The Ballad of Hellena Halloween (Patreon)

Day 24 of the 45 Days of Halloween

Before all the billboards, the fortune, the fame,

Two ladies of darkness stepped up to the game.

Elvira wore black; Hellena wore red.

Each dreamed of the spotlight. Each spoke for the dead.

They practiced their punchlines, their winks, and their screams,

And mailed little tapes full of terrible dreams.

Then one got a call with a contract enclosed—

And one watched the door as it quietly closed.

Elvira had cameras and fans by the score.

Hellena rehearsed on her living-room floor.

With sequins that glittered and hair piled high,

She purred to a lens with a hungry green eye.

“Good evening, my darlings! Come closer. Come see!

Your hostess of horrors, my darlings—is me!”

She waited for laughter. She paused for applause.

The fridge gave a rattle. The cat licked its paws.

She sent out more letters. She made some more tapes.

She furnished her parlor with coffins and capes.

Each October she whispered, “This year I’ll be seen.

They’ll all know the name of Hellena Halloween.”

But October turned over, and over again.

Her letters grew longer. Her smiles grew thin.

She studied Elvira each Saturday night,

Rewinding each joke till she got it just right.

She measured the neckline. She practiced the stare.

She slept in her makeup. She teased up her hair.

And when the screen flickered, she leaned toward its glow:

“You’ve had quite a turn, dear. It’s time for my show.”

The years filled her hallway with boxes of mail.

She called every silence a mere small delay.

She set out twelve chairs for her studio crowd,

Then greeted each cushion and laughed very loud.

By midnight the cushions had each earned a name.

She scolded the one who preferred the old dame.

“Your taste,” she informed it, “is terribly poor.”

Then carried its chair out and bolted the door.

Her mirror became her most faithful review.

“You’re lovely,” she told it. “They’re waiting for you.”

She bowed, and her necklace swung cold on her chest.

The woman reflected, bowed back with the rest.

Then one autumn evening, while fixing her face,

She noticed her mirror was lagging in place.

She lowered her lipstick. Its hand lingered high.

Then something inside it gave one little sigh.

“Hellena,” it whispered, “we’ve watched you for years.

We’ve heard every joke. We’ve collected your tears.

Down here, every household is tuned to your show.

We’re ready, my darling. Say yes, and we’ll go.”

She dressed in her sequins. She painted her lips.

She polished the black on her long fingertips.

Red tears trailed beneath her bright, glittering eyes.

She looked at her guests and said, “What a surprise.”

For there in the chairs sat a beautiful crowd—

All eager, all grinning, all clapping too loud.

Their coats smelled of earth. Their teeth gleamed like bone.

At last, thought Hellena, a crowd of my own.

A camera light blinked from the heart of the glass.

She smiled as a shadow behind her slid past.

“Good evening, my darlings. How lovely you look.

Tonight we have something you’ll find in no book.”

The applause shook the windows. The floor gave a groan.

Her voice found its rhythm. Her throne felt like home.

And somewhere, Elvira was finishing a scene,

While the dead stayed up late for Hellena Halloween.