A year or two ago, I was walking through downtown Halifax with my son, a fellow Halloween enthusiast, when we saw a bright red Volkswagen Beetle zip past. On the side, in large white letters was the word, Ripsters, and beneath it, Halloween Shop. We both became giddy with excitement. And promptly Googled this new discovery. We discovered that it was primarily an Internet business, but that it did offer limited "walk-in" hours of service. On weekends. So bright and early one Sunday morning, we drove off in search of its physical location. The directions led us to a long deserted driveway in a quiet residential neighbourhood. No sign. No business-like entrance. No other cars. No indication that it was anything other than a private home. We both felt hesitant to drive up and to begin pounding on doors and peering through windows in search of skulls and cobwebs on a weekend morning, so we chose to return home and call ahead first. And then, distracted by a nearby Dairy Queen, we procrastinated and then forgot all about it. No more was seen or heard of Ripsters. Until now.
It appears the owners have opened a bricks-and-mortar location outside of their home. Likely to appeal to more reticent customers, like myself. And it worked. Because this time, I didn't hesitate to walk through the front door. That's the good news. The bad news is that, upon walking through the front door, I felt like I was in a smaller version of Spirit Halloween. Sure, there were a few exceptions. Notably a nifty little "brain" mold that I may pick up. But other than that, nothing spectacular. Nothing particularly interesting or unique.
On the bright side, however, it is a small local business, which I try to support whenever possible, and it's open year round. So I can take some comfort in the knowledge that, if I'm seized with a desire for a plastic chainsaw or some fake blood in the cold bleak days of March, I can satisfy my craving while simultaneously supporting the local economy.