I have discovered something horrible this year.
My littlest gurlies, the ones who have lived with me in my Halloween themed house their whole lives, are suddenly petrified of many of the decorations that I love so much.
I tell ya. What a pair of wussies.
I brought out my talking skull, named Boris, and it was like a classic case of hysteria. Running screaming, hiding under the covers. Real fear. Not faked.
Boris, has a microphone, and when you talk into it he changes the pitch and his mouth moves.
They are even scared of Esther; she is a skeleton in a wedding dress that sings. This is made even more bizarre because she was never ever packed away in a box. She resides in my bedroom or on the couch, or a chair somewhere.
She gets moved around and is arranged in different poses. It is a running joke.
Much the same as the hand that is often left hanging out of drawers or peeking out from under the chesterfield.