Our next bachelorette vying to be the Bride of Creepy is Eva Halloween (aka Lilla Spöket), who spends much of her time blogging at The Year of Halloween. She lists her date of birth as October 29th, 1929, which may be a little too young for a bride who suggests in her profile to be immortal. We’re grave robbers, not cradle robbers!
About her: To be completely honest, I’m technically already the bride of Satan. But do I complain every seventy-seven years when he is “compelled” to take another virgin bride? No. I do not. Although I did draw the line when he insisted we start calling him the “Lord of the Fly Girls.” I mean, REALLY. But you try telling a being as old as time that his pop culture references are a bit…dated. As you can probably guess, my little comment caused a something of a tiff, so what else to do but stretch my wings and sew a few oats of my own here on this material plane? In between a bit of Hell raising and other social engagements, I keep my hands from being too idle by guiding you delicious mortals into all manner of Halloween temptations.
For the ultimate creepy date she’d go to: Hm, Will Rogers Park? “Let’s meet at a dark park named for a guy who *really* loved his horse.”
In a horror film, she’d most likely be: The only one to survive.
Her ideal funeral: Goodness, we undying don’t typically get to plan our own funerals (it just seems like a bit of a waste of time, darling, you understand). So I suppose my ideal funeral is one where I get to be the Mistress of Ceremonies and coordinate the performing artists, circus animals, and peanut hawkers. Or wait, did I mix up funeral and circus again? Which one has the cotton candy?
Who is the sexiest horror icon ever? Why, Eva Halloween, of course.
Tell us about your creepiest Los Angeles moment: Driving north on Benedict Cañon Drive, the road twists, tight, trees hanging close. It was long after dark. Tucked away down narrow side streets I passed the ghosts of old Hollywood, stars whose wealth had not insulated them from tragedy. Continuing across Mulholland, the ground dropped away alarmingly to my right, a negative space more felt than seen in the dark. Finally I arrived at my location, Beverley Glen Park, for a meeting that was never to occur. The gate to the park, cemetery-esque, stood open, but the park was empty, save for a single lonely lit candle, cupped by a shallow bowl.
