The dead don’t return on Halloween. The dead have never left.
Do not think of the dead as inhabiting some dim afterworld.
We living beings are the outliers. We are a tiny minority. The dead outnumber us by billions. It is we who dwell in a dim antechamber to nonexistence. We are the ones temporarily stuck in a pocket universe of sentience.
The dead aren’t aware of us. We think they are but they’re not. We so desperately want them to acknowledge us. I am a writer, just like Shakespeare! I am a singer just like John Lennon! I am a revolutionary like Marx, a philosopher like Plato.
Who are you, again? The dead know you not. They don’t care what you do.
Yet we, the fleshy ghosts, we rattle our chains and howl, and hope for a response. We haunt the dead, or we attempt to. And the wind blows over the graves, and no answer ever comes out of them.
They aren’t scared of us one bit.