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Showing results for tags 'Halloween 2025'.
Found 98 results
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A dream hearse for anyone who grew up presiding over numerous doll funerals: flashy pink guava, strawberry jam, sugared pink grapefruit, blackberry, bergamot, and pink champagne adorned with a gleaming chrome Landau bar.
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I think that woman gets out in the daytime! And I’ll tell you why—privately—I’ve seen her! I can see her out of every one of my windows! It is the same woman, I know, for she is always creeping, and most women do not creep by daylight. I see her on that long shaded lane, creeping up and down. I see her in those dark grape arbors, creeping all around the garden. I see her on that long road under the trees, creeping along, and when a carriage comes she hides under the blackberry vines. I don’t blame her a bit. It must be very humiliating to be caught creeping by daylight! Furtive, uncanny. Blackened blackberry bleeds onto bruised green leaves, crushed grass, and wet earth while tendrils of honeysuckle clutch and grasp at noontime shadows.
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A tribute to the squeaky plastic rats that haunt every Halloween bin — adorable little horrors with gleaming eyes and crooked tails. Shiny black licorice, grey amber, and a dusting of smoky black pepper.
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ARAW NG MGA PATAY The first half of Undas, this is the Day of the Dead in the Philippines. It is a time to remember those who have passed before you, and to do honor to your ancestors. Crypts are whitewashed, cemetery plots are weeded, cleaned, groomed, and decorated with bushels of bright flowers. Offerings of sweets are made to the departed and shared with the living, and toasts are made in remembrance. A cheerful, raucous celebration of life and death: bouquets overflowing with gerbera daisies, waling waling, sampaguita, ylang ylang, hibiscus, night-blooming dama de noche, santan, and everlasting flower with piles upon piles of bibingka, ube halaya, rice muffins, champorado, purple yam cake, and turon, and plates of gooey kalabasa leche flan. Araw Ng Mga Patay - In the bottle, this smells like boozy banana and flan and rice cakes and all sorts of deliciousness. I couldn't believe it didn't seem to be more popular, because it's so foody and sweet and delicious. However, the moment I put it on my skin, another note comes out that I can't smell in the bottle. It's sour and bitter and I've never smelled anything like it before. As it warms up on my skin, that bitter sourness gets stronger and stronger until it has completely overwhelmed every other note in the scent. I have no idea what it is, as there are so many exotic ingredients I've never heard of before. Whatever it is, it smells almost sweetly rancid, like decaying flesh, and it makes me gag. I'm so sorry the first review of this scent couldn't be more positive, but it's just a terribly foul scent on my skin. I washed it off after about 45 minutes because I just couldn't stand it any more.
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Known as the Mistress of Bones and the Lady of the Dead, she is the Queen of Mictlan, the Aztec Underworld, who still presides over today's Day of the Dead rituals. Sometimes known now as La Huesuda, she brings peace and joy to the spirits of the deceased, and blesses the living who do honor to those who have passed before them. Copal, precious woods, South American spices, agave nectar, cigar tobacco, and roses. I've never done a first review before... I'm a little scared! What you shouldn't be scared of, if you dislike roses, is the rose in Mictecacihuatl. It's no more than a floral whisper beneath the resins, woods, and spices. I actually wish it were a little more floral (but then, I love me some roses). Mictecacihuatl is a lovely blend of copal (yum!) and wood (I'm not sure what kind, but I'd say NOT cedar, since that turns to hamster cage on me). The spices add a bit of kick, but they're not the sort of "dirty" spices that are in many BPAL blends, they're much lighter and cleaner. I worried that, with the nectar, tobacco, and rose, this might be too sweet, but it's really not. The sweetness just serves to make the other elements less dry. I really like this one, but I might layer it over something with a stronger rose to bring out that note. If you like woods and resins give this one a try!
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The Lady of the Graveyard! Autumn leaves, wild roses, bourbon vanilla, dry chamomile, and a bouquet of bright chrysanthemums and Mexican marigolds. Aw...I'm first? La Calavera Catrina is one of the most beautiful Autumnal scents ever. The Autumn flowers are perfectly blended, and the vanilla sweetens them up. There's a hint of rose, and chamomile, but neither one overpowers the blend. I get a hint (or more a "feel") of leaves, and they are definitely the crunchy sort that have already fallen to the ground. If you liked Flor de Muerto and Nothing Gold Can Stay, I would highly recommend this. 10/10 ETA: I just wanted to add that this has aged so beautifully and I get compliments every time I wear it. Every. Time. It has become really well blended and more perfumey which is just fine with me! Gorgeous scent and I hope I don't run out.
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Every leaf tells a story.
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You’re a grownup, no one can stop you from slurping up clouds of rooty foam from around a giant glump of pumpkin ice cream squished onto the rim of a frosted goblet.
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Jean Veber Pumpkin cream, honey, vanilla sugar, and smoked vanilla bean. In The Bottle: sweet, creamy vanilla and scratchy vanilla bean, with a breath of pumpkin. Yum! Wet On Skin: the pumpkin comes out a bit more and the honey with it, warming the scent up a bit. Dry Down: A beautiful, light pumpkin ice cream! In All: low throw, a sweet, gentle scent. Not too foodie. Perfect for daytime wear throughout the fall. Total keeper!
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Truly the scent of autumn itself -- damp woods, fir needle, and black patchouli with the gentlest touches of warm pumpkin, clove, nutmeg, allspice, sweet red apple and mullein. There are so many notes here I seem to get something with each squirt. The spices are the strongest notes, and are balanced with the crisp apple and the mellow mullein. And then sometimes it smells like a fruity, spiced pumpkin. It's like the Samhain oil, but with a different manifestation of it with every spray. Very rich and warm...very lovely.
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An inner darkness: ink-black vegetal musk, opoponax, velvet myrrh, nagarmotha, black champa, labdanum, and plum honey.
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FLOR DE MUERTO The orange marigold, or zempasúchitl, has been one of Death's symbols since the pre-Columbian era. The yellow and orange petals are believed to represent the rays of the sun, bringing joy and light to the souls dwelling in the realm of the dead. These flowers surround Day of the Dead altars to guide the spirits to their offerings. out of the bottle this smells quite incredible - a very singular floral note, sweet and nectar-ish, golden in tone - it has a pure, light feeling to it. on my skin, i'm feeling this even more - it has a bit of spice, in the way that carnations have their own spiciness, but it's not like carnation - it really does have a sunny, uplifting quality to it, and very natural. wow. i can really smell the petals....and it's slightly dusky, but light somehow, while still having depth....this one really pulls you into it's flowery zone, it smells so realistic. LOVE THIS! it could work on a little girl or a mature woman.
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But there is something else about that paper—the smell! I noticed it the moment we came into the room, but with so much air and sun it was not bad. Now we have had a week of fog and rain, and whether the windows are open or not, the smell is here. It creeps all over the house. I find it hovering in the dining-room, skulking in the parlor, hiding in the hall, lying in wait for me on the stairs. It gets into my hair. Even when I go to ride, if I turn my head suddenly and surprise it—there is that smell! Such a peculiar odor, too! I have spent hours in trying to analyze it, to find what it smelled like. It is not bad—at first, and very gentle, but quite the subtlest, most enduring odor I ever met. In this damp weather it is awful. I wake up in the night and find it hanging over me. It used to disturb me at first. I thought seriously of burning the house—to reach the smell. But now I am used to it. The only thing I can think of that it is like is the color of the paper! A yellow smell. Scorched wood and oversteeped chamomile petals pressed wetly into beeswax, brittle fossilized amber, a whisper of honeyed hay and saffron, and the sweet decay of overripe butter figs.
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Roasted pumpkin soaked in golden brandy, clove, nutmeg, and vanilla absolute.
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A dribble of Dorian and a squiggle of Snake Oil, delicately stirred with a moss-crusted muddy shovel.
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It is stripped off—the paper—in great patches all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a great place on the other side of the room low down. I never saw a worse paper in my life. One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin. It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate, and provoke study, and when you follow the lame, uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide—plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard-of contradictions. The color is repellant, almost revolting; a smouldering, unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight. It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others. No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to live in this room long. A smouldering, unclean scent: turmeric-dusted acrid marigold, linseed oil, bitter orange peel, crumbling plaster, clotted vanilla, and a whiff of sweet mildew.
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Looked at in one way each breadth stands alone, the bloated curves and flourishes—a kind of “debased Romanesque” with delirium tremens—go waddling up and down in isolated columns of fatuity. But, on the other hand, they connect diagonally, and the sprawling outlines run off in great slanting waves of optic horror, like a lot of wallowing seaweeds in full chase. The whole thing goes horizontally, too, at least it seems so, and I exhaust myself in trying to distinguish the order of its going in that direction. They have used a horizontal breadth for a frieze, and that adds wonderfully to the confusion. There is one end of the room where it is almost intact, and there, when the cross-lights fade and the low sun shines directly upon it, I can almost fancy radiation after all,—the interminable grotesques seem to form around a common centre and rush off in headlong plunges of equal distraction. Flowers in full chase, radiant and absurd, grotesquely endless: narcissus blooms lolling on broken stems, their buttery perfume swelling into a debased crescendo of honeyed heliotrope, toxic lily of the valley, almond blossom, and opium poppy.
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A goth awakening: waxy drugstore lipstick and clove cig residue.
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By moonlight—the moon shines in all night when there is a moon—I wouldn’t know it was the same paper. At night in any kind of light, in twilight, candlelight, lamplight, and worst of all by moonlight, it becomes bars! The outside pattern I mean, and the woman behind it is as plain as can be. I didn’t realize for a long time what the thing was that showed behind,—that dim sub-pattern,—but now I am quite sure it is a woman. A perfume of veils and bars, moonlight slashing through prison walls: silvered lavender and white iris shuddering like lamplight on stained plaster, ambergris frothing through vanilla husk, and the phantom outline of a rose-touched woman’s silhouette.
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There is a recurrent spot where the pattern lolls like a broken neck and two bulbous eyes stare at you upside-down. I get positively angry with the impertinence of it and the everlastingness. Up and down and sideways they crawl, and those absurd, unblinking eyes are everywhere. There is one place where two breadths didn’t match, and the eyes go all up and down the line, one a little higher than the other. Indolic jasmine glaring through a haze of tobacco yellow and stained lace.
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A scent inspired by the debris left over from frantic last-minute costuming sessions. Torn scraps of velvety black voodoo lily mingled with dried rose petals and a flash of red peppercorn.
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Wish we had eight arms – then we could get more sleeves! Tattoo ink afuzz with caramelized pumpkin pulp, bourbon, cranberry juice, sweet patchouli, and red peppercorns.
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Truly the scent of autumn itself -- damp woods, fir needle, and black patchouli with the gentlest touches of warm pumpkin, clove, nutmeg, allspice, sweet red apple and mullein. I'm not sure if this is a particularly helpful review as this was a limited edition scent and no longer available, but I guess it might be useful if any turns up on Ebay or as a swap somewhere... The first scent of this is heavily fruity: it smells like black cherries. When I put it on, this note lingers, but is deepened with a scent like tobacco flowers and cloves. It mellows into a rich musky scent with a little crushed greenery. Conventially speaking, I'd say it's definitely an evening perfume: I guess most people would find it too heavy for during the day. Not that I pay any attention to such things Overall, it's one of my favourites so far, totally different to anything I've smelt anywhere else, and for me now inexorably tied to memories of autumn.
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Ladies, is it gay to have a skeletal system? Short answer: YES! Because the human wrist was undeniably made to flap and go “enh.” There are many theories about the historical origin of the so-called “limp wrist” gesture, which has bedeviled arbiters of masculine/feminine presentation since at least the ancient Roman times. So when we defiantly flop our phalanges, we’re reclaiming a time-honored tradition! And letting our skeletons do what they do most naturally: camp it up. Did you know the human wrist is made up of eight small bones, plus the forearm’s radius and ulna? Factor in the four small ones that comprise that lightly extended pinkie finger, and the number of bones required to execute this delicate maneuver add up to FOURTEEN. No wonder we’re always so tired. So defy nature if you truly must, but never forget: when bones are all that’s left of you, the wrists will be extra floppy. And we think that’s worth celebrating while you’re still alive! This scent debuted in 2023 as “Is He, You Know” but since this is commonly deployed as an equal-opportunity aphorism, we’ve created a campy companion scent: sweet 13-year aged patchouli, peru balsam, white oakmoss, spikenard, bourbon vanilla, sugar cane, and a sprig of lilac.
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It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly, with windows that look all ways, and air and sunshine galore. It was nursery first and then playground and gymnasium, I should judge; for the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls. Radiant emptiness: a breezy citrus-touched aldehyde with a hint of sunny amber and dusty heliotrope, and the metallic tang of sun-warmed iron bars.
