Really, Pastels?

It suddenly stinks around here and it’s not the stench of rotting pumpkins. Something smells too sickly sweet, something that doesn’t belong.

There are downpours on this foggy night in October. The grey clouds are moody and there’s a storm brewing. Jack O’ Lanterns perch themselves upon the soil, next to crumbling gravestones. These stones are ancient, souls who have passed into the netherworld decades ago.

Tomorrow, they will return, as they do every year.

Each tree has been stripped of leaves. The Autumnal foliage has been swept into piles and swirls, along the cemetery paths. Up by the old Oak tree, something feels wrong. You can sense it in the hazy air. Up upon the mound, a leaf pile conceals the hidden sweetness. Here lies a picnic basket, it’s woven, it’s handmade, it’s too pretty to be around at this time of year. Within the basket, there is a pink and white checked blanket. This is wrong. The colour pink should be nowhere near October.

All bunched together, are a collection of eggs. Hallowed, freshly dyed in pastel varieties. There is no reason why pastels should be here.

It’s 31st October. The dead arrive from beyond the grave and are greeted by colour. Each ghoul, vampire, ghost and werewolf wish to burn their retinas. Some ghouls are physically pulling out their eyeballs. Vampires react to these Easter eggs as if they are garlic. They hiss at them. Witches, who are just arriving on their brooms curse them. No supernatural being is brave enough to touch them, but they’re running out of time. Pastel colours turn the grey into light, the dark into bright.

The oak tree stands on top the mound with its spiralling twisting branches. For thousands of years this tree has stood watching the world go by and every September its luscious green leaves turn brown, orange, yellow, and red until they fall right off and sit in this large pile.

The stench of rotting corpses or rotting pumpkin flesh is disguised by the revolting smell of fresh linen, of daisies and mowed grass. None of these beings can handle the stink of Spring. Their eyes sting, their cheeks puff out in red hives, they scream, hiss and chant. “I’m warming! I’m warming!”

Each discarded autumnal leaf rises into the tree branches. They’re trapped, stuck within, turning into something more sinister. They’re transforming into tiny buds, each one of them now baby pink and white. This oak tree is now a cherry blossom full of colour and smiles.

The terror doesn’t end there. Every one of the pastel dyed Easter eggs fly and hang onto each of the blossoms, as if they belong. They sway in a gentle breeze. Brooding clouds change into fluffy white marshmallow clouds. The graveyard loses its mysterious status and the gravestones look almost Spring cleaned.

Each Ghost, ghoul, witch, vampire and werewolf have succumbed to the terrible curse.

They say the supernatural have no fear of anything. This is a myth, many people do not realise that if they are exposed to bright colours, sickly sweet perfumes and sunrises they will often scream so loudly, anyone near will go deaf immediately.

They start to change into the things they fear, ever so slowly.

Ghosts- Will turn into crisp bed sheets with floral patterns, losing their transparency.

Ghouls- Their heart starts to beat again, butterflies fly out of their open chests, instead of worms, and white shiny teeth grow inside their fully formed jaws.

Witches- Their dark dresses, hats and capes are replaced with pastel hues. Their pointy hats are pink, their cloaks baby blue.

Vampires- None of them have fangs now, but grinded down chompers. Their blood red cloaks have transformed into a dusky pink and they dress like Georgian aristocrats with tall, fluffy wigs.

Werewolves- The beasts have changed colour. They are as white as snow, they can’t blend in with their surroundings and they whimper when they want to howl.

The cemetery transforms in front of them. Every blade of dead grass is now alive and green. The sun burns down from above, warming up the Earth. This is not October’s weather. October is dreary, dark, mysterious and foggy. Every Jack O’ Lantern, sat on the ground, has metamorphosed into painted eggs, dripping with the stink of floral.

The creatures whine at their new appearances, ask the world to take pity on them. To them there is no greater punishment.

This is where I come to join the party, oblivious and forgetful. I am large. I am unmissable. I am a human sized, bright pink rabbit, with two giant floppy ears and a skip to my step. I physically can’t stop skipping, it’s how I was made. I am well known by the locals, around the months of March and April, as The Easter Bunny, or simply as E.B.

Halfway down Spring Hill, the place I reside in for the rest of the year, I have a terrible thought. I’d been skipping all morning, all day alongside the riverbank, and came to rest my basket on the ground and noticed I’d misplaced it.

The seasons get muddled up in my brain, because after all, I am just a rabbit. I remembered the last time I skipped holding it. I’d say I was crossed legged under the Cherry Blossom tree, and so I made my way back.

There are tears. There are screams of panic that sounds like cries of an identity crisis. It is long after I’m home at Spring Hill, drinking hot coco, when I realise. Hanging and swinging upon the tree branches were my Easter eggs. My basket had been left exactly where I’d placed it. 

The eggs can sense my presence as I slip past the unusual crowd of pastel creatures. I think nothing of it. I see people hiding under clean sheets, log creatures where butterflies made their homes, pastel flowing angels, aristocratic Georgians and fluffy huskies. 

Each egg falls on seeing me. I stand holding my basket outstretched as they jump inside.

Exactly One hundred and Two, not even one less or more. I smile at the crowd of beautiful pastel creatures; I find it odd that they turn their heads and hiss as I skip on by.

Back home at Spring Hill at last things start to change. The graveyard is struck by gale force winds. The warmth in the sky turns cold and misty. The darkness overtakes the bright Spring skies. Sprinklings of Easter eggs disappear in a flash, replaced by gruesome Jack O’ Lanterns with jagged teeth. The Cherry blossom buds shake violently and burst into flames.

The spindly branches have returned and the autumnal pile of leaves gather underfoot.

The dusky pale colours that every supernatural being is wearing, explodes in front of their eyes.

There is so much gore, so much more blood, black and red velvet.

Fangs sprout from the mouths of vampires and werewolves as they become what they are meant to be.

Ghosts- Now transparent, they glide through rusty metal fences.

Ghouls- Their rib cages ooze of gloop and rotting meat.

Witches- Black cats appear upon their tall pointy hats, tied with string. Their dresses are belted by black corsets.

Vampires- Once their fangs have grown, they drip of blood. Their capes dangle from their shoulders, scarlet velvet.

Werewolves- They now howl at the moon in their packs, standing huddled together in a large grey mound. They reek of rotting corpses, their breath musty.

Everyone cheers, cackles and howls. Halloween and October are once again restored. They can feast as they always do, until the early hours of November and bathe in the darkness that is this hallowed graveyard.

As I sit around the fire inside the warmth of my warren, while sipping my hot cocoa, with pink marshmallows on top, it’s a funny thing to think, that The Easter Bunny nearly destroyed Halloween.