HALLOWEEN HAUNTS: ABRACADABRA, I KNOW WHO I AM
HALLOWEEN HAUNTS: ABRACADABRA, I KNOW WHO I AM
Rosemary Thorne
I remember my name and the year I was born. My beautiful house is so nearby that if I close my eyes, I can feel the familiar shine that leads to its shape. No, seriously, I’ve always had a prodigious memory, I know every detail of my life exactly as she wrote them back then: the smell of the rose bushes, the vivid color of the petals at sunset, the drops of blood on the wooden desk, her sudden flat face covered in white powder jumping over me, and a sudden freezing blow. I’ve always wanted to touch the splattered blood, which reflects the sunset like powerful rubies. When I wear the red necklace, the shadows flee and I can rest in peace. It is not as painless as I would like the memory to be, but I can perfectly jump over it as a gracious soul, more than able to overcome its nauseous reek of hell. Yes, her heinous face is covered in white powder, and her mouth reeks of hell, and she leaps over me scattering roses everywhere. Everybody loves roses, especially on Halloween, as tonight is the only eve on which passersby don’t run away from me and accept my treats. She was writing this very line a year ago, and it became true because she wrote it and explained it to the air with great solemnity.
Year after year after year, on a night like tonight’s, just because passersby don’t run away from me and accept my treats.
She wrote that I remember, and thus I remember: Abracadabra, I know who I am, and by writing it, it becomes real, doesn’t it? She believed so and nothing could shake that afterwards. I wish she would stop writing so I can rest in peace. The shadows flee, the splattered rubies cover my neck, and the children accept my treats. I remember my name and the year I was born; that’s all I can say because that’s all that is written. If I close my eyes, I can feel at peace because she’s no longer splattering words. She hasn’t written this yet, so this is not true, so this is not happening, this is not who I am. And yet, if I graciously leap over the reek of hell, I can go upstairs where she’s writing it all now and stop her hand before midnight. It’s almost as if she were waiting for me. She observes me from above. Like a gentle breeze, I graciously leap over her, and her neck is adorned with rubies too. Have you seen how gorgeous my roses look even in the fall? Passersby love them. The shadows flee, and I can finally find peace. She, too, her smashed flat face not reeking of hell anymore, not knowing who she is or the year she was born. Unlike myself now, an unwriter. Abracadabra spelled in reverse. Everything becomes unreal just by unwriting it.
Year
after year
after year.
I know who I am
on Halloween.
With thanks to Richard B. Payne, for his wisdom.
BIO: Rosemary Thorne (she/her) is a bilingual Spanish writer, researcher, and translator living in Madrid, Spain. Born in 1968, she joined the HWA in 2019 and served as the Co-Manager of the HWA International Chapter Program until 2023. Her debut novel, El Pacto de las 12 uvas, (The twelve grapes covenant) was published in December 2021. She also translated Edward Lee’s The Bighead into Spanish for Dimensiones Ocultas Press. Her most recent essay, Rosemary’s Baby: A Satanic Camelot, was published in Spanish by Archivos Vola in 2024. Find out more at: https://linktr.ee/Rosemary_thorne and Instragram at https://www.instagram.com/rosemary__thorne/