Fish, Sherlock, and Fudge trot alongside me, each sporting their own Halloween finery. Sherlock proudly wears a Dracula cape that matches baby Ella’s vampire costume, his tail wagging with such enthusiasm it threatens to create its own breeze and possibly achieve flight.
This is the BEST NIGHT EVER!he yips, nearly tripping over his own paws in excitement.I’m Count Sherlock, Lord of the Night! Also, Ismell hot dogs somewhere. Can vampires eat hot dogs? Asking for a friend with fangs.
Fish, meanwhile, has endured the indignity of a miniature witch’s hat perched between her ears, held in place by an elastic band she’s been trying to dislodge for the past hour with the determination of someone escaping from Alcatraz.
If I weren’t so fond of you, Bizzy, this would be grounds for midnight revenge involving your shoes,she meows sourly, twitching her tail with a show of irritation.At least black is slimming.
Fudge is sporting a ghost costume tonight—in tribute to his late owner. I helped put together a small white sheet with eyeholes that keeps tangling around his stubby legs. It might sound morbid, but it was entirely his idea.
Heath would have loved this,he barks wistfully.He always said Halloween was the night when the real world and the spirit world could touch.However, he never mentioned anything about sheet-related mobility issues.
As for me, I’ve been transformed into the Bride of Frankenstein, complete with a towering beehive of black and white streaked hair and a vintage wedding dress that’s been artfully distressed.
Jasper makes the perfect monster to my bride, his face painted green with bolts protruding from his neck—how he attached those remains a mystery and probably involves either special effects magic or some questionable DIY skills. Honestly, I’m afraid to ask. I’m also afraid a visit to the emergency room might be mandated later this evening because of those bolts.
And our sweet Ella? The tiniest vampire you’ve ever seen, with a black onesie, attached cape, and a pacifier modified to include adorably tiny plastic fangs. Her dark fuzz of hair has been styled into a perfect widow’s peak, and she looks positively bloodthirsty—if your definition of bloodthirsty includes drooling and occasional happy gurgles.
The Country Cottage Inn has morphed from a quaint coastal getaway to Halloween central with jack-o’-lanterns that line every walkway, their flickering grins casting spooky shadows across the grounds. Strands of orange and purple twinkle lights crisscross overhead like electric spiderwebs, while fog machines create an etherealmist that rolls across the lawn like an entire tribe of ghosts has come to haunt us.
The air is filled with the sweet siren song of caramel apples, the woodsmoke from fire pits crackling in the distance, and the unmistakable scent of fall—crisp leaves, pumpkin spice, and that peculiar autumn magic that makes even grown adults giddy with childlike excitement.
Music drifts from speakers disguised as tombstones—“Monster Mash” giving way to “Thriller” giving way to something more current but equally spooky. Children dart between the midway games, their laughter punctuated by occasional shrieks from the haunted house. Parents follow with cups of spiked cider or hot chocolate, their costumes ranging from halfhearted cat ears to elaborate, contest-worthy ensembles.
“The Bride of Frankenstein lives,” Jasper announces, appearing behind me with Ella in his arms. My husband has fully committed to his aforementioned Frankenstein’s monster costume—green face paint, neck bolts (as I said, how he attached those remains a mystery), black suit with too-short sleeves, and platform boots that make him tower even more intimidatingly than usual. The effect should be terrifying, but the tender way he’s cradling our daughter completely undermines the monster vibe.
“Our baby girl might just be the cutest bloodsucker in history,” I say, taking her from Jasper’s arms. “Although I’m not sure what Dr. Frankenstein would say about his creation consorting with vampires.”
“I’m willing to risk the good doctor’s disapproval,” Jasper replies, leaning in for a kiss that threatens to topple my towering hair. “However, he might have a point about the potential danger. She’s already bitten me twice today.”
“It’s not biting, it’s gumming,” I correct him. “No teeth yet, thank goodness. When those come in, we’re all in trouble. Mostly me.”
“Tell that to my nose,” he mutters, just as my mother approaches in full wicked witch regalia. Her green face paint is significantly more expert than Jasper’s, and her pointed hat adds at least a foot to her height while somehow managing to stay perfectly positioned despite the evening breeze.
“There’s my little vampire princess!” Mom coos, completely ignoring the adults as she zeroes in on Ella like only a grandma can. “Come to wicked Grammy, my precious little night creature!”
Before I can hand Ella over, Georgie swoops in like a hurricane wrapped in a black flapper dress and feathers, a throwback to the Roaring Twenties (the last set of Roaring Twenties), and she happens to have a green face and a witch’s hat to boot.
Her rather naughty flapper witch costume consists of a black sequined beaded dress that is so short it’s more decorative than functional—basically a suggestion of fabric rather than actual clothing. She’s accessorized with fishnets that have seen better decades, stiletto boots that seem destined to sink into the soft festival grounds like femme fatale quicksand, and a witch’s hat perched at a crooked angle atop hair that’s been teased within an inch of its life and possibly beyond.
“No fair hogging the baby vampire queen,” Georgie says, elbowing Mom aside with the subtlety of a freight train. “I specifically wore a costume that wouldn’t shed glitter on her this time.”
“What you’re wearing barely qualifies as a costume,” Mom sniffs. “Or clothing, for that matter.”
“It’s a legitimate witch flapper outfit,” Georgie defends, tugging at the hem that refuses to provide adequate coverage no matter how much she adjusts it. “From the Enchantress Collection at Naughty Halloween Emporium.”
“Which circle of hell is that located in?” Mom asks.
“The fun one,” Georgie retorts, reaching for Ella. “Come to your Great-Granny Georgie, little bat baby!”
I hold Ella a little closer. “I’m not sure I want her exposed to whatever that costume has been exposed to. Or whatever pathogens might be lurking in those fishnets.”
“Party pooper,” Georgie pouts, but her attention is already drifting to a group of single dads hovering near the cider station. “Ooh, fresh meat. I’ll be back for baby snuggles later, assuming I don’t get distracted by that lumberjack over there.”
She totters off on her impossible heels, and Mom shakes her head. “I give those shoes ten minutes on this terrain before she face-plants into a pumpkin display.”
“Five,” I counter. “And she’ll take at least three men down with her.”
Jasper chuckles, but I notice he’s distracted, his eyes scanning the festival grounds with the same alertness he brings to crime scenes, which, knowing my track record, might not be entirely inappropriate. “Emmie and Leo have set up a photo booth in the gazebo,” he says with the kind of casual tone that doesn’t fool me for a second. “Should we head over there? I think they’re doing family portraits.”
