Richy Rich is the numero uno Halloween fan. He takes it very, very seriously. Each year decorations and false teeth are sourced, pumpkins stockpiled, horror films and books watched and read. When the kids were younger, there would be parties with snot and vomit party food and ‘scary’ games like The Box of Horrors… Now they’re older, the focus has gone more on decorating the house, carving fancier pumpkins and overfilling the bowl of treats for the trick or treaters.
Last year was the year of the smoke machine. A surprise purchase from some dodgy internet site. The afternoon was spent testing it and angling it so the smoke would go down the path to spook the treaters. By early evening, after a strong smell of burning, it stopped working. But that year we had no trick or treaters anyway.
This year I was away for the day but before I left on Sunday, the flashing skeleton, masks and cobwebs were already being brought down from the loft, pumpkins were piled up and the bowl of treats was by the front door.
I got off the bus at midnight last night and saw someone walking jerkily along the road towards me. It was zombie Richy. Wearing a ripped jacket covered in blood and mud. Very authentic face paint and fangs.
“How you doing?” I asked, cream crackered after a long old trip.
“Fine,” he replied, taking my bag.
“Any trick or treaters?”
“Only little Hannah, with her mum.”
“Blimey. She must have been scared. Did you give her some sweets?”
“Well she didn’t hang around to be honest.”