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I’m coming for you.

You know it. Your friends do too. Everyone is aware. E..v..erybody.

The announcement of my impending arrival materializes first at the end caps of convenience store aisles. Then in small sections of big box stores.

The message becomes more visible when the gourds, squash and marrows appear. Pumpkins provide the punctuation.

Oh, I’m coming for you. Yes. O...o...h yes.

Pictures of black cats, backs arched and hair extended straight to the sky heighten the foreboding. Flying witches—some suspended from a spindly thread; others swinging with the opening of the front door—foretell of my seasonal visit. Skeletons arise from the craziest of hiding spots. Bones. Bare cartilage. A shell devoid of skin. You have carried these around all of your life. So why the fear? Why?

I’ll ask you when we talk, that is, if you are able to talk when I come for you. And I am coming for you.

I appreciate the enormous effort in which many of you engage in a vain attempt to deflect my advance. Fake spider webs across the doors and windows...even across the lawn. Too sweet. Really. I assume you stick those styrofoam tombstones alongside the sidewalk in hopes of frightening me?

Sorry to say the skull and crossbones by the driveway wouldn’t intimidate a five year old.

Still, I am very grateful for those who play spooky music when Halloween afternoon turns to evening. My heart swells with anticipation when anguished cries and wailing voices wander through the tree limbs.

You’ll know I am near you then. The scraping of tree branches and sudden stirring of the bushes whispers that I am near. And coming for you.

Your final, vain attempt to avoid me—wearing those silly costumes and grotesque masks—only proves your desperation is without bottom. Do you imagine your puny portrayal of a ghastly ghoul will divert my assault? Are you seriously hoping my approach will be deflected by channeling Drac or Frankie?

Do you honestly believe that I can be bought off by chocolates?

No.o..o..o, no. I am coming for you.

I’m the last scary movie, you saw. “The Shining”? Or a chainsaw “R” rated? “Chucky”? I’m what made your younger self run through the night, scared outta your wits because something, SOMETHING, frightened you so badly you nearly emptied your bladder on the spot. I’m that trip through some haunted house that got a little too real. I was near you, as you walked by THAT old house on some 31st of October, late, so late that it was uncomfortably close to the witching hour. I’m what you heard behind you.

That’s right. I’m that scary memory. The one that visits this time of year to give you the chills. And you can’t wait, can you? You conjure me up. Admit it. Thanks for that.

By the way, I appreciate that you have your place all ghosted up again.

Cause I’m just about there.

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Don Cunningham of Fremont is a freelance columnist.


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