Maybe it’s because my great aunt had a replica of one of the Notre Dame grotesques in her living room, so I always associated them with the decorative sensibilities of older ladies. But I guess it’s all part of the Halloween tradition.

The thing I liked best about the story, (well, apart from, you know, HALLOWEEN!!!) is that it teaches an important lesson about having to pay a price to get something you want. You want Pipkin back? Well, you’re going to have to give up something to get him. It’s a critical thing for kids to learn.

Now, while this may be blasphemous to many in the reading community, I don’t love Bradbury’s prose. He’s a good writer, but he seems self-indulgent, opting for elaborate, florid descriptions when something simple would serve just as well. (Maybe this also explains his love of the overly-ornamented style of architecture such as one finds in cathedrals.)

On the other hand, his character names are fantastic. Besides the aforementioned Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud and Pipkin, we’ve got Tom Skelton, who dresses as a skeleton, and another boy named Hackles Nibley. The image of a tree with jack-‘o-lanterns growing on it is also a memorable one.

Would I rate this as the #1 Halloween book? No. I’d probably give that honor to A Night in the Lonesome October. And if we include not only stories set at Halloween, but scary stories generally, the list gets longer.

But, it’s still a charming seasonal story, and as an overview of Halloween lore for children around the age of 10 or so, it’s an excellent starting point. So if you know any young people who are of an age to catch the All Hallows’ Fever, this book is just the thing for them. Whatever my issues with Bradbury, I’m happy to put them aside in recognition of his services to Halloween.

And with that, I am off to carve some pumpkins. Happy Halloween everybody!

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SPOILER WARNING: The title of this movie spoils the movie because at the end it turns out it’s about this school for girls that is run by Satan. 

But damn, do we take our sweet time about getting there. Martha Sayers is investigating the apparent suicide of her sister, who had been a student at the Salem Academy for Women. She enrolls as a student herself to try to find out what might have driven her sister to this tragic fate.

The Salem Academy for Women is a remote Gothic estate, quite pretty in the daytime but it gets creepy at night, especially when the power goes out in a thunderstorm. Naturally, this is also the time when Martha and her newly-made friend Roberta Lockhart decide is the best time to pursue their investigations, sometimes while clad in nightgowns, natch.

(Strangely, these scenes aren’t as sexed-up as you might expect. From the title and the fact that it was produced by Aaron Spelling, you might be thinking this would be “Jiggle TV”. But it’s not, although it was marketed that way.)

We meet two members of the faculty at Satan’s School for Girls Salem Academy: one is the popular, handsome art teacher, and the other is the weird, creepy psychology teacher. In a massive plot twist that only the most shrewd and careful of dogs could have anticipated, the handsome, popular guy turns out to be Satan. Or in league with Satan. Or something. All we really find out is he’s assembling some manner of coven at the school. It’s not clear what they do, other than murder would-be recruits who try to back out. Also, they wear white, even when you would think any decent devil-worshipping witch-cult would wear black. 

Anyway, it’s stupid and cheesy and a waste of time. Wikipedia claims it was one of the most memorable TV movies of the 1970s. Apparently, you could just broadcast anything in the 1970s and people would watch it. The Star Wars Holiday Special is evidence of this.

But after all, that was the 1970s and there were only three channels and the internet didn’t exist. I watched this in 2025. What’s my excuse?

Well, I’m just interested in all manner of supernatural horror stories. Even the bad ones have something to say. Especially if they have Kate Jackson in them.

Drink up, Kate. You’ll need it for this script.

In the end, this seems to have been part of the wave of what MAD Magazine called “Devil flicks” in the early ’70s, probably stemming from Rosemary’s Baby. But it’s not scary enough to be good horror, not funny enough to be camp, and is just generally baffling as to how anyone thought it was a good idea in the first place.

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This is a collection of various books, articles, short stories, poems, and even sheet music dedicated to Halloween as it used to be celebrated. The bulk of the book is devoted to chapters describing forms of Halloween celebrations in various countries and eras, and how the rites of other holidays, such as the Celtic Samhain, evolved gradually into the holiday as we know it today.

The editing and organization of the book is somewhat peculiar. For example, we are told over and over about the same superstitions and party games. I lost count of how many times I read the story of a young woman eating an apple and then looking into a mirror at midnight, in the expectation of seeing the apparition of her future husband. And as for quotes from the poem Hallowe’en by Robert Burns, well… as “Weird” Al Yankovic would say, “If you missed it, don’t worry; they’ll say the line again and again and again.”

Still, there’s no doubt the older customs are interesting. The practice of trick-or-treating is actually barely referenced; as most older Halloween celebrations seem to have been focused far more on parties and games, particularly those with divinatory elements.

As much as anything, this book is a window into what people did for fun in the days before television, video games, and the internet. Bobbing for apples with letters carved into them seems a rather dull pastime these days, but when one considers the otherwise limited entertainment options available, one sees it differently.

According to this volume, Halloween is closely associated with Scotland, and indeed, imagining the feeling of gloom that must have pervaded the denizens of the bleak moors with the coming of winter, it’s easy to see how a night of diversionary festivities would have been most welcome. Perhaps we moderns, with all our creature comforts, have forgotten the simple pleasures of sitting by a warm hearth with a blazing fire and a cup of cider, safe from the wind and darkness outside the walls of our little cottage, and surrounded by good friends.

As one essay, “Halloween: A Threefold Chronicle” by William Sharp, makes clear, even as far back as the 1880s the traditional ways were struggling to stay alive in the face of modernity. Here is Sharp’s quotation of one Mr. MacDonald’s description of the state of Halloween celebrations in Scotland, complete with regional accent:

Weel, sir, it’s dying oot. Schoolin’ an’ railways an’ a’ the rest o’t’s bad for auld customs like these. In some airts the pu’in o’ the kale stalks is no’ to be seen at a’; in others it’s lingerin’ on among the farm folk; but every here and there it’s believed in as firmly as it was in the day o’ our grandfathers.

This reminded me of one of my favorite scenes from the movie O Brother, Where Art Thou? where George Clooney’s character says:

Yes sir, the South is gonna change. Everything’s gonna be put on electricity and run on a paying basis. Out with the old spiritual mumbo-jumbo, the superstitions, and the backward ways. We’re gonna see a brave new world where they run everybody a wire and hook us all up to a grid. Yes sir, a veritable Age of Reason, like the one they had in France. And not a moment too soon!

You have to see it in context to really appreciate it. Somehow, the old ways still do manage to hang on in some form, don’t they? You can’t keep a good superstition down!

Is this book indispensable? No, not really; unless you happen to be a Halloween fanatic. And I know not all of you are. But if you’re the sort of person who wants to throw a traditional Halloween party, in an old barn, with candles and haystacks and paper cut-outs of witches, and so on, then this guide will contain many useful tips for planning same. I don’t even like parties, but reading this gave me half a mind to do just that…

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You know how I sometimes talk about I struggle with having enough description in my books? Mark Paxson, who is himself a fan of minimal description, has even said that sometimes I should add a little more description. He’s right, but unless it’s something really nifty, I generally get bored describing things. I’d rather move the story along.

Well, this book does NOT have this issue. It has some of the most description I’ve ever seen. Fans of description will be in, as they say, hog heaven.

Which, to be clear, is as it should be. It says right on the cover that it’s a cozy mystery, and cozy mysteries are, above all, about vibes. The town of Cape Mystic, Washington is shown in vivid detail as a windy, rainy, Halloween-obsessed community, with more than a few mysterious legends and secrets hidden away under its gray skies.

In short, it’s exactly the sort of place I could fall in love with; and so I didn’t mind reading about it described down to every last richly Autumnal detail. If you love Autumn and/or Halloween, you should enjoy this book.

Now, some of you might remember that a while back, I reviewed a book called Junkyard, which was also a sort of cozy mystery–albeit a sci-fi one. I enjoyed the book, but Chuck Litka read it after seeing my review, and his review was much harsher. (And frankly, extremely entertaining.)

And I can’t honestly say I disagree with what Chuck said in his review. The plot had holes you could fit 660 drums of maple syrup into. All Chuck’s critiques are quite valid; I don’t dispute them in the slightest. And yet, I enjoyed Junkyard. Why? I dunno; I guess just because I liked the setting and felt like all the rest was not meant to be taken seriously.

I think the same could be said of Harvest and Haunt.  It’s true that the mysteries which make up the plot are not the stuff of Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot. And I’m pretty sure the Cape Mystic law enforcement officials do not follow proper police procedures most of the time. I bet if Chuck reviewed it—not to put him on the spot—he could find plenty more issues.

But, I’m not here for a taut legal thriller or complex detective story. No, a book like this you read because you want to feel like you’re immersed in the setting. Like you’re the one in the dark, rainy October evening; hurrying home along dark streets because the howling wind has knocked out the power, and a storm is rolling in, and loose Halloween decorations are swirling in the eerily charged air…

See? Certain things can bring out the desire to describe, even in me. If you want a strong Autumn atmosphere, this is a fine choice.

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Picture this: a movie that takes place mainly during the day, on a picturesque Scottish island. There is very little action in the movie; it’s mainly a police procedural, with a stony-faced, prim and proper policeman questioning the local population. The film contains almost no violence, except for a very brief scene towards the end. Indeed, what earns it its “R” rating is nudity; a few scenes of naked women dancing. Other than that, it could air on broadcast television with no cuts. 

Moreover, did I mention this film has a number of songs? It’s not exactly a musical, but there is fast-paced nursery rhyme-like patter, a few ribald drinking songs, and a ballad performed by one of the aforesaid nude dancers. 

There’s almost no blood, no sinister torture chambers, no howling dogs on desolate foggy moors; instead there is only a quaint little village in a quiet part of the world. I ask you, with such a setup, can a film really be scary?

Comes the answer: this is possibly the scariest movie I have ever seen.

It follows Sgt. Neil Howie, a devout Christian police detective, who is dispatched by seaplane to the remote Summerisle to look for a missing girl. The townspeople are not unfriendly, but not exactly helpful either, referring Howie to Lord Summerisle, the nobleman whose family has administered the island’s affairs for generations.

During Howie’s investigation, he sees odd things. Strange rituals out of centuries past, like maypoles and disturbingly explicit fertility rites, quite at odds with his conservative Christian beliefs. When at last he meets Lord Summerisle, he confronts him about the unsettling things he has witnessed, and Summerisle acknowledges that, as part of a program to revive the island’s agricultural output, his grandfather gave the people back their ancient, pre-Christian folkways, to entice them to believe in the Old Gods of the Harvest.

Howie is appalled and horrified, and in view of everyone’s refusal to aid him in finding the missing girl, begins to suspect that she has been sacrificed to their Old Gods in some sort of bizarre druidical ceremony. 

I really liked Howie, who is played perfectly by Edward Woodward. His refusal to compromise his beliefs, and unwavering resolve to find the missing child no matter what stands in his way, make him easy to root for. And also perhaps easy to… but no, that would be saying too much. This is not exactly an unknown film, but it would be wrong to spoil it.

The late, great Sir Christopher Lee is also fantastic as Summerisle. Offhand, I’d say it’s his best role. In fact, he said it was his best role. Of course, playing a charming but sinister aristocrat was pretty much Lee’s standard, but the devil is in the details, and it’s how he plays it that makes this interesting. He seems relaxed, almost easygoing, compared to the straight-laced Howie. But, let’s just say he has another side to him…

Okay, but what makes this movie so scary? I did say it might be the scariest film I’ve ever seen, after all. I can’t spoil it, but if I’m going to make such a bold claim, I have to try and justify it somehow.

Those of you who made it all the way through the sprawling post I wrote about the Metal Gear Solid 2 book a while back may remember that I made reference to a non-fiction book called The Meme Machine, by Susan Blackmore. Blackmore is a student of Richard Dawkins, the well-known evolutionary biologist. Dawkins coined the word “meme” as an analog for “gene” in the realm of culture. A “meme” is a unit of information; a word, a phrase, a song, a mannerism, a belief, that is transmitted through human culture, by a process not unlike evolution.

Dawkins derived his neologism “meme” from the Greek word mīmēma, which means “imitation.”  And just as Dawkins described genes as “selfish,” memes likewise seek only to replicate themselves, so much so that we can analogize memes as if they were beings with conscious desires.

It’s all quite interesting, and Blackmore takes Dawkins’ idea and runs with it, arguing that the human brain evolved as a kind of super-powerful meme replicator, and our capacity for imitation of memes allowed us to evolve into the dominant life-form on the planet.

As she explains: 

Memes spread themselves around indiscriminately without regard to whether they are useful, neutral or positively harmful to us… they are selfish like genes, and will simply spread if they can.

Elsewhere, Blackmore proposes the following thought experiment:

Imagine a world full of hosts for memes (e.g. brains) and far more memes than can possibly find homes.

Of course, as Blackmore takes pains to point out, it’s not as if these memes are literally flying around the world, taking over human brains and using them to replicate themselves. It’s just that, ah, they might as well be. It’s not literally true, but it’s a good model for approximating the behavior we see in the world. (Anyone who has studied Economics will be familiar with this sort of thing.) 

However… there is something curious about all this. Because there is another Greek word Dawkins might have used instead, that describes much the same phenomenon. The Ancient Greeks tended to model human thought as the work of external entities—e.g. inspiration being given from Apollo, lust from Eros, and so on. 

The Ancient Greek word I’m thinking of is daimōn, from which we get the modern word “demon.” “Meme” and “demon” even sound somehow similar, with the same phoneme as the central component.  Now consider Blackmore’s hypothetical rewritten:

Imagine a world full of hosts for demons (e.g. brains) and far more demons than can possibly find homes.

In an instant, we have transformed the work of modern scientists (one of whom is famously an atheist) into something that sounds like what the wrinkled old woman living in a strange cabin in the woods tells the horror movie protagonist.

And this is what I find curious: the superstitious ancients described the world as inhabited by invisible spirits that took hold of people’s minds. The modern memeticists describe the world as inhabited by invisible memes that take hold of people’s minds.

If I tell you that I got an idea for a story when “out of the blue, it just popped in my head,” you would nod understandingly. If I said I got the idea when “the God of Fiction whispered it in my ear,” you’d think I was a bit of an oddball, at best. Yet, for practical purposes, the two are the same.

So if you say someone is possessed by a demon, it seems strange, but being possessed by an idea is totally normal. 

Coming back around to The Wicker Man, this is what makes the film so scary. At the end, we see people who are possessed by something. We could argue all day about whether it is some true supernatural force or merely certain memes which they have learned to imitate; memes handed down from an ancient tradition dating back millennia. The film, like all great horror, leaves much to the audience’s imagination.

Practically speaking, it doesn’t much matter, does it? The fact is, there is something—call it a demon, a meme, an idea, a fashion, a spirit, whatever name suits you—that can take hold of human minds and compel them to do things that seem unthinkable to those immune to the phenomenon. 

And that’s the ultimate horror of The Wicker Man.  Here, in this bucolic setting, we gradually uncover the darkest impulses that lie in the hearts of human communities; primitive urges predating everything we call civilization. A base need for rituals that give meaning and provide a sense of power, of grandeur, even, to those craving it.

Unnerving, unsettling, disturbing and uniquely memorable, The Wicker Man is one of the greatest horror films ever made.

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Look, I know this book is about American football, and I know most of my readers couldn’t care less about American football. But hear me out, okay? Because this post isn’t really about football. I mean, there will be references to some football-related matters, but you can skim past those if you want. No, this post is actually about something deeper, more essential… this post is about aesthetics.

What do I mean by that? Time will tell. For now, let me begin by summarizing: Paul Brown was the coach of the Cleveland Browns, who dominated the sport during the 1950s. Brown’s teams racked up records and championships during the first few decades of their existence. Until a new team owner, Art Modell, took over and fired Brown after a few bad years.

Like Coriolanus, Brown decided to raise a team of his own in the south, and take his revenge. And thus the Cincinnati Bengals were born in 1968, and instantly became a major rival of the Browns. Throughout the ’70s and ’80s, the Bengals and Browns met twice a year, usually with one team having something to play for and the other merely playing out the string on a lost season. Oddly, surprisingly often, the team with nothing to play for would win.

The ’80s were peak years for the rivalry, with both teams enjoying considerable success during the decade, although neither ever managed to win the Super Bowl. Twice, the Bengals fell short to San Francisco 49er teams coached by a former assistant coach of theirs, Bill Walsh.

And then, in 1991, Paul Brown died, and the two teams collapsed. The Bengals became a perennial joke throughout the ’90s and the Browns–well, remember that Modell fellow from before? He packed up and moved the team to Baltimore, rebranding as the Ravens. Not until 1999 would Cleveland be granted a new team, with the colors and records of the old Browns, but most certainly not the tradition of winning.

And this is Knight’s thesis: the Bengals and Browns are haunted by the man who essentially created them both. Somewhere out there in the ether, the ghost of Paul Brown hovers over them, looking down with grim disapproval at his once-proud teams. Neither can succeed until this angry spirit is appeased.

Of course, this is all a manner of speaking, in the grand tradition of sports curses. There are plenty of obvious materialistic explanations for the Bengals’ and Browns’ many failures. Although, there are some things that do strain probability…

This book was published in 2018, and since then both teams have enjoyed some success. The Browns finally broke their playoff-less streak in 2020, and the Bengals actually made it to the Super Bowl in 2021. (Losing, it must be noted, in very much the same way they did to the 49ers in 1988.) So perhaps the curse is lifting. But can it really be said to be ended until at least one of these teams holds aloft the Vince Lombardi trophy?

Knight’s prose is light and enjoyable, and he has a knack for clever phrasing and for highlighting amusing instances of ironic misfortune in the histories of both clubs, of which there are many. I’m pretty well-versed in football trivia, but I still learned a few new factoids.

All well and good, you say; but why am I dedicating one of my October blog posts, normally reserved for reviewing Halloween-related stories, to this book?

Watch this clip of the Browns/Bengals game from Halloween of last year. You don’t need to know a thing about football. All you need to know is that it’s Halloween night, and two teams whose colors are orange and brown and orange and black, are battling it out under the lights, amid a sea of roaring fans, many of whom are rigged out in costumes befitting All Hallows’ Eve.

The whole spectacle is weird and eerie, and, I’d argue, perfect for Halloween. The NFL should make it a tradition: every year, on the Thursday, Sunday, or Monday night closest to October 31st, the Bengals play the Browns. It’s really the perfect uniform combination for the occasion.

Now, it’s true that other teams, including the Broncos, Bears, and Dolphins have orange in their uniforms. (And indeed, the Bengals played a memorably weird game against the Dolphins on Halloween a decade ago.)  But only the Bengals and Browns have that added (pumpkin?) spice of being arch-rivals. The memories of past triumphs and defeats echoing in every hit; the vaguely Biblical theme of two feuding brothers, and the added passion of the costumed fans, all combine to make a potent brew for epic gridiron madness.

And, in my opinion, football is as much a part of the Halloween season as jack-o’-lanterns and candy. Granted, I live smack dab in the middle of the state where the sport was effectively invented, but it is impossible to imagine midwestern Autumn without the thwack of offensive and defensive lines smashing together, seeing replica jerseys everywhere, team banners and pennants flying amid the Halloween decorations, and hearing the Monday morning radio shows buzzing about how the season is going. There’s a reason why, when I wrote a short story as a love-letter to the Halloween season, I had to include a scene at a football game.

And, as some of you may know, I am not even primarily a fan of either of these teams. (Though I will always have some fondness for the Bengals.) My team plays further north, and is more associated with the “something of winter in their faces” that  John Facenda once spoke of, than with the warm orange-and-brown hues of Autumn. Yet, my judgment remains the same: the Bengals and Browns are the perfect Halloween teams.

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This is a parody of the Edgar Allan Poe-inspired Roger Corman/Vincent Price films. It stars Elvira as… Elvira. All right, so technically the actress is named Cassandra Peterson, but she really does have a unique persona when she dons the black wig. (If you don’t know who Elvira is, well, I think the poster pictured here gives you a pretty good idea of what she’s all about.)

Anyway, Elvira is on her way to open a revue in Paris when she and her servant Zou Zou are picked up by a coach traveling through the Carpathian Mountains. The coach’s passenger is a charming man named Dr. Bradley, who is bound for the remote Castle Hellsubus, the inhabitants of which are all suffering from mysterious neuroses brought on by the family curse.

Elvira handles the situation with her trademark campy, vampy, valley-girl cluelessness, which is amusing enough. What really makes the thing tick, however, are the supporting cast, all of whom do a great job in their roles as stock characters straight out of a Gothic melodrama. But Scott Atkinson as Dr. Bradley just about steals the show with his uncanny channeling of Vincent Price. He absolutely nails Price’s distinctive mannerisms and tone.

There are spoofs of most of the classic Poe horrors, from The Cask of Amontillado to the crumbling mansion of The Fall of the House of Usher to The Pit and the Pendulum. No points for guessing how Elvira deals with that situation.

Admittedly, your enjoyment of the film may depend to a degree on how much humor you feel can be derived from the basic premise “this woman has large breasts.” Because they, er, milk that joke for all it’s worth, and then some. But for me, the real humor is how well the film manages to mimic the atmosphere of the Poe/Corman/Price series, while also poking affectionate fun at it. There are some genuinely creepy scenes in it–at least, until Elvira’s antics turn them into music hall routines.

If you like the Corman films, as I do, you’ll probably get a kick out of this one. It’s clear that everyone involved was having fun and had great admiration for their source material, and it’s always enjoyable to share a good-natured laugh at something with someone else who appreciates it. In short, the movie is better than it really had any business being.

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Brace up, my friends! Today’s review will be a long one, because today’s book, although small in terms of length, contains vast concepts. Concepts which a mere critic probably cannot adequately address. But, I feel compelled to try anyway. Really, the best decision you could make would be to get this book now and read it before Halloween. Then, come back and read this review if you want. Or better yet, write your own! This is one of those books that I suspect will inspire strong feelings in readers. Lydia Schoch, to whom I owe thanks for bringing this book to my attention, already wrote one yesterday, and I encourage you to read it.

So, what is this book about? Well, as you likely guessed, it’s about a 25 year-old woman named Samantha, born in Ohio and now living in New York City, which she imagined would be glamorous, but is finding her life lacking in purpose and direction. She is unhappy, but she cannot pinpoint exactly why.

Among other things, this book is about millennial angst. The millennials are the generation born between approximately 1981-1996, which makes Samantha one of the last ones.

If you are a millennial, as I am, you probably know what I mean by “millennial angst.” If you’re not, you might be skeptical of this whole phenomenon. And I can’t blame you. It is possible every generation experiences these growing pains, and imagines themselves to be unique when in reality they’re just like their parents, and their grandparents, and so on. When Don McLean sang of “A generation Lost in Space / With no time left to start again,” he wasn’t singing about millennials. But he might as well have been.

So, maybe it’s unfair to call it “millennial angst.” But whatever you call it, this book captures it.

Now, possibly, you are getting nervous. You might be asking yourself, “Is this book part of that sub-genre of literary fiction known as ‘Spoiled People Who Are Unhappy In Vague and Complicated Ways?'” This is a very popular sub-genre among pretentious literary critics and scholars. I hold F. Scott Fitzgerald responsible for this, as his beautifully-written but soulless novel The Great Gatsby taught generations of writers that this is what fiction is supposed to be like.

Gatsby is about unhappy people in New York. Samantha, 25, on October 31 is also about unhappy people in New York. Gatsby is full of symbolism. Perhaps someday the literary critics will get their hands on Samantha, 25, and then they’ll say it’s full of symbolism, too. And perhaps it is, but here at Ruined Chapel we rarely employ such modes of analysis.

Anyway, let me actually answer the question: is this one of those books? No, it isn’t. You might think it is, since it shares common elements, but no. This book is something very different. It is much stranger and much more powerful than that.

Samantha dreams of rediscovering the magic of Halloweens of her childhood. Somehow it slipped away, without her even being aware of it, and now it’s gone and the world is drab and humdrum. This book, then, is not in the tradition of Gatsby, but of Something Wicked This Way Comes and even of Lovecraft’s more esoteric works. I particularly thought of the opening of his never-completed novel Azathoth:

When age fell upon the world, and wonder went out of the minds of men; when grey cities reared to smoky skies tall towers grim and ugly, in whose shadow none might dream of the sun or of Spring’s flowering meads; when learning stripped earth of her mantle of beauty, and poets sang no more save of twisted phantoms seen with bleared and inward looking eyes; when these things had come to pass, and childish hopes had gone away forever, there was a man who traveled out of life on a quest into spaces whither the world’s dreams had fled.

And here, I have written myself into a corner and given lie to my own thesis. Namely, by showing that H.P. Lovecraft, who was about as antithetical to the values of my generation as it is possible to be, nevertheless was feeling some angst of his own.

It is entirely possible that writers in every generation are like this. It may be just some weird mutation that keeps cropping up. We can’t rule out this possibility.

Why is it, do you suppose, that these mystical, irrational ideas persist? What spirit is it that moves Samantha to wish for “spooktacular Halloween adventure?” Is it just the whims of idle youth? Or is it… something else?

We’ll return to this question. But in the meantime, we’ve got to talk about Halloween itself.

What, exactly, is Halloween about? For comparison, think about what every other holiday is about. Every Western holiday I can think of can be traced to something specific, and commemorates a particular thing, whether it’s an actual event, a person, a myth, a miracle, or something of the sort.

Halloween… doesn’t. At least, nothing specific. It’s the night before the Day of the Dead, which, under various names, is the day of remembrance of departed ancestors. But even that’s not Halloween.

Halloween itself is about the mystery of what lurks in the darkness. It’s celebrated when it is because the days are getting shorter, and the sun is sinking lower, and frankly, this was just a rough time of year if you were a pagan farmer. Your thoughts probably weren’t of a cheerful sort during this time.

Of all holidays, Halloween is the most closely associated with the mysterious and the unknown. And, I would contend, it is the holiday that most closely binds us to a darker, more primitive age, when, as HPL might say, “wonder was still in the minds of men.” (And women, too. Like I said, ol’ Howard wasn’t really up to speed with our modern values.)

And now, we’re in a position to evaluate what Samantha wants, and why Halloween is the catalyst for making her want it. As Samantha says at the climax of the book:

“I spent an awful lot of the past two decades and change just kind of following the rules, keep your head down, jump through hoops, impress the teacher, check every box and go to a good school and check the boxes there and now, whoops, that’s all crap because you do that and you work an essential starvation-wage job selling five different kinds of kombucha and no one gives a shit and nothing matters and soon enough society collapses and the best that the people in charge can tell you is keep following the rules.”

I understand if you’re agnostic about the concept of millennial angst. Yet, if it exists at all, this is surely as perfect a summary of it as was ever put to the page.

And that is why Samantha finds herself standing with a bunch of witches around a fire on Halloween night. Because she is tired of following the rules and jumping through the hoops.

It’s a night when rules are broken, and the world seems a little less rote and a little more mysterious.

Friends, the world is not a spreadsheet. It can’t be neatly and efficiently organized, at least not without resorting to methods ripped from dystopian novels. There must always be a sense of indescribable magic in life, or else it’s not really life at all.

Samantha, 25, on October 31 is a great book. There’s no rubric I can use to articulate why, no arithmetic formula I can point to and say, “Ah, there! That is what makes it great!” Only it is, because it has the power to say things I always thought, but never could articulate, even to myself.

Of course, you might disagree. Maybe you’ll read it, and look at me the way I look at people who tell me Gatsby is the Great American Novel. Every book really is like the cave on Dagobah in The Empire Strikes Back: What’s in it? “Only what you take with you.”

Therefore, I advise you to bring with you the spirit of Halloween; the feeling of curiosity and wonder that all of us keep somewhere in ourselves, and let yourself get lost in the magic of this weird and wonderful holiday.