On a dusky, darkening autumn night, the high-pitched wails of children can be heard beyond the safe confines of warm living rooms, echoing through the chilly streets of Derry. Little goblins and ghouls, vampires and werewolves, heroes and legends approach doorsteps with excitement and trepidation. It’s Halloween; the day of the dead, the Samhain festival, the autumn equinox, where bobbing for apples, baking apple tarts and getting dressed up in scary attire have been a part of the fabric of Derry life since time immemorial.
When I was a child, Halloween was nowhere near as flashy as it is today, with its festivals and parades and thousands of visitors who line the streets of Derry each year dressed in the most elaborate costumes. There was none of the Americanisation of Halloween either when I was a nipper. We didn’t have Jack o’ Lanterns or Trick or Treating. And we certainly didn’t buy costumes. Most of us were broke. Instead, I would carefully create my costume from a scratch and hope that someone would notice the effort. Mum’s cupboard was always a good place to hunt down some fabric, and there I’d end up, scissors in hand, to my mother’s horror.
One year, I made my own costume of Quasimodo, the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I even tried to walk like the tragic fictional character, going full Quasi as I ventured from door-to-door. I’m not sure where I had come across the infamous bell ringer. I certainly hadn’t read the book yet and Disney had not graced us with its light-hearted animated version. But there I was shoving scrunched-up newspapers into my back and dragging my right foot around behind me as I appealed to people at their doorsteps to give me something for the effort. They did; the pity, disgust and confusion palpable as they thrust their withered fruit towards me.
Yes, fruit. There was none of this “Trick or Treat” malarkey. The streets around our home would reverberate as children bellowed in unison to poor householders who opened their doors to them. But our phrase of choice was “Any nuts and apples?” And we’d get just that: Nuts and apples. When I tell my nieces and nephews of this fruit and legume hell, they stare at me with the vacant expression of complete incomprehension. It’s a strange feeling when you finally realise that your memories and experiences have become as irrelevant and obscure for modern times as a caveman chiselling stones for the mammoth hunt. Anyway, I digress.
The odd generous house would throw in a Curly Wurly or KitKat, and there’d be gasps of unparalleled ecstasy among our little monster squad. A chocolate bar — what heaven was this? The rumours would circulate of the chocolate house and scores of children would tear down the streets to make it to that particular house before they would run out.
Throughout the year, we’d be told countless horror stories of ghosts who would roam around looking for children to feast on or take them to purgatory — that place of limbo, which is neither heaven nor hell. This was brought to a rousing crescendo come Halloween. These terrifying entities usually spent their evenings in the woods or near the river, places that generally adults didn’t want us to visit. The Wee White Woman, who was noticeable for her flowing white clothes and wailing voice, spent her nights at the bottom of the fields at the end of our street. Someone would always swear that they saw her flying through the trees with her telltale torturous tones.
Halloween has changed today, but it’s still as magical as ever for the young and old alike. The event in Derry has evolved from generations of Irish people. This year I’ll be carving, dressing up and enjoying the festivities, while listening out for the children, ready with a handful of chocolates, jellied worms and spiders to dish out. I hope I spot another Quasimodo. Happy Halloween, everyone.
Christina Curran is a journalist currently studying a Masters in International Relations at Queen’s University, Belfast.
