Commander-in-misChief

In one of my summer vacations in Jimenez, my cousins' favorite agendum was scavenging through the musty and helter-skelter attic in the ancestral house while my royal ass merely watched, thwarted by the highly sensitive sinuses. Clutching my trusty Walkman, I went out of the room only to be called back by one of my cousins a few minutes later. Bored and drowsy, I entered the musty room again when my cousin, garbed in a scruffy Dracula ensemble, suddenly jumped right in front of me and wailed like a banshee. Funny how he has gotten his otherworldly troupe mixed up. But in sheer fright, I whacked his arm with my Walkman. Poor Walkman. That night, I lay in bed wide-awake while listening to the sound maker duo: the cricket and my sister. Poor me.

Strutting oneself in masks and costumes depicting gore and the macabre is not part of my fun list. Hence, at Halloween, I can't rub elbows with the manananggal, tikbalang, tiyanak and the rest of their kinsfolk. CdQ made a good point in suggesting a modern horrific mask with a Pinoy flavor (see PDI's There's the rub entitled Happy Halloween). It's not Roald Dahl's Grand High Witch. But of the same caliber. If not, more gruesome.