Halloween is a holiday teaching us that fear can be fun.

Enjoying fear remains a selective process. Why is it that some people don't hesitate riding a roller coaster titled "Screaming Brain Damage," but are paralyzed with anxiety boarding a routine flight? The same reason I like being frightened by someone armed with a chainsaw behind a camouflaged fog machine, but want to run for the nearest exit in a reception area full of smiling strangers holding wine glasses.

Reassurance offered children who are cowering from a Halloween Pinhead mask or a Freddy manicure is, "It's just pretend." So are some cordial cocktail party relationships, but that doesn't make them any less scary.

Many parents experience the three-year-old child's Halloween Syndrome. He excitedly wears his costume to the grocery store starting Oct. 1, wanting a new persona every other day, particularly after the sales are over and retail shelves stripped. He speaks of nothing but his anticipation of the night's ghoulish events.

Barely Halloween twilight, stepping out the front door, he hears creepy music emanating from the neighbor's house. He promptly runs to his room, covering his head with a pillow. Coaxing him to help distribute candy after several Disney princesses' giggly visit, the next doorbell ring introduces Jason, a blood-dripping fanged vampire, and two shrouded Screams. The three-year-old returns to his bed for the rest of the night, without ever sleeping. For days. Occasionally, like the case of Bill Boucher, he's never quite right again.

Pranks were once an integral part of the Halloween routine, perhaps encouraging the viewpoint that fearing children and teenagers is fun, too. My brother's birth was anticipated in mid-January 1957, but he appeared suddenly on Halloween. When my father returned home without wife or baby (still clinging to life in an incubator), he found the house vandalized, the trick part of not providing a treat. It was all cleaned up by the time my brother came home two months later. I think that's why my mother forgave erratic, speeding drivers, saying, "You know, they could be on their way to the hospital."

In the late '80s, rural Pennsylvanian kids were still practicing Mischief Night on October 30. In our neighborhood, it mostly involved soaping windows, egging, and knocking over mailboxes, unlike the mayhem unleashed in Detroit, where a bonfire was actually someone's place of business.

A girlfriend in Pittsburgh told the story of dressing as a nun and her partner as a priest for a Halloween party. On the way, they happened upon a car accident. When they approached the disoriented victim, he was horrified that clergy were called, apparently believing it signified his demise.

I think the modern incarnation of Halloween celebrations lets us release a few inhibitions, but hopefully not too many. In the process, we mock death, the ultimate fear.