Every October, the world seems to forget that ghosts were once taken seriously. Supermarkets stack plastic pumpkins, malls start selling cobwebs in packets, and your feed fills up with people pretending to be terrified in front of Universal Studios’ latest “Horror Nights” backdrop.
And in Singapore, that’s big business. Universal Studios Singapore has made its Halloween Horror Nights a yearly tradition. Tickets sell out every season. Merch drops. Instagram lights up. Somewhere in all that fog, you can almost hear a cash register ring louder than any scream.
But here’s the funny thing. Halloween didn’t start out this way. Way before the candy, the makeup, and the need to pose under dim red lights, there was Samhain—the Celtic festival that marked the end of harvest and the start of winter. The Celts believed that on October 31, the line between the living and the dead blurred. Spirits roamed, bonfires burned, and people disguised themselves so that wandering souls wouldn’t recognise them.
Later, the Church took that pagan festival and rebranded it into All Hallows’ Eve, which eventually became “Halloween.” What used to be about endings, beginnings, and the thin space between worlds became… well, a marketing event.
According to the National Retail Federation, Halloween spending in the United States is projected to hit a record US$13.1 billion this year. That’s thirteen billion dollars of sugar rush, fake blood and polyester capes. Retail Dive even broke down the numbers: about US$4.3 billion on costumes, US$4.2 billion on decorations, and US$3.9 billion on candy. And each person is expected to spend around US$114 just to join the fun.
Fear, apparently, is a lucrative emotion.
There’s a science behind it. Psychologists say people enjoy being scared—as long as they know it’s safe. It’s the same reason roller coasters work. Fear gives you a rush, and when you survive it, your body rewards you with relief. Some call it “controlled fear.” Others call it “Saturday night.”
The thrill is even better when it’s shared. Scream together, laugh together, and you’ve created a memory. It’s social bonding through mutual panic. Add Instagram into the mix, and you’ve got a perfect loop of fear, laughter and likes.
That’s why horror sells. And once something sells, you can bet the marketing machine will milk it till it glows in the dark.
But as the holiday grew more commercial, it also got more careless—especially when it came to borrowing culture. In recent years, Asian ghost stories have been making cameos in Western-style haunted houses. The pontianak, the toyol, the Japanese onryō—all repackaged as exotic monsters, stripped of their roots. It makes you wonder: when a production uses these figures for cheap thrills, is it paying homage or just turning heritage into props?
The problem isn’t that we share stories—it’s how we share them. When a theme park turns a culture’s spiritual being into a cardboard cut-out, the nuance disappears. What was once sacred becomes spectacle. And as fun as it is to scream, it’s not quite as fun to see your own folklore flattened into costume material.
Singapore, of course, is an interesting place to think about this. We’re multicultural, and our ghost stories are as varied as our food. The pontianak, the penanggal, the hantu raya—these are not just characters, they’re reflections of history, belief, and community. Imagine if, instead of simply copying Western haunted house templates, we used Halloween as a chance to explore our own myths thoughtfully. Imagine a haunted experience that actually teaches, not just terrifies.
The irony is, understanding why we love fear might help us use it better. The same adrenaline that sells tickets could be used to open conversations about anxiety, loss, or change. Fear, when done right, can be introspective. It can teach resilience, empathy, or even cultural respect.
And maybe that’s what we’ve lost a little in all this noise—the original purpose of Halloween. Samhain was never about escaping fear. It was about facing it. The Celts looked into the darkness and said, “Yes, it’s scary—but it’s also natural.” Now, we hide behind costumes and glow sticks, pretending we’re braver than we are.
Still, I’m not saying we should ban the fun. Dress up. Eat the candy. Take the photo. But remember where it came from. When you next walk through a haunted house at USS, maybe ask yourself: what are we really chasing? Is it fear—or is it connection?
Because fear, when you strip away the fake blood and marketing, is really about being human. It’s the thing that reminds us we’re alive. And if Halloween can remind us of that—of our shared vulnerability, our need to make sense of the dark—then perhaps, somewhere between the masks and the merchandise, the festival still carries a pulse.
Written by: Adi Jamaludin
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