Halloween is bigger than Christmas in America. I've experienced

Host: The night dripped with orange light and laughter. The suburban street was alive — children dressed as witches and superheroes darted between glowing pumpkins and plastic tombstones. The air smelled of sugar, smoke, and the faint burnt scent of autumn leaves.

Paper ghosts swung lazily from porch roofs, spider webs shimmered across hedges, and somewhere, a distant speaker played “Monster Mash” on a loop.

At the edge of it all, Jack leaned against the hood of a car, his hands in his jacket pockets, watching the parade of masks and monsters pass by. His expression was unreadable — part amusement, part melancholy.

Jeeny, her hair catching the soft glow of pumpkin light, stood beside him, holding a cup of steaming cider, her eyes reflecting the world as if it were half real, half dream.

On a crumpled flyer between them, a quote was printed above a cartoon jack-o’-lantern:

“Halloween is bigger than Christmas in America. I've experienced it in New York, Los Angeles and Washington D.C., and if you're in the right neighbourhood, every house is decorated with spooky ghosts, spider webs, and jack-o-lanterns.”
— Rhys Darby

Jeeny: (smiling as a kid in a skeleton mask runs by) “He’s right, you know. Look at this. It’s like the whole country decided to turn its fear into a festival.”

Jack: (watching) “Yeah. A festival of pretending.”

Jeeny: “You mean play.”

Jack: “No. Distraction. It’s all just people wrapping their loneliness in orange lights and fake cobwebs.”

Host: The streetlights flickered above them, catching the faint mist in the air. A laugh rang out — bright, high-pitched — and vanished into the hum of the crowd.

Jack took a drag from a cigarette, the glow sharp against the night, while Jeeny tilted her head, studying him like he was another kind of mask altogether.

Jeeny: “You always think joy is disguise. Maybe you’re the one who’s pretending — pretending not to need it.”

Jack: “I don’t need plastic skeletons to feel alive, Jeeny. I prefer my ghosts real.”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Jack: “No. The saddest thing is how everyone decorates their houses with death, then calls it fun. We’ve made peace with it only because we can control it — because these ghosts can’t actually touch us.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe we’ve made peace with it because we’ve learned to laugh at it. That’s what Halloween is — it’s defiance. It’s saying, ‘You can’t scare me anymore.’”

Host: A group of teenagers passed, dragging pillowcases heavy with candy, their faces painted into exaggerated horrors. The laughter and footsteps echoed like a heartbeat through the suburban calm.

Jack: “Defiance, huh? Feels more like denial. You can’t laugh at what you don’t understand.”

Jeeny: “That’s not true. Sometimes laughter is the only way to understand it. When people face what they fear — even in costume — they reclaim power. Death becomes theatrical, not tragic.”

Jack: “You make it sound profound. It’s still a holiday built on candy and cheap costumes.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with that? Maybe play is how we heal. We spend all year pretending to be strong. On Halloween, we pretend to be monsters — and somehow, that feels more honest.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the faint sound of a barking dog and the rustle of dry leaves scraping down the pavement. Jack exhaled, a curl of smoke ghosting around his head before dissolving.

Jack: “You think all this is healing? You think plastic tombstones and fake blood mean anything?”

Jeeny: “Of course they do. Ritual always means something. Even the silly ones. Humans need ways to play with their fears, to dress them up, make them less sharp. Halloween’s just… collective therapy with a sugar high.”

Jack: (smirks) “That’s a terrible marketing slogan.”

Jeeny: “And yet you just smiled.”

Host: She was right. For the first time that night, the edge softened in his eyes. The light from a nearby pumpkin flickered across his face, dancing through the small cracks in his armor.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I didn’t get it. My mom never let us trick-or-treat. Said it was a waste of time. One year I made my own costume out of trash bags and walked the street alone. No one gave me candy. They just stared.”

Jeeny: (gently) “That’s why you hate it.”

Jack: “I don’t hate it. I just don’t trust it. The joy feels… conditional. Like it only belongs to people who already have it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why it’s beautiful. Because for one night, everyone — even the lonely ones — gets to wear joy on their faces. Whether it’s real or not doesn’t matter. It’s shared.”

Host: The moonlight pooled over the asphalt, illuminating the jack-o’-lanterns lined along the sidewalks. Each one glowed from within — ugly, uneven, but burning nonetheless.

Jack: “You think pretending fixes anything?”

Jeeny: “No. But it gives us space to breathe. Pretending to be a monster might make someone realize they’ve survived worse ones. You ever think that’s why Halloween feels so big here? Because America’s full of people trying to make peace with what haunts them?”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe.”

Jeeny: “Rhys Darby said it — it’s bigger than Christmas. And why not? Christmas is about redemption. Halloween’s about recognition — of what scares us, what follows us. It’s the darker half of the same story.”

Host: A child ran by dressed as an angel, trailing glitter and candy wrappers. The irony made them both smile.

Jack: “You ever notice how we laugh easier at night?”

Jeeny: “Because we think no one can see our shadows.”

Jack: (nods) “Or maybe because we finally stop pretending they’re not there.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what this night is. Permission to be everything we hide the rest of the year — silly, scared, loud, alive.”

Host: The street began to empty, the crowd thinning as porch lights flicked off one by one. The last of the trick-or-treaters disappeared into the soft darkness, their laughter lingering like echoes of courage.

Jack: “You know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not denial after all. Maybe it’s… a rehearsal.”

Jeeny: “For what?”

Jack: “For dying.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Or for living.”

Host: A pause. The kind that feels like a heartbeat before a revelation. Then, somewhere behind them, a porch light flickered back on — a stubborn bulb refusing to let the night win.

Jack: “You really love this stuff, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I do. It’s the one night we don’t have to be real. And somehow, that makes us more human.”

Jack: (quiet laugh) “You should put that on a pumpkin.”

Jeeny: “I’d rather carve it into your cynicism.”

Host: He laughed again, this time fully — a rough, honest sound that startled him. The wind tugged at their coats, carrying with it the faint sweetness of candy and decay.

Host: They stood in silence as the neighborhood dimmed, one house at a time, until only the faint glow of the jack-o’-lanterns remained — small faces of defiance grinning into the night.

And as the camera panned upward, past the trees and into the deep sky, the world below pulsed softly — orange and black, light and shadow, life and the echo of it.

In that strange, fleeting balance between fear and laughter,
between pretending and believing,
the truth whispered like the rustle of leaves:

We decorate our darkness not to hide it —
but to remember it’s ours.