Too Much Halloween. Not for Armani Fletcher
Armani Fletcher doesn’t just like Halloween, she breathes it, dreams it, and probably bleeds orange and black. While most people pick up a pumpkin and a bag of candy each October, Armani treats Halloween like a competitive sport. Every year, she hits every art and craft show within driving distance, hunting for the next great decoration that will “complete the look” of her already overstuffed haunted empire.
Vendors at the county fairs know her by name. The moment they see that determined sparkle in her eye and the pumpkin spice latte in her hand, they brace themselves. Armani doesn’t ask for discounts. She doesn’t flinch at the price tag. If it glows, cackles, spins, or screams, she buys it. “How much?” she asks. “Three hundred.” “I’ll take two,” she says without blinking. Her friends have stopped trying to reason with her. When one of them asked, “Where are you even going to put all this?” Armani simply replied, “The bathtub’s free for now.”
By mid-October, her house becomes a landmark. Kids come from blocks away to stare in awe at the spectacle. Her yard is packed with inflatables, skeletons, cauldrons, and at least one twelve-foot witch that scares delivery drivers half to death. The lights flash, the fog rolls, and the neighborhood dogs have developed an ongoing feud with her animatronic werewolf. Her electric bill looks like it belongs to a theme park, but Armani just laughs it off. “Magic costs money,” she says.
Inside the house isn’t any calmer. The living room is a maze of motion-sensor zombies, the kitchen has glow-in-the-dark spiders on the walls, and the dining table centerpiece is a talking skull named Morty. Her husband Rick swears he’s used to it, though he recently started keeping his tools in the shed, mainly because it’s the only place that isn’t haunted.
When Halloween finally arrives, Armani stands in her yard surrounded by fog, twinkling lights, and a small crowd of impressed trick-or-treaters. She sips her coffee, surveys her glowing kingdom, and smiles with pure satisfaction. “Maybe next year I’ll go bigger,” she says. Rick groans. “There is no bigger,” he mutters, but she’s already scrolling online, looking for another twelve-foot monster or something that howls at the moon.
Because the truth is, Armani doesn’t celebrate Halloween once a year, she lives it. And if you ever drive down Maple Lane in October, you’ll know exactly which house is hers. It’s the one lighting up the night, making ghosts jealous, and proving that sometimes too much Halloween is just enough.
