I Have a Halloween-Obsessed Husband—And It's My Least Favorite Holiday of the Year

Every fall, I push aside my taste for tidiness, quiet, and calm, and I indulge my husband’s passion for my least favorite holiday. At some point on October 1, I walk into my dining room to find a standing-room-only staging area crammed with 9-foot witches, vampires, werewolves, even a motion-activated, smoke-spewing Cerberus.

I plan a strategic path to the mailbox to avoid the 27-gallon storage bins filled with disembodied heads (and the pulleys and ropes required to hang them), lights, monster cages, zombies, and other animatronic frights for the cemetery that will take over our front yard.

I hide behind a book while neighborhood kids gather on our lawn, wondering when Mr. Steve will toss the first decapitated head over a tree branch, signaling the start of Halloween. For 31 days, a witch cackles and screeches when anything triggers the doormat. Cable channels start their rotation of horror movies (Steve watches them all). And I share my family room with a 7-foot-tall Pennywise, a Frankenstein, and a werewolf who stand, strobe-lit, at our front window. Behind them are my carefully curated built-ins and side tables with fresh flowers.

Lest you think me a crank, I do love autumn—the vibrant colors, the cool air, the countdown to Christmas. I love a good kids costume party, can carve pumpkins for hours, and will go apple picking anytime, any day. It’s the noise and themes of gore, fear, and violence that are lost on me.

I decided to find the humor in it by posting my #halloweenhusband displeasure on my socials. But then last year a production crew from Inside Edition filmed our house. They interviewed Steve and costumed kids from the block. “What does it feel like when people come from all over to see what you’ve made? We hear they call you Mr. Halloween.” Halloween Husband had blown up, and no amount of eye-roll emojis was going to stop it.

So here’s our deal: Steve cannot set up motion-activated dropping spiders or crawling zombies inside the house. He must store his headless horsemen, strobes, and smoke machines in an orderly way in our attic. And no matter how many awesome accoutrements he finds at the November 1 markdowns, he must save one corner for my white Christmas lights and glass ornaments.

Controlling the clutter became even more of a struggle when Steve added a haunted house. What started as a simple trek through our garage now takes a week to design. The kids play ghouls that scare and surprise. Steve is head monster, and neighbor dads patrol for safety. Scary music blasts, characters jump-scare, and kids shriek. All. Night. Long.

Thing is, Steve’s Halloween house has become a rite of passage for families. Parents confide: “We’ve been walking past your house for years and she finally wanted to go in.” Of the choose-your-own-adventure haunted house, 10-year-olds confess: “I asked for Teen Scream; my little brother did Baby Scare.” (The neighbor posted at the door tells Steve and the other characters inside how scary to be.)

Every year, my cold heart thaws with each delighted child, trembling teen, and thankful mom. It’s all good clean fun and a memory our repeat “customers” will keep forever. That’s why on October 31, I happily sit apart from the chaos, comfy in a blanket on the front porch, handing out candy and accepting compliments on our fun, festive house.

At least, that’s what I think they’re saying. I’m wearing earplugs.