Which Haunted Woman Am I?

Every October, I begin thinking about which haunted woman I would be.

This is not the sort of question most people ask themselves.

Most people are probably thinking about costumes.

What am I going to wear?
What candy should I buy?
Should I decorate the house this year?

I have those thoughts too.

But eventually my mind wanders somewhere else.

Toward the women.

The strange ones.

The glamorous ones.

The ones who seem to have made peace with darkness.

And every year, I change my mind.

Maybe this year I’m Tiffany.

Tiffany Valentine, the blonde, leather-jacket-wearing bride from Bride of Chucky, who falls in love with Chucky—the murderous doll.

Yes.

A murderous doll.

American Halloween has a very broad definition of romance.

I like Tiffany because she has attitude.

She doesn’t enter a room wondering whether she belongs there. She enters as if the room has been waiting for her.

She is dramatic, funny, a little dangerous, and completely committed to being herself.

I could use a little of that.

Then there is Elvira.

Elvira doesn’t need an introduction in my imagination.

She arrives with enormous black hair, black eyeliner, a black dress, and the confidence of someone who has never once worried about being too much.

I love that about her.

Elvira understands that Halloween is supposed to be fun.

You can love ghosts without becoming gloomy.

You can talk about death and still laugh.

You can walk into a cemetery in heels.

You can be terrifying and ridiculous at exactly the same time.

I like that kind of woman.

Then there is Morticia Addams.

Morticia is different.

She doesn’t seem to perform darkness.

She simply lives there.

She can look at something dead and find it beautiful.

She can say something horrifying in the same calm voice another woman might use to discuss the weather.

And perhaps that is what I like most about her.

She doesn’t ask permission to be strange.

She simply is.

Then there is the Bride of Frankenstein.

She has always fascinated me.

She is created from pieces, brought into the world under impossible circumstances, and given that enormous, unforgettable white-streaked hair.

She looks like someone who has survived something.

Maybe that is why I like her.

Because aren’t we all made from pieces?

Family.

Countries.

Languages.

Memories.

Things we lost.

Things we survived.

Things we carried with us without realizing we were carrying them.

Maybe being made from pieces doesn’t make us broken.

Maybe it makes us interesting.

And then there is Annabelle.

The doll.

No.

Absolutely not.

I do not want Annabelle in my house.

I want haunted dolls to remain somewhere far away from me.

Behind glass.

Preferably locked.

Preferably in another state.

But as a writer, I understand the fascination.

Give me an ordinary object with a strange story attached to it, and suddenly I can’t stop thinking about it.

A doll.

A photograph.

An old house.

A locked room.

A woman who appears at the same place every Tuesday.

Someone hears footsteps upstairs.

Someone says they heard their name whispered when nobody was there.

And immediately I want to know:

Why?

What happened?

Who was there before?

What did they leave behind?

This is how trouble begins.

Not with bravery.

With curiosity.

And I am very curious.

Which is probably why, on the last Saturday before Halloween, I found myself standing outside an old house at the edge of town.

I had not planned to go there.

That is important.

I had simply noticed it.

There was a house behind a line of trees that I had driven past dozens of times.

Most of the year, it looked empty.

That evening, one upstairs window was glowing.

Just one.

I slowed the car.

Then I stopped.

I stared at the light.

There are moments when your common sense speaks very clearly.

Mine said:

Keep driving.

Another part of me said:

Why is the upstairs light on?

I parked.

This is where Tiffany would have gotten out of the car without hesitation.

Elvira would have brought lipstick.

Morticia would have looked completely unsurprised.

The Bride of Frankenstein would have understood immediately that strange women sometimes find strange houses.

Annabelle would have stayed in the car.

I probably should have listened to Annabelle.

Instead, I walked toward the house.

The front door was unlocked.

Of course it was.

I pushed it open.

The house smelled like dust, old wood, and something sweet I couldn’t identify.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

I stepped inside.

The hallway was dark.

Then I heard it.

Three knocks.

From somewhere upstairs.

I froze.

Three slow, polite knocks.

I should have left.

Instead, I smiled.

Not because I wasn’t frightened.

I was.

But curiosity is a strange thing.

It can be stronger than fear.

I started up the stairs.

Halfway up, I heard another sound.

A woman’s voice.

Very softly.

“You’re late.”

I stopped.

The house became completely silent.

Then I laughed.

Not because anything was funny.

Because sometimes laughter is what comes out when fear doesn’t know what else to do.

“Sorry,” I said.

The voice answered from upstairs.

“I knew you would come.”

That was the moment I should have turned around.

Instead, I continued.

At the top of the stairs was a small bedroom.

The door stood open.

Inside was a dressing table.

On it were five things.

A black leather glove.

A bottle of red perfume.

A single black rose.

A white ribbon.

And a porcelain doll.

I stared at them.

For some reason, I knew exactly what they meant.

Tiffany.

Elvira.

Morticia.

The Bride.

Annabelle.

I laughed again.

“Very funny.”

The doll’s head moved.

Just slightly.

I stopped breathing.

Then the bedroom mirror began to fog.

Letters appeared slowly across the glass.

Not written by a finger.

Not written by anything I could see.

Just appearing.

WHICH ONE ARE YOU?

I stared at the question.

Then I looked at the five objects.

For once, I didn’t have an answer.

I thought about Tiffany.

Her confidence.

Elvira.

Her laughter.

Morticia.

Her refusal to apologize for being strange.

The Bride.

Her pieces.

Annabelle.

Her warning.

And suddenly I understood.

I wasn’t supposed to choose.

I was supposed to notice.

That was the difference.

I walked toward the mirror.

“I think,” I said slowly, “I’m a little bit of all of them.”

The glass went still.

Then another sentence appeared.

THEN YOU’LL DO.

I stared at it.

“Do for what?”

The bedroom door slammed shut behind me.

I turned.

Nothing.

I tried the handle.

Locked.

“Okay,” I whispered.

“This is officially the part where I regret everything.”

A laugh came from behind me.

A woman’s laugh.

Not cruel.

Not angry.

Almost amused.

The lock clicked.

The door opened.

The hallway outside was empty.

The five objects on the dressing table were gone.

So was the doll.

I ran.

I didn’t stop until I was outside, standing beneath the trees, trying to catch my breath.

The upstairs light went out.

I looked back at the house.

The window was dark.

For a moment, I wondered if I had imagined everything.

Then I saw something lying on the ground beside my car.

A small piece of white paper.

I picked it up.

There was only one sentence written on it.

DON’T STOP NOTICING.

I looked toward the house again.

The upstairs window was glowing.

Just one window.

Just one light.

And this time, I didn’t go back.

Not immediately.

I’m curious.