October Drips Through the Vents

I was a witch, or a zombie princess, I think.

Dress dragging across the earth,

black hat, black thoughts.

Synthetic blood across my cheek,

to augment a touch of fright.

I’d waited all year for this night.

When magic was real, when it had to be.

Plastic cauldron waiting by the door.

Both my room, and the front yard—

Menacing aliens, shrunken heads on stakes.

Lights—crimson, orange, goblin green,

cackling laughter and screeching doors,

from CDs conjured for this evening.

He’d helped me craft it all,

the haunting spell of décor.

Out of cardboard boxes, black plastic,

and old objects stitched together.

We were going trick-or-treating for a bit,

and then to hand out candy.

To watch the awe had for our

setup of horrors and delight.

We had the best house on the block,

neighbors and families were envious.

Of what they saw as a perfect life,

An excellent father-daughter relation.

Cousins and stepsons angry,

That somehow, they couldn’t have it too.

But they didn’t know the truth,

they’d never have believed it.

No one did.

He kept it hidden so well,

it seemed even from himself.

What?

He slurred like a spell.

Eyes red, not just from drink,

but from whatever had crawled up inside him,

and refused to leave.

He tied my cape too tight.

Said, we’d leave in a minute,

after one more drink.

He never left the garage.

When I dared to inquire,

A viscous hand struck my visage.

Blamed me for things I didn’t know.

Told me I was the bane of his existence.

I wasn’t allowed out alone.

I sat in the darkness of room.

Looked at myself in the mirror,

By only the light of my lava lamp.

real blood mixed with counterfeit.

I dared to peer out the blinds.

one house down the street bleeding light.

Red bulbs pulsing like a wound,

fog machines wheezing into the night,

scarecrows twitching when someone neared.

He never even bothered to turn on our display,

months of work and creation for nothing.

I waited and waited for hours,

This couldn’t be how the night ended,

my favorite night.

After waiting all year.

2AM, his bedroom door slams.

That’s it.

A shower, more tears than water spill.

Paint washing down in streaks,

dissolving into the drain’s dark throat.

Years later,

October still drips through the vents.

He knocks on my door.

Come on kid. Time to go.

For some reason, I still open the door.

But no one is there.

Maybe a phantom, a wish.

Of something… well past gone.