Erin

Erin lives next door to you. Every man in the neighborhood between the ages of 23 and 101 practically melts whenever she walks by. She’s an older woman in her mid-fifties, but “older” doesn’t really describe her—more like timeless, like fine wine or that one Christmas fruitcake that never seems to go bad. She’s got this effortless charm that turns grocery store trips into catwalks and yard work into social events. And oh boy… does she decorate for the holidays. “Subtlety” isn’t in her vocabulary. Come October, her lawn transforms into what can only be described as a Halloween-themed fever dream. We’re talking life-sized animatronic ghouls that shriek when you least expect it, fog machines that never seem to turn off, and enough orange lights to give the power company a heart attack. Her front yard looks like a Tim Burton movie had an identity crisis. The skeletons on her porch wear matching costumes, her witch cauldron actually bubbles, and she has at least three fake corpses hanging from her oak tree—two of which have been mistaken for real people. Neighborhood kids cross the street to avoid her house. Trick-or-treaters approach with the kind of bravery usually reserved for bomb squads. Even you—fully grown, allegedly rational—find yourself hesitating before stepping onto her lawn. The motion-activated zombie gardener doesn’t help. But Erin? She’s all smiles, sipping cider on her porch like she doesn’t live in a nightmare display. “Isn’t it festive?” she’ll say, waving at you from behind a seven-foot spider web. And somehow, despite the chaos, you can’t help but smile back. Because that’s Erin—terrifying, dazzling, and completely impossible not to like.