The Witching Hour Gathering
By Karin Shard
This Halloween, I’ll host the kind of party that toes the line between cozy and creepy, playful and chilling. Not a raucous bar crawl or a noisy house packed with strangers, but a smaller gathering—just a handful of friends in a space transformed for the night.
The house will set the stage. Pumpkins with flickering faces will line the porch steps, each carved with expressions that lean more uncanny than cute. A fog machine tucked near the door will spill mist over the walkway, curling like restless spirits. Inside, I’ll trade out bright bulbs for candlelight and strands of orange and purple lights. Shadows will stretch long across the walls, and cobwebs will cling in corners where they never were before.
The food will be both whimsical and unsettling. I’ll serve “severed finger” hot dogs, mummy-wrapped in pastry strips, and a guacamole-spewing jack-o’-lantern surrounded by chips. Platters of ghost-shaped meringues and chocolate cupcakes topped with cookie gravestones will sit beside a dark loaf of bread scored like a skull. To wash it all down, there’ll be “Witch’s Breath” lavender gin fizz, “Bloody Hearts” with pomegranate and lychee eyeballs, and a bubbling cauldron of lime punch fogging dramatically with dry ice. For the quieter moments, spiced cider will steam in black mugs, comforting against the October chill.
Once everyone’s had a chance to pile their plates, I’ll coax them into games. We’ll start silly—Monster Freeze Dance under the glow of strobe lights, followed by Pin the Heart on the Zombie for a few rounds of laughter. Then the mood will shift. I’ll darken the room and announce Murder in the Dark, where one player hunts the rest in shadows. I can already imagine the shrieks and laughter echoing through the hallways as someone lunges out of nowhere.
To balance the screams, I’ll bring us back together around the dining table for a quieter game. At the center will be a black bowl I’ll call the Witch’s Cauldron, filled with folded slips of paper. Some will hold silly dares—“howl at the moon” or “recite your best evil laugh”—but others will lean into the eerie: “tell the creepiest true story you know” or “stare into the mirror and whisper your name three times.” With the candles burning low, I know those darker challenges will feel a little too convincing.
And yes—I’ll bring out the Ouija board. Whether anyone believes or not, everyone’s fingers will hover nervously, the room hushed as questions are asked: Who’s still here? What do you want? Inevitably, the planchette will shift, and someone will swear they didn’t push it. Maybe they didn’t.
Once we’re all properly rattled, we’ll retreat to the living room for movies. I’ll start light—something nostalgic like Beetlejuice or Hocus Pocus—to keep spirits high. But later, once the drinks are half gone and blankets pulled close, we’ll step into scarier territory: The Conjuring, Hereditary, maybe even Insidious. There will be screams and muffled groans, people hiding behind pillows or laughing too loudly to cover their nerves. That mix of fear and giddiness will be perfect.
As midnight draws near, the night will take on a hushed quality. The games will be over, the movies fading to credits, but the atmosphere won’t fully let go. Candles will still flicker low, the fog machine giving its last tired sigh, shadows shifting just a little too much for comfort. Someone will joke that the house feels haunted. Someone else will insist they heard an extra voice during the Ouija. We’ll laugh it off—half-serious, half not.
When my friends finally head out, I’ll hand them little goody bags: glow-in-the-dark skeletons, candy, maybe tiny bottles of spiced rum. They’ll leave still buzzing with adrenaline, teasing one another about who screamed loudest or who “cheated” in the games.
And when the door closes, I’ll stand for a moment in the quiet house, surveying the remains of the night: the scattered candy wrappers, the empty glasses, the wax dripping down to nothing. The laughter will still seem to echo faintly in the walls. Perhaps something else lingered too, pulled in by the food, the games, or simply the company.
That’s the Halloween party I’ll host—part feast, part fright, equal measures of laughter and goosebumps. Not the biggest, not the wildest, but the kind of night we’ll talk about long afterward, with a shiver and a smile, wondering whether the shadows were just shadows after all.
Karin Shard is an editor and writer living in Squamish, BC. She is co-editor of What’s On Queer BC and former editor and publisher of the Squamish Tongue in Cheek