By Jake Vest

This is not so much a Halloween story as a lost episode of “Twilight Zone.”  

I was not going to decorate this year until I went for a run and was literally stopped in my tracks by a couple of 12-foot-tall, extremely creepy figurines, a skeleton and a Grim Reaper that I admired very much. 

When told about them, possibly in a hopeful voice, my wife said they were “repulsive.” 

Most principals would agree and probably would forbid things like this being in classrooms. As a general rule, wives and principals are against things that kids and husbands find to be fun: Fireworks, getting dirty, putting carrots in your nose to pretend to be a walrus – you name it, they snort in derision. They are like Puritans.  

Despite that prejudice, if those IMAX-sized figurines had been around when I was teaching, I would have had at least one in my classroom. Our ceilings were only about 8 feet, but we would have figured it out somehow: suspend it from the ceiling and pretend it’s flying, bend and fold it into a teacher chair and hang a necktie on it, set it up for a game of squat tag. Whatever it took. We would have had one. 

We had everything else, including a severed arm bloodied with ketchup that became increasingly realistic every year as it smelled more and more like decaying flesh; a mad scientist rubber mask stretched across a volleyball and suspended from the ceiling, turning slowly in the air current, like a bodyless head keeping an eye on things; an ax-murderer troll, witch with lightbulb eyes, and a hunchback, all hanging in various cages; ghostly cowpokes dancing to the Cotton-Eyed Joe; and a self-propelled broom that rolled through the room cackling wildly.  

And then there was the centerpiece, purchased much against my wife’s wishes at a Cracker Barrel in South Carolina – a Hillbilly Skeleton Playing “Dixie” on a Banjo! The red eyes flashed, the bony fingers strummed and the head rotated from side to side.  

I had to be careful with that one. You can get by with a little devil worship, mutilation and festivals of the undead, but if somebody hears “Dixie” coming from your room, the village will be up in arms.  

The memories were inspirational. So, I decided to drag out the big blue bin of school stuff and put on one more display before getting rid of it all. It was not an easy job because of the number of bins in my garage. I kept everything from school, not to mention every other useless thing that I have ever had, and it’s all out there somewhere in unmarked storage containers. 

Everything except Halloween decorations.  

While looking, it struck me that this decision to use this stuff “one last time and then get rid of it” was exactly the same decision I had made last year. I must have gotten rid of it then. Mustn’t I?  

Here’s that Twilight Zone moment I promised. I could clearly recall every Halloween item and experiences going back almost 20 years. And yet I had no recollection of throwing it all away 12 short months ago. 

If I did.  

I know, deep down in that part of my psyche where creepiness is stored what is going to happen next. In a few weeks, when I start looking for Christmas stuff, I’m going to open one of those bins, just like pulling the lid off a coffin, and looking up at me will be the flashing red eyes of a Hillbilly Banjo Picker.  

Instead of “Dixie” he’ll be playing, “How Do You Like Me Now?”