Funny thing about perception, it makes all the difference.

I think about this a lot as the leaves fall and Halloween approaches like a spider dropping from the ceiling. Some people view the Halloween season as a fun, colorful extravaganza of the senses. Others view it as an unsettling harbinger of ugly, nasty things to come. Halloween is all about the way one perceives it. Perception can be strange, though. The fun can turn frightening, the sad can turn sublime.

One October some friends and I decide to see a lecture by two self-described paranormal experts. We figure this will be an entertaining thing to do in keeping with the creepy season.

We're all seated in an auditorium listening to the ghost hunters talk about their experiences. They're showing slides of a doll that supposedly has a murderous side, a graveyard where a lady in white walks, and a fog that is allegedly more than just mist. Am I spooked? Not really. This is interesting but not particularly scary.

And then it happens. Someone screams.

The sound erupts from the back of the auditorium and those of us toward the front turn around. What is going on? Why would someone scream?

The disturbing part is that the scream seems to move. It travels through the audience like a fog that is more than mist, like a lady in white passing through headstones. I can feel it coming. I can feel it go through my body when it arrives.

When everyone settles back down, the lecture continues. The rest of the lecture isn't scary. The flashback of that scream is. Why did someone scream? I don't know to this day. All I know is that my visceral reaction to it keeps me awake until the wee hours that night. I can't stop hearing that sound. I can't stop feeling it hit me in the chest.

Perception works both ways. Another time my friend Moo and I are walking down a local road. It's a gorgeous day for a stroll and we're feeling good. Sun on our backs, fresh air in our lungs. Suddenly we come upon something that looks odd.

"What is that?" I ask.

"I don't know. Let's get closer," Moo replies.

We get closer. There it is in the middle of the road. White on black. Fluff on asphalt.

"Ohmigawd," Moo cries. "Is that . . . no!"

"Dead dog! Dead dog in the road!" I say flapping my hands like a deranged penguin trying to take flight.

We both stop. What else can you do when there's a dead dog in the road?

"Omigawdomigawdomigawd!" Moo says as one continuous loop.

"I can't! I can't! I can't!" I say as one continuous loop.

There's an old man holding the dog's leash. He's tugging on it, trying to get the lifeless animal to move. It's the saddest thing I've ever seen and I can do nothing but stand frozen repeating, "I can't! I can't! I can't!"

The old man stops tugging and simply stares. The dog is as still as a stone. The ancient gent tugs on the leash once more. Suddenly there's movement. The dog gathers itself onto its four legs and then looks up at the man, tail wagging. "Stubborn," the man growls as he leads the dog out of the road and onto the grass.

Moo and I suddenly find the entire scene hysterical and collapse giggling. One minute we're traumatized, the next in tears but from laughter.

So what will this Halloween season bring? Will my perception of something change like leaves turning from soft green to blazing orange?

If things go from sweet to sour, I'll have to do my best to turn them around again. If a treat turns into a trick I'll have a frighteningly potent cocktail to help alter my perception. A black widow martini or a vampire's kiss, perhaps. I don't think scream-tinis or dead dog drafts will be available. Yet.

Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com.