Some people are born for Halloween, and some are just counting

Host: The night was thick with mist, and the streetlights burned like faint, dying candles along the old avenue. Leaves scuttled across the pavement, orange, crimson, and black, whispering secrets of the dying year. A slow wind tugged at the edges of the world, carrying the scent of pumpkins, smoke, and far-off laughter.

Inside a narrow, flickering diner, two souls sat by the window — Jack, with his sharp eyes and distant gaze, and Jeeny, whose soft smile seemed to catch every trembling light around her. The clock on the wall ticked like a patient heart, counting down the invisible line between Halloween and Christmas.

Jeeny: “Do you ever feel it, Jack? The shift between the two? One night we wear masks, the next we wear smiles. As if the world can’t decide whether it wants to fear or forgive.”

Jack: “I think it’s simpler than that. Some people are born for Halloween, and some are just counting the days until Christmas. Stephen Graham Jones said that, didn’t he? He’s right. The world divides itself that way — into those who face the dark and those who wait for the light.”

Host: A flicker of neon cut across Jack’s face, carving shadows beneath his eyes. He stirred his coffee with the edge of a small, silver spoon, as though stirring the night itself.

Jeeny: “You sound so sure. But what if we’re both? What if Halloween and Christmas aren’t opposites at all — just two faces of the same yearning? Fear and hope, shadow and light.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, but naïve. People like categories. They need to know what they are. Some people thrive on the darkness — horror writers, soldiers, undertakers. Others need the illusion of peace — carolers, dreamers, children staring at a lit tree. They don’t mix.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you see? We all mix. Even the most hopeful child carries a nightmare somewhere in their chest. And even the darkest soul looks for one candle to guide them home.”

Host: The rain began outside — slow, deliberate, like a ritual. Each drop splashed against the window, blurring the street into a watery painting of reflections and faint color. Jack watched it with narrowed eyes, as though reading a hidden code.

Jack: “Halloween isn’t just fear, Jeeny. It’s honesty. It’s the one night people admit the monsters they hide every day. It’s truth. No pretending, no comfort. That’s why I like it. Christmas? It’s the opposite. It’s denial dressed in lights.”

Jeeny: “Denial? Or healing? Maybe people need that illusion, Jack. Maybe they need one night to believe the world can be kind again.”

Jack: “So you’d rather believe in fairy tales than see the bones beneath them?”

Jeeny: “I’d rather believe in redemption — that even bones can be beautiful when light touches them.”

Host: The lights outside flickered again — a passing car, a breath of electricity, a reminder of how fragile every glow truly is. The waitress, tired and pale, refilled their mugs and drifted away without a word. The coffee steam curled between them like a ghost.

Jack: “You ever notice how people decorate for Halloween? They hang skeletons, cobwebs, fake blood — but it’s all play. They flirt with death because they don’t understand it. They make it safe. But death isn’t safe, Jeeny. It’s the one truth we can’t soften.”

Jeeny: “And yet we try. Because trying is human. Because even when we know death waits, we still light candles, still sing songs, still wrap gifts for each other. Isn’t that defiance? Isn’t that courage?”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, the line of his mouth hard as stone. He looked away, out the window, where a child in a witch’s hat chased the edge of the rain, laughing. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes — a memory, perhaps.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I loved Halloween. The masks, the mischief — it felt like freedom. Then my mother died two days before Christmas. The lights never looked the same after that. It was like the season mocked me. So yeah, maybe I was born for Halloween. It tells the truth — everything dies. Christmas just pretends otherwise.”

Jeeny: “I’m sorry, Jack.”

Host: Her voice was barely a whisper, fragile as breath on glass. She reached across the table, her hand hovering near his but not quite touching.

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the beauty of Christmas — that it dares to pretend. That it believes light can return, even when all evidence says otherwise. Isn’t that what hope is — an impossible faith?”

Jack: “Hope is the cruelest trick. It keeps people waiting for miracles that never come.”

Jeeny: “And yet you’re still here. Still breathing. Still hoping enough to argue about it.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick with unsaid words, the kind that echo louder than speech. The rain intensified, a furious rhythm against the glass. The neon sign outside buzzed — “OPEN” — its last letter flickering in protest.

Jeeny: “Jack, Halloween and Christmas aren’t enemies. They’re stories we tell ourselves to survive. Halloween says: embrace your shadow. Christmas says: believe in light anyway. Don’t you see? They need each other.”

Jack: “You make it sound like a marriage.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Death and life, shadow and light, despair and hope — always together, always dancing.”

Host: A faint smile tugged at the corner of Jack’s mouth, reluctant, bitter, but real. He lifted his mug, took a long sip, and let out a quiet sigh.

Jack: “You’d make a good preacher, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No. Just a believer in contradictions. That’s where truth hides.”

Jack: “Then maybe I’ve spent too long on the wrong holiday.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you’ve just been celebrating both without realizing it. Your Halloween built your strength; your Christmas is still waiting to heal you.”

Host: The clock ticked again — louder this time, deliberate, echoing through the hollow of the diner. Somewhere down the street, a group of teenagers laughed, their voices rising and fading like distant fireworks.

Jack looked at Jeeny, his eyes no longer sharp but shadowed with memory.

Jack: “Maybe we’re all haunted. Some by ghosts of what we lost, some by dreams of what we still want.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what it means to be human — to walk between those ghosts and dreams, every single day.”

Host: The rain began to ease. Outside, a thin mist rose from the pavement, wrapping the world in pale silver. The neon light above them hummed one last time, then went out, leaving only the dim glow of the streetlamps.

Jeeny rose, pulled on her coat, and looked back at Jack. He hesitated, then stood too. Their reflections in the window merged — one shadow, one light — indistinguishable in the blur.

Host: As they stepped outside, the camera followed them into the night. Behind them, the diner faded into the mist, its door swinging shut with a soft chime. Ahead, the street stretched — part Halloween, part Christmas, part everything between.

Host: And in that fleeting balance of shadow and sparkle, the world whispered its quiet confession — that every soul carries both a candle and a mask, both a wound and a wish.

Some people are born for Halloween.
Some are just counting the days until Christmas.
And the rest — they live in the fragile, beautiful space between.