In the third grade, I went to my friend's ninth birthday party and made my artistic debut as a gruesome pumpkin carver. I was the new girl in school at the time, sort of timid, not too sure of my surroundings yet. I guess that gave me the illusion of being sweet.
But I wasn't. During the pumpkin-drawing activity, while the other kids reached for the glitter glue and stickers, I reached for the plastic knife leftover from cake, shoved it into the side of my pumpkin, and colored the surrounding the stab wound with a red marker.
Everyone was really nice to me after that, and I was first in line for the rest of the games. My friend's mom even gave me some of the presents.
I wasn't harboring hidden ambitions to one day become a serial killer, I was just really intrigued by anything gruesome or horrific.
When I was younger, I was worried my parents would think my obsession with horror flicks and Halloween meant I was a severely disturbed child. But it only took a few years to realize they felt the same way.
It wasn't that we were violent vampire-like beings infatuated with blood, we just liked the rush of being scared.
Hence, the idea for my 17th birthday party (I'm an October baby) was born. Instead of calling anyone who might have known someone who was 21 and preparing a make-out room in my basement, my dad pulled the blade off his chainsaw and we lined the playhouse in my backyard with brown paper and splattered it with red paint.
We then put my sister's life-size Barbie in the corner and glued a kitchen knife to her hand. I downloaded a few tunes sung by kids with high-pitched voices, added the strobe light and was set to go.
We also cleared a path through my backyard, which was mostly woods. At the end of the trail, my dad waited behind a large tree with a bladeless chainsaw.
That night, we sent my friends to the playhouse first, then through the woods to be chased by my dad turned psycho-killer. However, it turned out my friends were much bigger wusses than I had anticipated.
I'm scared,"" my friend Amber said.
""Aww, honey, it'll be fine. It's just for fun,"" I responded.
""I think I'm just going to stay back.""
""No, sorry.""
""Excuse me?""
""You sort of have to go,"" I said. ""Or I'm going to have to ask you to leave. And not sit at my lunch table Monday.""
""You're crazy.""
""Bye,"" I said.
Aside from Amber's tragic expulsion from my group of friends, a few epileptic seizures from the strobe light and one incidental death, the party was a pretty big hit.
My dad lit the candles on my cake, chainsaw in one hand, lighter in the other and mask above his head. My friends sang a nervous ""Happy Birthday"" while anxiously looking over their shoulders and watching the dark corners of the room.
After growing up in such a Halloween-loving household, Madison - known for its Halloweens - was the only logical place for me to go to college. But after two Halloweens in Madison, I have yet to see a dad mistaken for a mass murderer, a bloody playhouse or a freaky looking doll. When it comes down to it, State Street has nothing on my backyard.
Boo. E-mail Kiera with your Halloween plans at wiatrak@wisc.edu.
