Sunday, October 31, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 7)
Halloween in Point Place wasn't scary.
It was competitive.
Which was worse.
Because competitive meant everyone watched everyone else, measuring costumes, candy bowls, lawns, children.
It meant mothers smiled too hard and fathers drank too much and kids learned early that being "cute" was currency.
Kitty Forman loved Halloween for the exact reason Red Forman hated it:
It was a community event.
Kitty wanted community the way other women wanted safety.
Red wanted privacy the way other men wanted power.
Monica wanted control.
Laurie wanted a stage.
Eric wanted sugar.
And the town wanted something else entirely:
A reason to talk.
______
Kitty had been planning for a week.
Not in big ways—Kitty didn't have Burkhart money, didn't have fancy decorations, didn't have the kind of home people used as proof of status.
But Kitty had pride.
So Kitty carved a pumpkin carefully, smiling like this was joy and not labor.
She made caramel apples and wrapped them in wax paper like she was sending them to war.
She even put out little paper ghosts taped to the windows.
Red called them "junk."
Kitty called them "festive."
Monica watched her mother work and recognized something sad beneath it:
Kitty was trying to make the house feel warm enough to compete with the cold.
Not weather cold.
Money cold.
Stress cold.
The kind of cold that made Red's temper sharper every week.
Monica had noticed the overtime cutting.
The little comments.
The way Red's shoulders sat higher, tighter.
The way Kitty avoided looking at the mailbox.
The way Laurie suddenly asked for more things, louder, like she could squeeze money out of air if she demanded hard enough.
Halloween didn't fix any of it.
But Kitty wanted one night where it felt like it didn't matter.
_______
Laurie's costume was a princess dress.
Of course it was.
Kitty had tried to suggest a witch, a cat, something easy.
Laurie had refused with the fury of a child who believed she was owed beauty.
So Kitty had sewn a cheap crown to a headband, fixed the hem, pinned the dress so it didn't drag.
Laurie spun in front of the mirror, pleased. "I look like a real princess."
Kitty smiled tightly. "You do."
Monica's costume was simple: a black dress Kitty had altered, a pointed hat, a broom made from a stick and twine.
A witch.
Not because Monica loved witches.
Because witches were practical.
Witches didn't need approval to be powerful.
Witches didn't need permission.
Witches were feared.
Monica liked that.
Eric was dressed as a dinosaur because if Eric didn't get his dinosaur costume, Eric would have burned the house down with tears.
Red looked at the three of them lined up in the living room like he was assessing a battlefield.
Laurie princess. Monica witch. Eric dinosaur.
Red grunted. "That's… something."
Kitty laughed too brightly. "Oh, Red, they look adorable."
Red muttered, "Yeah."
But Monica watched him closely.
Red's eyes weren't just on costumes.
They flicked to the candy bowl.
The caramel apples.
The pumpkin.
The spending.
Red didn't say "we can't afford this."
Red didn't need to.
He just got quieter.
And Red quiet was always the most dangerous kind of Red.
_______
They went out just after dusk.
The neighborhood smelled like leaves and chimney smoke and the kind of cold that made your cheeks hurt.
Porch lights glowed.
Kids ran in packs, yelling.
Adults stood on porches with bowls, smiling like it was mandatory.
Kitty held Eric's hand tight, because Eric was the kind of child who would sprint into traffic if a candy wrapper blew the wrong direction.
Laurie walked ahead like she was leading a parade.
Monica walked beside Red.
Not because she was scared.
Because Red liked Monica close when he was tense.
Monica understood Red's tension wasn't just personal. It was structural.
A man at the plant didn't control his hours.
A man at the plant didn't control layoffs.
A man at the plant didn't control the slow grind of bills, expectations, and a family that needed him.
Red's pride was a job.
So when the job shook, Red shook too.
He didn't cry.
He didn't complain.
He just got sharper.
Monica stayed near him like an anchor.
_______
The first few houses were normal.
Candy. Compliments. Small talk.
"Oh, what a lovely princess!"
"Oh, look at that dinosaur!"
"Oh, you're such a cute little witch!"
Monica smiled politely, said thank you, took candy, moved on.
Laurie soaked up praise like it was oxygen.
Eric shoved candy into his mouth immediately and then cried when Kitty tried to stop him.
Red's jaw tightened every time a neighbor made a comment about "growing up so fast."
Because Red didn't trust nostalgia.
Nostalgia made people soft.
Softness made you lose.
At the fourth house, Mrs. Thompson appeared again—church lady, gossip engine, smile sharp.
"Oh!" Mrs. Thompson sang, eyes wide. "Kitty! Red! Aren't you just the most precious family!"
Kitty smiled. "Happy Halloween!"
Mrs. Thompson bent down to Laurie. "And who are you supposed to be?"
Laurie lifted her chin. "A princess."
Mrs. Thompson gushed. "Of course you are. You look beautiful."
Laurie beamed.
Mrs. Thompson's eyes flicked to Monica. "And you… a little witch?"
Monica said calmly, "Yes, ma'am."
Mrs. Thompson chuckled like Monica had said something funny. "Well, that suits you."
Kitty's smile tightened immediately. "Mrs. Thompson—"
Mrs. Thompson waved a hand, laughing. "Oh, I'm kidding! Monica is such a serious child. Like her father."
Red's eyes narrowed. "Give them the candy."
Mrs. Thompson blinked, startled at the sharpness.
Then she laughed again, forced, and handed candy out like she was complying with a threat.
As they walked away, Kitty whispered, "Red…"
Red muttered, "That woman needs a muzzle."
Monica didn't react outwardly, but she stored it away:
Red was on edge.
Red didn't tolerate jabs tonight.
Which meant something was happening at the plant.
Or something was coming.
_____
Halfway down the block, Monica saw a familiar shape: a skinny boy in a cheap costume that didn't fit right, trailing behind a group of kids who weren't really letting him join.
Steven.
Hyde.
He wasn't dressed like anything specific—just a dark hoodie, cheap plastic mask in his hand, like he didn't care enough to commit.
The other kids laughed loudly, shoving each other, not looking at him unless it was to mock.
Monica felt the same tightness in her chest she'd felt at the church picnic.
Not pity.
Recognition.
Laurie spotted him too and made a face. "Ew."
Kitty frowned. "Laurie."
Laurie shrugged. "He's gross."
Red's eyes flicked to the group, sharp.
Not because Red cared about Steven personally.
Because Red hated packs.
Packs made trouble.
Trouble made attention.
Attention made police.
And Red had no patience for police involvement in his life.
Steven's eyes flicked toward Monica briefly.
He didn't wave.
He didn't smile.
But Monica recognized the flicker: I see you.
Monica didn't make a big gesture.
She just nodded once.
Steven's gaze dropped quickly like he didn't want anyone to see he'd acknowledged her.
Monica understood.
Everything in Point Place was watched.
Even Halloween.
Especially Halloween.
_______
The deeper they went into the neighborhood, the richer the houses got.
Not mansion-rich.
Just… comfortable-rich.
Bigger bowls of candy.
Better decorations.
The kind of porch lights that didn't flicker.
Kitty's smile got tighter here, like she was aware of every difference between her home and theirs.
Red's jaw clenched more.
Laurie walked even taller, determined to look like she belonged.
Monica watched the performance and understood the unspoken hierarchy:
Poor kids were cute as long as they stayed grateful.
Rich kids were charming even when they were cruel.
And Red Forman didn't fit in either category cleanly.
He was proud.
And pride didn't translate well in a town that worshipped money quietly.
At one house, a man in a nice sweater handed out full-size candy bars.
Kitty's eyes widened. "Oh! How generous!"
The man smiled. "We try."
Red muttered under his breath, "Must be nice."
Kitty shot him a warning look.
Red's shoulders tightened.
Monica felt it: Red's pride scraping against the town's casual wealth.
It wasn't jealousy, exactly.
It was resentment.
Resentment that some men didn't have to sweat for dignity.
Resentment that some men could buy goodwill with chocolate.
Resentment that his worth was measured in shifts and hours and whether he could keep his family "respectable."
Monica walked closer to Red and said quietly, "Dad, your hands are cold."
Red blinked, thrown off his internal spiral. "What?"
Monica held her small gloved hand up. "Mine too."
Red stared at her for a beat.
Then, gruffly, he took her hand.
It wasn't soft.
It wasn't tender.
But it was an anchor.
Monica had redirected him.
Kitty exhaled, relief flickering across her face.
Laurie glanced back and scowled, because Laurie hated seeing Monica get Red's attention.
Eric stomped his dinosaur feet, whining for more candy.
The town glittered with porch lights and laughter.
And Monica, holding her father's hand, thought:
This is what family is in Point Place.
A performance.
A battle.
A tight grip in the dark.
_______
On the way home, Eric fell asleep standing up.
Kitty had to half-carry him.
Laurie counted her candy like it was a bank statement, muttering about who got more.
Monica walked beside Red again, quiet.
When their porch light came into view, Red's shoulders loosened by a fraction—home territory.
Kitty sighed happily. "Oh, that was fun."
Red grunted. "Yeah."
Kitty laughed. "Red, say it was fun."
Red muttered, "It was fine."
Kitty took that like it was a love poem.
Inside, Kitty set Eric on the couch and covered him with a blanket.
Laurie dumped her candy onto the coffee table, sorting by type like she was organizing assets.
Monica placed her candy carefully in a small pile, calm.
Red watched the candy piles for a moment.
Then he said, out of nowhere, voice low: "Plant's talking layoffs."
The room shifted.
Kitty froze mid-motion.
Laurie looked up, confused, not fully understanding.
Monica felt her stomach drop anyway.
Kitty's voice trembled but stayed bright out of desperation. "Oh, Red—don't—don't say that."
Red's jaw clenched. "I'm saying it."
Kitty swallowed hard. "Are you… are you okay?"
Red's eyes narrowed like the question offended him. "I'm fine."
Kitty nodded too fast. "Of course. Of course you are."
Red's gaze flicked to Monica.
Always Monica.
Like he checked her the way he checked the locks.
Monica stood still and said quietly, "Do you want tea, Dad?"
Red's mouth tightened, like he wanted to say no.
Then he exhaled hard. "Yeah."
Kitty blinked, surprised—because Red rarely accepted comfort out loud.
Monica moved into the kitchen and started the kettle the way she'd seen Kitty do a hundred times.
She didn't rush.
She didn't panic.
She made the house functional.
That was her role.
Laurie watched from the living room, eyes sharp, recognizing the shift even if she didn't understand the words.
Because Laurie didn't need to understand layoffs to understand this:
Dad was stressed.
Monica was stepping in.
Kitty was shaking.
Laurie's resentment would grow teeth in times like this.
Monica knew it.
As the kettle whistled, Monica thought of her Future Box upstairs.
She would write it down.
Because writing things down made them real.
And Monica needed reality, even when it was ugly.
_______
Later, after tea, after Kitty forced smiles back onto her face, after Red went to the garage to "check something" that didn't need checking, Monica went upstairs and opened her Future Box.
She wrote:
October 31, 1965: Halloween. Point Place performs. Mrs. Thompson jabbed. Hyde seen again—alone even in a crowd.
Dad said the plant is talking layoffs. Money cold is coming. Kitty is scared. Laurie is watching.
Rule: keep the house calm. Keep Dad anchored. Keep Eric out of Laurie's hands when stress rises.
Then she paused, pencil hovering.
And added the line she didn't want to write, but needed to:
When adults lose control, kids become weapons.
Monica closed the box.
She lay back in bed, candy sweetness still in the air, autumn wind tapping at the window.
And she stared at the ceiling and whispered the truth she'd learned in two lifetimes:
"Happy nights don't stop bad years."
Then she forced herself to add, because she couldn't afford despair:
"But they can help you survive them."