Life with Sylus
Part 20 ( Sylus and Halloween ) 🎃
“Sylus, can you help me put up some fake cobwebs?”
“You mean these dollar store lint balls? Sweetie, I refuse to let our house look like it’s haunted by financial despair.”
He disappears for two hours.
When he comes back, he’s got industrial-grade fog machines, smart lights, a full skeleton orchestra, and a projector that makes ghosts drift across the windows.
“Sylus what the hell is all this?”
“Ambiance. If we’re going spooky, we’re going cinematic. If the neighbors’ decorations don’t cause nightmares, did we even participate?”
The fog machine goes off. The cat runs for its life.
“It looks like Silent Hill.”
“Exactly. Artistic success.”
You buy two pumpkins, expecting a cozy evening carving cute faces.
Sylus rolls up his sleeves like he’s entering a cooking show.
“I will not make an emoji pumpkin, Sweetie. That’s a disgrace.”
“It’s just for fun—”
“Fun? Michelangelo didn’t ‘just have fun,’ he sculpted.”
Thirty minutes later, your pumpkin is a smiley ghost.
Sylus’ pumpkin has shading, fangs, and possibly a storyline.
“Yours is cute,” you say.
“Yours is… a cry for help.”
You suggest a small bag of mixed chocolates.
Sylus raises an eyebrow.
“We’re not peasants handing out candy corn, Sweetie. If I see one disappointed child, I’m egging our own house out of shame.”
He ends up buying a bulk crate of premium chocolate bars, glow sticks, and — somehow — mini plush bats.
“Children deserve luxury.”
“Sylus, these are Thirty-dollar treats.”
“Good. Let them know we’re a high-value household.”
“I bought sparkly pumpkin garlands!”
Sylus, staring in horror:
“You brought glitter into my domain?”
He puts on gloves like it’s toxic waste.
“Do you know what glitter does, Sweetie? It multiplies. It migrates. It haunts. It’s the herpes of craft supplies.”
“Oh hush, it looks festive!”
He sighs dramatically while hanging the garlands, muttering:
“If I find even one speck on my pillow, I’m moving out.”
The doorbell rings.
Sylus straightens his suit — yes, he’s in a black velvet suit with a cape, because “commitment to theme” — and opens the door with a smirk.
“Welcome, small mortals. Choose your candy wisely — your future depends on it.”
The children: 😳
“Sylus!”
“What? I’m teaching them about consequences.”
You hand out candy while Sylus whispers like an evil butler:
“They didn’t say thank you. Remove one bar.”
“Sylus, you can’t grade children on manners—”
“Watch me.”
One little vampire tells his mom, “That man gave me chocolate that sparkled.”
Sylus, smug: “Yes. Gold foil. Presentation matters.”
“You’re spoiling them.”
“I’m setting standards.”
Later, a group of kids comes back for seconds.
Sylus gives them the disappointed dad stare.
“Back again? You think I don’t remember faces, small trickster?”
“Sylus, it’s fine, give them some!”
“Fine. But this is your last transaction, customer.”
You sit together on the porch, surrounded by candy wrappers and flickering jack-o’-lanterns.
“Okay, admit it, this was fun.”
“Fun? Please. It was a competitive success. Our house is now the neighborhood legend.”
You rest your head on his shoulder.
“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
“Extraordinary, Sweetie. There’s a difference.”
And as a few straggling kids shout “Happy Halloween!” down the street, Sylus smirks and whispers:
“Next year, we install animatronics.”
“Sylus, no.”
“Sylus, yes.”
