SUNDAY WITH PHILOSOPHY JANE | Halloween Is Over, but Nobody Told the Decorations

By Philosophy Jane 

MINNEAPOLIS, MN (November 1, 2026).

At 8:17 this morning, I was threatened by a skeleton on my own front porch, which was an unpleasant way to begin November and particularly irritating because I had purchased the skeleton myself. I had gone outside in my slippers to retrieve the Sunday newspaper when the creature suddenly straightened, raised both arms, flashed its red plastic eyes, and announced that my soul belonged to the darkness. I spilled coffee on my robe, dropped the newspaper, and informed the skeleton that if it wanted my soul, it would have to come back after breakfast. It repeated its threat, apparently dissatisfied with my scheduling arrangements. My neighbor, Mr. Peterson, was walking his dog across the street and witnessed the entire exchange. He stopped long enough to ask whether everything was all right. I told him I was having a disagreement with a decoration. He looked at the skeleton, looked at the coffee on my robe, and said, "Well, Jane, from here it looks like the decoration is winning."

The skeleton's name is Mr. Bones, although I have recently begun reconsidering whether an object that causes this much trouble deserves a name at all. He stands nearly six feet tall, operates through a motion sensor, and delivers three recorded threats in a voice that suggests somebody has swallowed a cement mixer. I bought him three weeks ago after telling Brenda, with considerable confidence, that Halloween had become unnecessarily commercial and that I intended to celebrate modestly. My plan was to purchase one pumpkin, put a bowl of candy beside the front door, and enjoy watching the neighborhood children parade around in their costumes. I had no intention of joining those homeowners who transform their properties into elaborate haunted attractions. I considered that sort of behavior excessive, particularly when the decorations remain in place for a few hours before becoming somebody's problem the following morning.

Then I went shopping, and apparently every principle I held about moderation was available for purchase.

The Skeleton Was Not Part of the Original Budget

My difficulties began with two pumpkins. I had intended to buy one, but the second was slightly smaller and looked as though it belonged beside the first. At another store, I found orange lights that would complement the pumpkins, followed by a scarecrow whose cheerful expression suggested he would make the porch more welcoming. The artificial tombstones were purchased because I thought the scarecrow looked lonely, which I now recognize was an unusual concern to have about an object stuffed with polyester. By the time I encountered Mr. Bones, I had already committed myself to a decorative arrangement considerably more ambitious than the one I had described to Brenda.

The skeleton stood near the entrance of the store, surrounded by plastic bats and imitation cobwebs. I was walking past him when his eyes lit up and he lunged toward a customer who had stopped to examine a wreath. The woman screamed, dropped her shopping basket, and retreated into a display of decorative gourds. I laughed so hard that an employee came over to make sure I was all right. He explained that the skeleton had adjustable volume, three recorded messages, and a motion sensor. I asked whether it could be dismantled for storage, a question that should have alerted me to the fact that I was seriously considering bringing a six-foot skeleton into my home. The employee showed me the box, assured me that assembly was straightforward, and helped me put it into my cart.

Brenda visited two days later and found me on the porch adjusting Mr. Bones's arms. She stood in the driveway for a moment, taking in the pumpkins, the lights, the scarecrow, four tombstones, and the mechanical skeleton that had replaced my original vision of tasteful simplicity. "Jane," she said, "didn't you tell me you were putting out one pumpkin?" I explained that I had found several things at reasonable prices. She asked how much I had spent, and when I told her, she studied the skeleton with renewed interest. "For that kind of money, he should be paying property taxes." I reminded her that Halloween was an important neighborhood tradition and that children deserved a little excitement. Brenda said she was sure they would appreciate it, although she doubted they needed a cemetery beside my mailbox to enjoy a miniature chocolate bar.

I spent the following week arranging the decorations, adjusting the lights, and testing Mr. Bones. Unfortunately, the motion sensor was more sensitive than I expected. He threatened me when I watered the plants, threatened the mail carrier when she approached the porch, and threatened a squirrel that stopped beside the pumpkins. The squirrel appeared completely indifferent, which offended me because I had spent a considerable amount of money on a skeleton that could not intimidate an animal weighing less than a loaf of bread. By the end of the week, I had learned to approach my own front door from an angle that avoided the sensor. I considered this a practical adjustment rather than evidence that the decoration had begun controlling my movements.

The Candy Distribution Department

The candy situation developed with even less restraint. I began with one large assortment, then purchased another because some children prefer fruit-flavored candy. I added peanut butter cups because I like them, miniature chocolate bars because they are popular, and caramels because I thought older children might appreciate something different. I cannot explain why I believed teenagers would be especially interested in caramels, but at the time it seemed like an important demographic consideration. By Halloween afternoon, I had enough candy to serve a small convention, although the previous year only twenty-three children had visited my house.

Brenda arrived at four o'clock and found me arranging the candy into separate bowls. She asked why I was sorting it, and I explained that I wanted the children to have choices. "They can choose from one bowl," she said. I told her that separate bowls made the process easier and would prevent children from digging through everything. Brenda examined the collection and asked how many visitors I was expecting. When I said I did not know, she picked up one of the unopened bags and read the number of pieces printed on it. "Jane, are you expecting the children to bring their extended families?" I told her that I preferred having too much candy to running out. She said that was an excellent philosophy for somebody who wanted to spend November eating chocolate in self-defense.

I had also developed a distribution policy. Each child would receive three pieces, although I reserved the right to increase the allowance for particularly impressive costumes. Brenda asked who would decide which costumes qualified, and I told her I would use my judgment. She wanted to know whether there was an appeals process. I ignored that question because she was clearly trying to undermine the integrity of the operation. At five o'clock, I carried the bowls to the front door, switched on the lights, and activated Mr. Bones. He immediately announced that he was coming for my soul. Brenda looked at him and remarked that he seemed unusually aggressive for somebody who had not contributed to the electric bill.

The first children arrived shortly after six, and I discovered that my expectations about Halloween terror were badly outdated. A little girl dressed as a princess walked directly past Mr. Bones without looking at him and asked whether I had any chocolate without nuts. A boy wearing a firefighter costume examined the skeleton and wanted to know whether it could do anything besides raise its arms. A small dinosaur became so interested in the pumpkins that his mother had to turn him around before he wandered into the flower bed. I had imagined children approaching my porch with delicious apprehension, impressed by the elaborate atmosphere I had created. Instead, they behaved like experienced customers who had already visited several competing establishments and were primarily concerned with product selection.

One girl dressed as a witch discovered that stepping backward and forward would repeatedly activate the skeleton. She made him deliver all three recorded messages, listened carefully, and asked whether he had any more. When I said no, she looked disappointed and suggested that I get one that could tell jokes. A boy dressed as a zombie challenged Mr. Bones to a frightening-noise competition and won easily because he could improvise. His mother apologized for the performance, but I told her I was delighted. At least somebody had taken the skeleton seriously. The real excitement came when a delivery driver approached the porch carrying a package and looking at his phone. Mr. Bones lunged forward with a particularly enthusiastic announcement about eternal darkness. The driver jumped, nearly dropped the package, and looked at me as though I had deliberately arranged an ambush. I apologized and explained that the skeleton was only a decoration. "Lady," he said, handing me the package, "that thing needs a warning sign."

Despite these setbacks, the evening was wonderful. Children hurried between houses while parents exchanged greetings on the sidewalks. One father wore a giant banana costume and looked as though he had been regretting the decision since lunchtime. His daughter, dressed as a fairy, appeared delighted with him, which probably made the humiliation worthwhile. Mr. Peterson stopped by with his dog, who barked at the scarecrow until Mr. Peterson carried him away. Neighbors who usually waved from their cars stood outside talking, admiring decorations, and comparing the number of trick-or-treaters they had received. The street had become a gathering place without anybody having to organize a meeting, circulate an agenda, or ask whether refreshments would be provided.

I began to understand why people put so much effort into Halloween. The decorations were ridiculous, the costumes were impractical, and the candy was hardly a nutritional achievement, but none of that seemed particularly important. For a few hours, everyone had agreed to participate in something cheerful and unnecessary. Adults who spent most of the year worrying about bills, appointments, and household repairs were standing on their porches wearing witch hats and complimenting children dressed as vegetables. There was something refreshing about watching sensible people willingly abandon their dignity for an evening, particularly when I was one of them.

Brenda noticed how much I was enjoying myself. She reminded me that I had spent the beginning of October complaining about the commercialization of Halloween, the expense of decorations, and the tendency of adults to make too much of the holiday. I told her that those concerns remained valid. She glanced at Mr. Bones, who was threatening a child dressed as a pumpkin, and asked whether I happened to know any adults who had contributed to the problem. I said there was no reason to make the discussion personal. She laughed, helped herself to another peanut butter cup, and said she was pleased to see that my principles had survived the evening in such excellent condition.

November Arrives With a Bill

By the time the last children disappeared, thirty-one trick-or-treaters had visited my house. This was eight more than the previous year, a respectable increase that nevertheless failed to explain why I had purchased enough candy for several hundred people. Brenda helped me carry the bowls inside and asked what I intended to do with the leftovers. I said I might save some for next year. She looked at me for a moment and asked whether I was seriously considering storing candy for twelve months. I explained that I had not made a final decision. She suggested that I begin by admitting I had bought too much, which I considered an unnecessarily harsh conclusion to an otherwise pleasant evening.

I went to bed satisfied with the celebration and confident that I would have the decorations removed before lunch the following day. I had spent several afternoons putting everything up, but dismantling it seemed straightforward. I would unplug the lights, collect the tombstones, fold the cobwebs, take Mr. Bones apart, and store everything in the basement. I estimated that the entire operation would require approximately one hour. I had arrived at this figure without examining the decorations or consulting anybody who had ever removed a Halloween display, but it seemed reasonable at the time.

The next morning began with the skeleton threatening me over the newspaper, followed by the discovery that the scarecrow had fallen sideways during the night and one of the tombstones had blown into the flower bed. A plastic spider was attached to the sleeve of my winter coat, although I had no idea how it had traveled from the porch to the closet. I retrieved the newspaper, changed my coffee-stained robe, and decided to have breakfast before beginning the cleanup. I was still feeling cheerful when I carried a storage bin outside at ten o'clock.

The orange lights presented the first difficulty. I had wrapped them around the porch railing with considerable enthusiasm, making sure every section was evenly illuminated. Removing them required reversing a process I could no longer remember. I pulled one strand and tightened a knot near the steps. I pulled another and discovered that the wire had been looped through the scarecrow's arm. After twenty minutes, I had managed to free approximately six feet of lights while creating a tangled bundle that looked as though it had been assembled by an angry fisherman. I set it aside and turned my attention to the hanging ghost, which had somehow become attached to its hook with the determination of a tenant refusing eviction.

I fetched a chair to reach the ghost, and Mr. Bones immediately announced that I could not escape. I told him I had every intention of escaping as soon as I finished cleaning up after him. The string holding the ghost was wrapped tightly around the hook, so I climbed down to retrieve scissors from the kitchen. When I returned, the skeleton threatened me again. I climbed back onto the chair, cut the string, and pulled the ghost free, only to discover that the artificial cobwebs had become entangled in my hair. I spent several minutes trying to remove them while standing beside a mechanical skeleton that seemed delighted by my difficulties. By eleven o'clock, I had dismantled one ghost, removed part of the lighting, and developed a strong dislike for several objects I had admired only twelve hours earlier.

Brenda arrived shortly before noon and found me sitting on the porch steps, examining the tangled lights. She asked whether I was making progress. I told her that the decorations had proved unexpectedly difficult to remove. She looked at the railing and asked whether I had wrapped the lights around it myself. When I said yes, she wanted to know why I was surprised that they were wrapped around it now. I explained that putting something up and taking it down were different operations. She agreed, then asked whether I had considered that distinction before buying the decorations. I told her that hindsight was a wonderful thing, particularly when somebody else was supplying it.

She offered to help, and I accepted before she could reconsider. Within twenty minutes, she had collected the tombstones, folded the cobwebs into a bag, and removed the scarecrow from his stand. I was still struggling with Mr. Bones, whose assembly instructions I had thrown away because I assumed I would remember how to dismantle him. His arms came off easily, but the torso refused to separate from the base. Brenda examined the connection, pressed a small plastic tab, and released it immediately. I asked how she had known what to do. She said she had looked at it. I considered pointing out that I had also been looking at it for some time, but the evidence did not support my position.

The Work We Pretend Nobody Mentioned

As we carried the decorations into the garage, I found myself wondering why the cleanup irritated me so much. I had enjoyed choosing the decorations, enjoyed arranging them, and enjoyed watching the children react to them. Nothing about the removal process was unexpected. I knew perfectly well that Halloween ended on October 31 and that the pumpkins, lights, and skeleton would eventually have to be put away. Yet I had approached the morning as though somebody had imposed an unreasonable new obligation on me without notice.

I mentioned this to Brenda while we were folding the remaining lights. She said that people often enjoy the results of their decisions more than the responsibilities that accompany them. I told her that sounded rather severe for a conversation about Halloween decorations. She reminded me of the time I had hosted a dinner party, spent two days preparing the food, and then complained about the dishes afterward. I said the dishes had been unusually numerous. She reminded me that I had invited twelve people. I explained that I had wanted everyone to have a good time. Brenda said they had, which was why they had eaten the food and used the dishes.

I thought about the other occasions when I had behaved in much the same way. I love the idea of a garden in May, particularly when the flowers are new and the weeds have not yet established themselves as permanent residents. By July, I am less enthusiastic about watering, pruning, and discovering that a plant I purchased for its beauty has apparently invited every insect in Minnesota to dinner. I enjoy having visitors but sometimes resent the work of preparing for them. I look forward to holidays and then complain about the shopping, cooking, and cleanup that make those holidays possible. None of this has prevented me from repeating the process.

Brenda suggested that perhaps the work was not an unfortunate interruption of the enjoyment but part of what made the occasion possible. I considered that while looking at the storage bins stacked beside the garage. She was right, although I would have preferred to arrive at the conclusion without assistance. The neighborhood had enjoyed Halloween because people had taken the trouble to decorate their homes, buy candy, supervise children, and stand outside in the autumn cold. The pleasure had not appeared by itself. Somebody had done the work, and in my case, that somebody was now complaining about it.

This did not mean I suddenly enjoyed untangling lights. I continued to believe that manufacturers should design decorations that could be removed without requiring an engineering degree. I also maintained that a skeleton costing as much as Mr. Bones should include a complimentary storage assistant. But I could no longer pretend that the cleanup was an injustice. It was simply the less entertaining part of something I had willingly chosen to do.

The Skeleton Has One More Complaint

By midafternoon, the porch had returned to normal. The tombstones were stacked in the garage, the scarecrow had been folded into his storage bag, and the pumpkins were waiting to be dealt with. Mr. Bones lay in pieces on the living room floor while I cleaned his plastic frame and prepared to return him to the box. Brenda reminded me to remove his batteries before storing him. I opened the compartment behind his back, took them out, and placed them in a dish on the kitchen counter. She inspected the box, confirmed that all the pieces were accounted for, and helped me fit the torso beside the stand.

The candy remained a separate problem. I had arranged it into three bowls the previous evening, and the bowls now occupied most of the kitchen counter. Brenda suggested sharing the leftovers with neighbors and bringing some to the next community gathering. I agreed, although I reserved a small portion for myself. She examined the portion and asked whether I was using the word small in its ordinary sense or according to some private measurement system. I told her that I intended to reduce it gradually. She said that was precisely what concerned her.

After Brenda left, I finished cleaning the kitchen and prepared to carry Mr. Bones into the basement. The box was heavier than I remembered, so I lifted it carefully and walked toward the stairs. I had reached the doorway when a muffled voice announced that I should beware. I stopped and looked down at the box. The skeleton was switched off, and I had removed his batteries. I waited a few seconds, wondering whether I had heard something from the television next door. Then the voice spoke again, informing me that I could not escape.

I put the box down immediately. I have always believed that mysterious noises should be investigated calmly, but I have never considered myself obligated to remain calm when a disassembled skeleton begins speaking from inside a cardboard box. I opened the lid and examined the pieces. Mr. Bones lay exactly where I had packed him, his head tilted sideways beside one arm. After several minutes of searching, I discovered a second battery compartment near the sound unit. The batteries I had removed powered the movement and lights; these apparently powered the recorded threats. I removed them, waited to make sure the skeleton had nothing further to say, and closed the box.

I carried him downstairs and placed him on a shelf beside the Christmas decorations. I was pleased to discover that the box fit neatly between an artificial wreath and a container of ornaments, although I briefly wondered whether Mr. Bones would be offended by the company. Then I remembered that he was a plastic skeleton and that I had already devoted more attention to his emotional welfare than was reasonable.

When I returned upstairs, the house was quiet. The porch was clear, the decorations were packed, and the remaining candy had been divided into bags for friends and neighbors. I stood in the kitchen enjoying the unusual satisfaction of having finished a job I had spent most of the day complaining about. Halloween had been fun. The cleanup had been irritating. Both things were true, and I suspected that next October I would happily repeat the entire experience, including the complaints.

The doorbell rang just as I was preparing to sit down. Mr. Peterson stood on the porch holding a small plastic spider between two fingers. He explained that he had found it in his yard and thought it belonged to me. I thanked him, apologized for the inconvenience, and assured him that the decorations had been put away until next year. He looked around the empty porch and said his dog would be relieved. Apparently, the scarecrow had been causing the animal considerable distress, although Mr. Peterson had not wanted to hurt my feelings by mentioning it.

After he left, I examined the spider. It was one of the better ones, with flexible legs and a reasonably convincing body. I considered throwing it away, but that seemed wasteful. I had paid for an entire bag of spiders, and this one was still perfectly usable. I could have carried it downstairs and added it to the Halloween storage bin, but I had just finished putting everything away and had no intention of opening another box.

I went into the kitchen and opened the miscellaneous drawer. There was a little space beside the scissors and the container of spare hardware, so I placed the spider there. I would remember where it was when Halloween came around again. At least, I felt reasonably certain I would.

Then I noticed a miniature peanut butter cup sitting alone in the candy bowl. I had intended to save the remaining candy for other people, but one piece hardly seemed worth putting into a bag. I unwrapped it and ate it while considering how efficiently I had completed the day's work.

I had spent most of November 1 complaining about cleaning up after a holiday I had thoroughly enjoyed, and now I was standing in my kitchen eating the evidence.

I reached for the empty bowl to wash it, opened the drawer to put away the scissors, and saw the spider.

For one terrible moment, I thought it was real.

I screamed, dropped the bowl into the sink, and backed into the refrigerator.

Mr. Bones had been dismantled, boxed, and locked away in the basement, but Halloween had managed to frighten me one last time with a spider I had personally put in a drawer less than five minutes earlier.

I stood there for a moment, embarrassed and grateful that Brenda had gone home.

Then I picked up the spider, examined it carefully, and put it back in the drawer.

There was no sense wasting a perfectly good decoration.

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