Let’s Get Spooky!

This post originally appeared in my October 2024 newsletter.

As I sit here writing this, it is a cozy fall evening, perhaps one of the first truly chilly nights of the season. The wind whistles and scatters dried red, yellow, and orange leaves, and shadows grow longer under the fading light.

Inside?

Autumn twinkle lights offer a soft glow to write by while old black-and-white horror movies play in the background. Whisigothic decor (and some Halloween decorations too!) fills my home with a sense of magic. The kettle whistles in the kitchen, and a lazy pumpkin-spice cloud wafts from my jack-o-lantern mug. And two sleek black cats snooze nearby.

Readers, we are the picture of spooky autumnal coziness.

That, however, was not the case just a few nights ago when I decided to go to my first haunted house. You see, I had been feeling brave. I’d spent the last few years watching iconic horror movies each October, finding again and again that they were never as scary as I’d imagined them to be. I’d been reading horror books, too, and enjoyed every minute of it. In fact, I found that the idea of these stories was often scarier to me than the actual story. While these terrible tales could be creepy or chilling or even downright terrifying, I always made my way through them all the better for having read or watched them.

All this to say that I felt VERY proud of myself for facing the things that once scared me and realizing that they weren’t all that scary. In fact, I was feeling downright smug about it!

Too smug, as it turned out.

It was with this deep sense of what I now know was overconfidence that I decided to try my first haunted house. I was offered free tickets, after all, and had a sister who was willing to brave the unknown with me.

The Universe was providing me with an opportunity to try something that might have been too much for me Once Upon a Time. I wasn’t such a big old scaredy cat anymore. Sure, the promo images for the event looked chilling, but I’d seen scarier images in some of the movies I’d watched. And I knew it wasn’t real, so…

How bad could it be?

Spoken like the protagonist in a horror movie right before she promises to spend the night in a haunted house. Nothing bad will happen if you stay in an old home that only a bunch of superstitious townsfolk think is haunted, right? The one where a bunch of people fifty years ago disappeared under mysterious circumstances, their bodies never found, right?!?! RIGHT?!?!?!?!

At any rate, I couldn’t back out after I invited my sister and told everyone I was going. I have a goth reputation to uphold, after all. Like any traumatic experience, much of it is now a blur. What I can tell you about that harrowing event was that a certain amount of (liquid) courage was required to enter that haunted house. But enter we did, into the swirling fog, where all manner of things lurked in the shadows.

There were screams (mine). Dark maze-like corridors to navigate. Panic (also mine). Ghosts and ghouls and all sorts of monsters to run from. Believe me when I tell you it was not for the faint of heart!

I learned something about myself that night: I AM STILL A SCAREDY CAT.

But I also can’t help myself. I will always be drawn to the gothic, the unknown, and terrifying things that go bump in the night. And that’s okay. Healthy, even.

After we made it through the terrifying haunted house and ran to the safety of the well-lit street, my sister and I both felt strangely cleansed. Okay, our hearts were still racing, and we were out of breath from dodging monsters and running through torture chambers. But we were also relaxed.

There was the rush of having faced something we’d both built up in our heads (hence the liquid courage), doing the thing that scared us, and coming out the other side (mostly) intact.

We survived!

It was truly a terrible delight to be frightened out of our wits and then leave it all at the door of the haunted house. There, in the moonlight and crisp air, was a fresh start and a clear mind.

That feeling is what makes me venture deeper into the world of horror, even as I am, and always will be, a scaredy cat. There’s something incredibly empowering about looking at the things that scare you—especially the ones that have followed you since childhood—and laying them to rest. They may never stop scaring you, but at least you know, when old ghosts stir in the night, you can face them and be the better for bringing them into the light.

That’s the power of horror stories: They shock us! They terrify us! They make us face our fears so we can put things into perspective, heal what needs to be healed, and exorcise the demons and spirits that have tried to hold us captive.

That’s the beauty of spooky season. It makes us eager to look at the things we normally confine to the shadows of our minds the rest of the year. Now, in the cozy warmth of my home, a large pumpkin on the kitchen table waiting to be carved, I feel brave again. Brave enough to consider going through that haunted house again next year.

Maybe.

As a special treat, in honor of spooky season, I’m offering up free copies of Hungry Business and Weep, Woman, Weep through Dia de Los Muertos. May they bring you chills, thrills, and delightful exorcisms!

Image of a dark and stormy night with a haunted house in the foreground.

Enchantment Learning & Living is an inspirational collection of musings touching on life’s simple pleasures, everyday fantasy, and absolutely delectable recipes that will guarantee to stir the kitchen witch in you.  If you enjoyed what you just read and believe that true magic is the everyday, subscribe here.

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The Witch Who Lives Down the Hall...

One of my favorite books as a child was a now-out-of-print story called The Witch Who Lives Down the Hall (1985), which you can listen to and view here. In this book, a young boy is convinced that the woman who lives down the hall from him in his new apartment complex is a witch. Why does he think this? Well, she casts spells on a magic carpet (does yoga), whips up potions (makes soup), hosts coven meetings (reading and music clubs), has a black cat, and is basically loads of fun.

The thing is, the child is not wrong. His neighbor IS a witch, only not in the way we would think.

She is the embodiment of everyday magic. Everything she does is infused with mindfulness, joy, and a touch of enchantment, as seen through the eyes of a child who can find wonder and whimsy in all things. She might not make literal potions, but isn’t a bowl of soup the perfect healing spell when we need it? So she doesn’t have a flying carpet, but her yoga practice invites an elevated perspective. Then she has her black cat and we all know black cats are pure magic!

I was reminded of this story a few years back when two little girls moved into the apartment down the hall from me. I saw them watching me from the courtyard. They took in my black cat sitting on the windowsill. Caught glimpses of me on my magic carpet (I mean my yoga mat), and stole peeks through my window at the large collection of books that just had to be filled with spells. Most importantly, they were enamored with my patio garden that overflowed with herbs, flowers, and other wild, growing things.

Obviously, mine was a witch’s garden with ingredients for spellwork.

I caught them once, picking petals from roses I’d put out to dry and taking a pinch of this or that herb. They took their stash to the fountain in the middle of the courtyard and used it to make potions. They danced around the fountain and chanted. They poured water into cups and mixed flower petals and herbs into them, making up wild songs as they did so.

One day, the younger sister returned to collect more rose petals just as I came out to water my plants. The older sister, well, she did the big sister thing and ran straight up to my patio, worried they were in trouble for stealing my rose petals and herbs.

In trouble with A WITCH, no less!

They’d read enough stories, it seemed, to know they shouldn’t upset a witch even if they couldn’t resist stealing from her garden. Or maybe they just didn’t want to get in trouble with their parents for disturbing a neighbor. Who knows?

“We’re sorry for taking your stuff. It’s just we needed it,” the older sister quickly explained while pulling her sibling away from the patio. “We’re making spells.”

“What sort of spells?” I asked, and they knew they didn’t have to fear me.

Readers, they had A LOT of spells, and it was wonderful to talk with them about the stories and worlds and potions they were making. I also showed them what they could freely take from my garden. All the dried rose petals they wanted. Honestly, those dried roses were so pretty I didn’t want to throw them out, but I also couldn’t possibly keep them all. I showed them how to pluck green tendrils from my herb plants and explained why they shouldn’t pull the heads off fresh flowers. This ensured they had fun, but my garden didn’t suffer from their enthusiasm.

Hey, I’m a practical witch.

One afternoon, I found them chanting in front of my patio garden, with a stick in hand—a wand, no doubt—and splashing water from the fountain across my plants. My familiar was most curious, watching them through the window as they went about their witchy business.

I peeked out to see what the fuss was about.

“It’s a growing spell!” The eldest explained.

They noticed, they said, that some of my plants were looking a little ragged. Their spell was going to bring them back to life. Every day after school, they ran through the courtyard to check on their spell’s progress. I told them that sometimes spells take time. We’d chat, and they’d ask me questions about all sorts of things. About my cat. About my yoga mat. About the soup cooking on the stove—they smelled it in the hall on their way to their apartment. I could see, through their eyes, that I was much like the strange woman in the children’s book, with all sorts of mysterious things in my home filled with little enchantments.

About a week after they cast their spell over my patio garden, the tired plants started coming back to life. Did their spell work? Or did those cold-weather plants just get their second wind once the heat of the summer waned and cooler temperatures coaxed them back to life? Personally, I think it was their spell. They were certainly proud of their casting abilities, and I was happy to see my plants doing so well. And, eventually, when those girls moved away, I would think of them every time I gathered dried rose petals.

I will always remember the time I got to be the witch who lived down the hall.

It brought me back to when I was their age, reading that strange little book that taught me true magic is the everyday. It’s those small enchantments—intentional living, synchronous meetings, daily rituals—that make life magical.

It reminded me, too, not to take for granted the ordinary magic I’d conjured for myself. We can get used to things, the daily workings of our lives, so much so that we can forget what it takes to craft a meaningful life and how the simplest magic is often the most extraordinary. Magic isn’t in flying carpets and cauldrons. It’s in yoga mats and cast iron pots (although, who is to say which is which?). It isn’t in grimoires or crystal balls but in cookbooks and how the light dances off water in a fountain.

We forget, as we age, that magic is all around us. That we are magic. It’s inside us and all around us, no complicated rituals necessary. And sometimes, life gives us a gift—two little girls who remind you that you are, in fact, much more magical than you feel at the moment, or a woman who lives down the hall from you who must certainly be a witch—to show us that the enchantment we’re looking for is right under our nose.

And, truly, isn’t that what witchy business is all about? Everyday conjurings for a magical life.

As I gather pumpkins and hang autumn twinkle lights with my familiars—I have two now—in preparation for Halloween, I think about the joys of being the witch who lives down the hall. I think about the new stories yet to unfold, the ones that have nourished me over the years and the ones I will one day write, and, most importantly, which ones will jump from the page and into my life as this children’s story did. After all, stories are the deepest form of magic, and there is a quiet conjuring that happens when we find the medicine we need in the pages of a good book.

Enchantment Learning & Living is an inspirational blog celebrating life’s simple pleasures, everyday mysticism, and delectable recipes that are guaranteed to stir the kitchen witch in you. If you enjoyed what you just read and believe that true magic is in the everyday, subscribe to my newsletter below for regular doses of enchantment. Want even more inspiration? Follow me on Facebook, Instagram, and Threads. Here’s to a magical life!

The Terrible Delights of Spooky Stories

I love scary stories.

I’m also a total chicken. I grew up telling stories on the playground, huddled around trees, or crawling into quiet places with friends to listen to urban legends and frightening tales, from La Llorona to Bloody Mary, to strange tales of a woman with the ribbon around her throat that literally held her head on her body, to creepy dolls come to life the moment you closed your eyes to sleep at night. I knew I’d never be able to sleep at night, but I couldn’t help myself.

I devoured them!

In class, we learned more about La Llorona (a figure that inspired my novella, Weep, Woman, Weep), Baba Yaga, and all sorts of spooky stories that gave me a good chill but were rather less terrifying than what I heard on the playground.

Of course, there was no better time to tell and listen to these stories than fall. As the season slowly ripened into Halloween, the days got shorter, and the cool evenings and turning leaves were the perfect backdrop for stories that reminded us that there is more to this world than meets the eye.

I would come home from school filled up on those terrible tales and, after playing in piles of leaves in my backyard, would feel a growing sense of unease as the sun began to set and darkness took over. I was certainly grateful for the comforting presence of my dogs when night stole across the sky. The feelings were pushed away with dinner, in the cozy brightness of the kitchen and the warmth of family, but readily came back when I was tucked in bed later that night.

Every creek, howl of wind, or cricket chirp sounded like a ghostly footstep, the weeping woman, or all manner of supernatural threats. Mirrors were not to be looked in when the sun went down. Windows must be closed at night, lest La Llorona find a way in. Blankets were to be tucked around you up to your chin to protect you from whatever might be lurking under the bed.

I felt would never fall asleep!

But, of course, I did. And with the coming sun came the confidence of youth that there was nothing truly scary in this world and I went right back to the playground ready to consume more lurid and horrible tales. 

They were terrifying. They were also thrilling.  I couldn’t help myself—even when they gave me nightmares and my mom tried to get me to stop listening to these stories—they had this allure to me, pulling me into a world of the strange and the gothic.

The feeling didn’t go away as I got older. Take, for example, the time I went trick o’ treating with a friend in middle school, one of the last times I would venture out on that childhood ritual. I was no stranger to haunted houses—there were plenty in my neighborhood. I lived next door to one and there was another a few blocks away that looked like something out of a gothic novel: big, dark, looming, and a story about a murder so strange and unexpected it devolved into its own neighborhood legend with everyone having a slightly different explanation for why the house just felt…off.

My friend and I were alone on the street and were doing our best to casually walk past the house, feeling very brave and very adult in our fairy costumes, proud of the fact that we could trick-or-treat unchaperoned. But once we neared that house, suddenly home felt so very far away, other groups of Halloween revelers so very far away.  There was only the darkness surrounding us and the specter of that gina those before us. 

Then we heard something—a yip, a yell, from someone in the distance—and we screamed, running for the safety of my home. Gone were the bold, brave adults, and in their place were two frightened children who wanted nothing more than the warm lights and safety of home. As it turns out, the noise we heard was from a bunch of wild partiers, but it became so much more frightening when it was disembodied, and the shadows fed our imaginations, as did all the terrible tales I’d been consuming that season.

As scary as that was, and as silly as my friend and I felt in retrospect, there was no denying the fun we had, nor the deep sense of comfort we felt in returning to my house. That’s what scary stories do for us. They bring us home. We find catharsis in facing the darkness and making it out the other side. We appreciate the light where and when we can find it.  

Here I am now—still loving scary stories. Still a total chicken. Still ready for a good tale of terror…in the daylight. Still not looking in mirrors and closing all my windows at night. And I speed up whenever I have to walk by that haunted house, indeed any haunted house, less the specters inside think to invite me in.

That’s the beauty of these early childhood frights. They gave me a solid appreciation of the thrills of a good scary story and a healthy respect for the unseen worlds or even vibes I get that tell me a person or situation is more than meets the eye. 

This is why I tell spooky stories today. They reveal so much more about ourselves and the world around us than many an ordinary tale. From writing horror comedy about the terrors of dating in Hungry Business to the haunting wails of La Llorona in Weep, Woman, Weep, all my tales are inspired by the ordinary gothic all around us, pairing catharsis as we face the dark and find the light. 

What do you love about scary stories?

Enchantment Learning & Living is an inspirational blog celebrating life’s simple pleasures, everyday mysticism, and delectable recipes that are guaranteed to stir the kitchen witch in you. If you enjoyed what you just read and believe that true magic is in the everyday, subscribe to my newsletter below for regular doses of enchantment. Want even more inspiration? Follow me on Instagram, Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter. Here’s to a magical life!