Despite my better instincts, my youngest son press-ganged me into splurging on a large electronic skeleton puppet in a black cape. Press a button and it cackles impressively while clawing the air with its bony fingers, red eyes flashing maniacally. It’s really rather good but bound to malfunction before long and render my son heartbroken. I just hope it lasts until Halloween. 8 more days.
It’s the time of year to think about fear. Nights drawing in, fallen leaves, a clutch of festivals celebrating the dead and the undead. My children suffer from the usual First World fears. Fear of darkness, fear of being left alone. Those top the charts. But on the sofa, devices comfortably propped on their laps, my two little boys can wallow to their hearts content in supernatural incidents, strange sightings and animatronic horror.
Halloween, likewise, gives children licence to explore the dark side. To let loose their inner monsters. All in the knowledge that sugary treats and the bright lights of home await the ritual roaming. It is mayhem, hemmed in. An acceptable level of exposure to scariness.
Our instinct as parents is to instruct and protect. To turn off the news when the news is too grisly. To insist on wholesome video consumption. David Attenborough, chiefly. But it’s too late for that, at least in our household. My eldest son has a persistent nightmare. It features killer clowns. A year ago there was a spate of violence involving individuals dressed up as killer clowns. It is as if the boundary between dressing up and dressing to kill, fantasy and real-world horror has become blurred. Curiously, my son still wants to dress up as a killer clown for Halloween. Perhaps at some level he’s facing down his fears.
Ariadne Birnberg 