The First Mask

Some might say the first mask appeared four decades ago on a Halloween night. It started at the Garden and Gun Club, then continued at the Battery in Charleston after midnight, where we met and Painted People's Zeno Dexter Eliot came to life...

​Halloween in Peekskill: The First Mask
I never expected Peekskill to rival San Francisco in Halloween spirit. But this year, it did. Not in scale, perhaps—but in mood, in magic, in the way the night wrapped itself around us like a velvet cloak stitched with memory and mischief. San Francisco was always a fever dream of drag queens and fog, but Peekskill—Peekskill surprised me.

Whiskey River: Where the Spell Was Cast
Whiskey River pulsed like a heart too full of joy. Our bartender--dirndled and defiant—spun vinyl like a Bavarian siren, luring us into the night with “Funky Town” and “Thriller.” The crowd swelled, shoulder to shoulder, like Manhattan on New Year’s Eve. For a moment, the bar shed its small-town skin. We were somewhere else—somewhere mythic. Somewhere masked.

Alien-Devil and the Monster I Become
Hallow’s Eve began with my companion cloaked in Alien-Devil drag, a creature of horns and glitter. We matched masks, matched moods, matched madness. We drank too much, smoked too much, laughed too loud. The night spilled into morning, and I woke days later still haunted by the revelry. Recovery now takes longer. The monster I become in the aftermath lingers—groggy, tender, half-formed.

Saleh’s Candy and the Joy of Being Unknown
The mask worked. Saleh didn’t recognize me—his grin faltered, then bloomed when he saw the hoodie. That moment of confusion turned sweet when he handed me a bag of candy. A treat, not a trick. At Latin Deli, Luis was fooled too. Only my friend’s coat gave us away. Luis’s wife and daughter—witches both—cast their own spell. I’ve always believed every woman carries a bit of witch in her. Some heal. Some hex. Most do both.

The Shift Toward Holiday Magic
Now the veil lifts. Halloween fades into memory, and the season turns. I feel it in the air—the slow descent into Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Eve. The rituals return: candles, coats, cinnamon. Peekskill glows differently now. The streets hum with anticipation. I’m ready for it—ready to gather, to archive, to let the warmth in.

Painted People: The Story Begins
It’s always after Halloween that the Painted People mythos stirs. Abel Erikson’s journey begins in the wake of disguise and revelry. Charleston. The Battery. A boy with a backpack and a cigarette. Abel watches. Wants. Waits.

Prologue: The First Mask
It began on a November night, three years ago, beneath a full moon that veined the Charleston sky in silver. The city moved impatiently—brake lights blinking, waves lapping—but Abel stood still, watching a boy perched atop an overstuffed backpack at the Battery. The boy smoked with ritual intensity, each motion precise and deliberate. He inhaled deeply, as though the breath itself held some secret warmth that the cold could not touch. For a moment, he seemed to savor that comfort, eyes focused and thoughtful. Then, slowly, he let the smoke drift from his lips, releasing it to mingle with the chill air around them.

Abel wanted him. Not just the body, but the moment—the stillness, the ache, the possibility. He sneezed once, then again, fracturing the quiet. The boy turned. Abel waved. A gap opened, then closed...

Peekskill Halloween

RMS Fall Leaf Peeping Cruise