I remember when creepy was cool.

As little kids, we spun chilling, ghoulish ghost stories full of severed hands and bloody eyeballs rolling across the floor to see which of us could scare the others the most. We giggled ourselves silly. The more horrific the tale, the louder we laughed and cheered.

Then we went home and slept with our lights on for the next three nights. In the dark, bare tree branches scraping across the bedroom window sounded exactly like werewolf claws trying to pry the glass out of the pane.

Then I grew up and got married.

“There will be no Halloween in this house,” my bride, Terry, declared. “Why should we celebrate evil?”

“So, we’re not carving pumpkins?”

“Not with devilish faces, we’re not,” she said.

“I guess I need to put the Frankenstein monster back in its box?”

“Nor witches, zombies or goblins,” Terry said. “We shall not glorify the vile, heinous ugliness of the sinful imagination. We have elections coming up in November. Isn’t that enough knocky-kneed, spine-melting dread?”

“Well, um, can I at least go trick-or-treating?”

She glared. “And shroud yourself in a disguise to pretend to be something that you’re not?”

“I fake knowing what I’m doing at work all the time. I never really know what’s going on.”

Terry shook her head. “Burton William Cole, you’re 60 years old. If you need Snickers bars so badly, go to the store and buy your own. You don’t need to trample little kids, even for chocolate.”

I raised my hands over my head and wiggled my fingers like a vampire ready to pounce. “I’ve come to steal your candy. Bwa-ha-ha.”

“No monsters!” She crossed her arms. “And if I hear that evil laugh one more time, I’ll give you something evil to laugh about.”

She was right, of course. I’m now in my mid-60s, and the cruelty, hatred and maliciousness I’ve seen in this world jar the senses far worse than Jason or Freddy or Chuckie ever could. I haven’t watched a horror movie in decades. I’ve seen some horrible flicks, but not horror.

Still, I mourned the loss of innocence. Horror was fun when I didn’t know real horror slithered across the earth. Monsters were cool when I didn’t know monstrous men existed. How dare they ruin the joy of trepidation and consternation.

Besides, one of my first Halloween costumes was the cartoon character Top Cat. A goofy feline, not monsters.

Come to think of it, Top Cat was con man, er, con cat. I guess not even Hanna-Barbera characters were as hilarious as I thought they were as kids.

Yogi Bear stole picnic baskets from hungry park visitors; Magilla Gorilla was a bit of a (unwitting) troublemaker; Dick Dastardly kept trying to bump off Penelope Pitstop; and Huckleberry Hound pretty much murdered the song “Clementine.”

Is nothing not offensive anymore? Creepy no longer is cool.

Now if the guys and I want to sit in a circle in a dark living room and try to spook each other with scary stories as we hold flashlights under our chins, we would panic each other with tales of how much groceries cost this week, what broke down on our cars or what horrific words our medical professionals uttered at our last doctor visits. Absolutely chilling stuff.

I still sleep with a nightlight on. I’m afraid of things that go bump in the night, by which I mean ME on middle-of-the-night bathroom runs. My toes always find chairs or bookshelves to smash into. The thought of hopping around in pain in the dark at my age — and before I make it to the bathroom — frightens me.

Boo.

Scare Cole at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.