I’ve never been invited to a full dress-up Halloween party, mainly because I’m not cool, but if someone makes the inevitable mistake of inviting me, I know exactly what I’ll be.
A paranormal investigator.
There’s no need for a fancy getup. All I have to do is dress up like one of the guys from the Late Isabel, which is typical yuppie attire only in black, and voila! Party time.
For props I only need assorted junks from our friendly neighborhood electrical shop. A busted tester or remote control is fine. If available, the end-product of an electrician’s failed attempt to assemble a robot, preferably with one or two blinking lights on, will be an excellent addition to the package.
Of course, there’s the act. Keeping a straight, no-bullshit face while yapping about ghosts and spirits and whatnot is a must. Like when I say: “There seems to be a concentration of negative energy in this room, which means the spirits here are uneasy, if not angry.”
Or: “That thing in this picture that looks like a shadow but is really not is your dead brother. He’s trying to tell you something.”
Or: “This public school is haunted because, like all other public schools all over the country, it is built on an old graveyard and was a Japanese garrison in World War II.”
Okay. Seems like I already got everything made. Now, where the hell is that invite?