On the day I was born my dad died. He was at work when my mom went into labor. On his way to the hospital, he tried to beat a commuter train at the crossing and his car was struck. My mom told me he was just excited to meet me and wasn’t thinking clearly. After that my mom moved us in with my aunt and uncle. On my first birthday my aunt was carrying me down the stairs when she tripped and fell. She landed on her back and protected me with her body, but her head hit the floor. My mom and uncle found me in her dead arms.
This was all too much to bear for my family. I don’t know who came up with the idea, but since then every October 31 my mom and I have spent my birthday away from home. Sometimes in a forest, camping in the backcountry. Sometimes she would book a lake house in a vacation town. That was my favorite. We would play card games, watch movies, and eat candy. I would open presents from my family. She would give me a cake and sing me happy birthday.
The lake would be empty in October, and it was so peaceful. Oftentimes it was damp, and cold as Fall would be settling in. One year it snowed and the lake disappeared behind the white fog of snowflakes.
There was no hiding from me that my birthday was on Halloween. At school my friends would talk about their costumes and fill me in on the whole routine. It sounded amazing. How could the whole country just let kids walk around in costumes going door-to-door for candy? I wanted to join them so badly. When I turned 9 my mom relented and let me dress as Thor at the lake house. She even put on a witch’s hat. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t trick or treating. I was happy to wear a costume but I was missing out and the fun memories became resentment.
When I turned 10 I had a tantrum. I was silent the whole car ride down to the lake. My mom kept trying to comfort me, or fill me with candy, but I just wanted to be with my friends. By the afternoon I had pushed her to the brink. She broke down and told me her suspicions. My birthday was cursed. Whatever it was that brought me into this world was dark and would take a life if given the chance. She didn’t know the rules, or why it happened. Whether it be some biblical punishment for premarital sex or something in her blood from long ago. It made me sad. She assured me it was her burden, and it wasn’t my fault. It must have come from her, and her guilt was bottomless.
After that year I never protested again. It was just a tradition we carried out like any other. Whenever someone was nosey or caught on to our thing, we passed it off as our way of mourning my father and aunt. When I was 16 I got a girlfriend. For the first time I was faced with someone intent on joining us. She was adamant that she wanted to go down to the lake to mourn and celebrate with us. I didn’t share our suspicions with her but it was an emotional episode that eventually led to us breaking up.
Before I turned 19 I went to college. For the first time in my life I was living away from my mom in a dormitory. There were so many new people, and ideas. My roommates told my RA about our ritual and instead of minding her business she referred me to the school’s psychological services. I was asked to meet with someone and at first it was harmless. We talked about my home life, and my tragedies. Eventually she brought up my birthday. I gave her my rehearsed explanation, but I guess she found this to be more suspicious than anyone else I ran into previously. She urged me to look into my relationship with my mom and consider the possibility that my birthday was a punishment she doled out for the role I played in killing her husband and sister. I walked out of that meeting in anger feeling attacked by a stranger’s opinions.
But in the following days the message ate into my mind. I had defended my mother’s paranoia to everyone who asked. While we had settled into our routine, and even came to look forward to it, it was clear that it was abnormal. How could we have let her fear and grief turn into something so rigid and unorthodox? By the time October rolled around I was determined to disobey my mother’s wishes and spend my birthday away from the lake house.
On the morning of Halloween I turned my phone off. I went about my day with my stomach in knots. My mom’s voice echoed through my head. I could feel her disappointment, and my mind couldn’t rest. My classes were a blur. I don’t even remember if I ate anything. By the late afternoon I got back to my dorm and was overcome with emotion. I was free from this curse, but I was overwhelmed with rage and sadness. I cried until there was nothing left to get out. When I was done crying, I realized I didn’t have a plan. I was too overwhelmed to think about what I would do if I got this far. But then I was overcome with joy when I realized I could celebrate Halloween. My great despair turned to elation. My roommates helped me with a costume. With some fake blood and makeup, I turned into a zombie. After a few drinks in the room, we made our way out into the night. No one else wanted to trick or treat; they all said they were too old and it wasn’t fun anymore. Instead, we would go to a costume party at a fraternity house down the street.
I was so excited to be free. My euphoria was rushing through me. We went inside and the house was filled with costumes. It was remarkable. There was music and dancing. Everyone was dressed up and having fun. Halloween was such a silly day, and I wanted to embrace it completely. So I drank, and danced and laughed. The floor was shaking, and everyone was having a good time. Then there was a scream. The room stood still, and all I could hear was my heart pounding. My mom emerged from the front door, and her eyes met mine. She looked manic. I thought about running, but she was too fast. She cut through my friends who were all standing like statues, petrified by the sight. She grabbed me by my blood-spattered shit and tore me out of the house.
My mom and I stood outside the front door. The highs and lows of this day were immense. The cool outside air hit me and the reality of my rebellion washed over. As she began to scold me the music resumed from inside and her words were drowned out. I could only see her disappointment and fear. It was as if she was forcing me back into my shell. Using her emotions to press me to her will. I was exhausted. The psychologist was right. My mother was a tyrant and her traumatic memories had driven her to delirium.
I reached to grab the door, and as I pushed it open the voices erupted from inside. My friends must have been looking on, waiting for my triumphant return. I turned away from my mom to see that the house had been filled with dust. The music cut out and was replaced by screams. The floor had fallen away. As I looked down at where the floor had once been I saw blood and carnage. The basement was scattered with my friend’s broken bodies.
The house was razed, and I dropped out of school. Sometime later I would learn that after all the dust had settled 18 people had died.