Compiled by The Western Howl staff
Caity:
I was just three years old when my life was (almost) changed forever. Let me preface this by saying that I have been watching horror movies since I came out of the womb. I promise, I have good parents — and I turned out fine so it’s whatever. That being said, let me take you back to the year 2001, when my older sister Meagan sat me down to give me “the talk.” Not the one you’re probably thinking of. The other one. The one where your older siblings try to convince you that your parents aren’t your birth parents. Only this talk came with a twist.
Sitting on my bed, Meagan, who is seven years my senior, had a serious look on her face. Then she said it. The words that have stuck with me since:
“Caity, I have to tell you something… your real dad is Michael Myers. And he’s coming to pick you up today. So pack your stuff, you’re leaving tonight,” she said somberly.
I was terrified. But being the little angel I was, I started packing my stuff. What else are you supposed to do when you find out Mikey is your dad?! Tears rolling down my face, I grabbed my “Little Mermaid” suitcase and packed all of five shirts that could actually fit in the thing. It wasn’t until I was entirely done packing that my sister had the decency to tell me this was all one big joke. Haha, Meg. You really got 3-year-old me.
Anyways, to this day I still have an obsession with Michael Myers and all things “Halloween” and it’s probably because he’s my real dad. Love you, Dad.
Sage:
You wanna know how I got these scars? The three ones that you can barely see on the palm of my hand?
Well, imagine young, 14-year-old Sage. Closeted (that’s a pun, just wait), on my way to the haunted forest attraction that was a tradition for me and my then-best friend (who I was probably in love with and this story should be gayer than it is, but I digress). But before we could go and do that, we had to stop at my little sister’s elementary school halloween celebration where they decorated the hallways and had trick-or-treaters go through it like a maze.
Now, I don’t know what self-respecting elementary school hires college students to act as ghouls and goblins, but what I do know is that they couldn’t tell the difference between high school freshman and college students, so my friend and I snuck in easily. They had what seemed like hundreds of costumes, and my friend and I settled on these absolutely horrifying clown masks, and, donning our hands with fake blood, we (completely unsupervised) found a door to hide behind in one of the hallways.
It was a blast. Every time a little elementary schooler walked past, we’d leap up from our crouched position behind the door and banged on the windows, hollering and dramatically dragging our bloody fingers across the glass. Pretty sure we made some small beans pee their pants.
And y’all, the tension was real, my friend and I pressed up next to each other, sweaty and bloody and feral. And that really would’ve been a brilliant time to make a move, if I hadn’t hit the window so hard, just as a kiddo was rounding the corner, that I put my hand straight through the glass.
And I, ya know, just kind of held it there in shock, now with REAL blood gushing out of my hand. I think I let out a long, “uhhhhhhhhhhhhh…” before suggesting we get someone.
Anyways, we ruined the event and some random teacher had to escort me to find my mom, who then bandaged me up in the school bathroom while I giggled like a moron (cuz, shock). Surprisingly, my parents weren’t mad, BUT I did learn later on that the person’s door I had broken happened to be the ‘meanest teacher in school.’ Thank god we moved.
And that’s the story about how I got too into the halloween festivities and ruined my first gay awakening by being an idiot. And I did, come out of the closet, figuratively at least.
Never:
The year is sometime in the early 2000s, I am young, easily frightened, and trust my elder sister far too much. We were sharing a room at this time in our lives — as we did for our entire childhood and adolescence — she had the top bunk and I had the lowly bottom bunk. It was around Halloween, when we went to a friend’s place and her brother was watching a movie I know now as “The Ring,” a classic tale of horror where a mysterious voice will say on the phone, “You will die in seven days.” Low and behold, they would die in horrendous ways after seven days.
I could only stomach so much of the film, but I got the gist, and I wasn’t happy about it. That night lying in my bed, staring up towards where my sister peacefully slept I kept replaying the haunting movie in my head. That’s when I heard it — a whisper.
“You…will die…in sevennn dayssss.” There was no mistaking this terrifying promise, I called for my sister, but she peacefully snored unaware of the horror I was facing.
Running on little sleep I was terrified the following day to go to bed, but my mom insisted, and there it was again, a cruel and unforgiving whisper.
“You will die…in six daysss.” This time I crawled up into my sister’s bed, distraught and in tears, begging for her to wake up.
This torture went on for five more days, and I kept silent; afraid to drag my mom or dad into something I had to face on my own.
My final day to live, I sat at the breakfast table and after picking at my plate and sniffing in tears, and my mom asking one last time, “What on Earth is wrong?” I finally told them the bad news.
“I’m going to die today.” When I mentioned the whispering voice who informed me of my sure demise, my sister stared at me with raised brows before stating matter-of-factly, “that was me, idiot.”
