I have loved Halloween my entire life. Not the last-minute costume and a bag of candy corn version — the real one. The one that smells like woodsmoke and dried leaves. The one that lives in candlelight and old books and the particular kind of darkness that feels more like an invitation than a warning. Dark academia before anyone called it that. Gothic without the irony.
For me, Halloween has always been a design language. One that I've carried into almost every creative space I've occupied.
The Origin Story
Halloween at Vernier
When I was at Vernier Science Education, Halloween was a genuine occasion. Seasonal and holiday design was part of my role, and the fall campaign was one I looked forward to every year. There was real creative latitude in it — a chance to do something atmospheric and considered rather than just functional.
But it went beyond the design work. Vernier did employee enrichment during the season — and that included a department costume contest that the Marketing team took very seriously. For several years running, we showed up with coordinated group costumes and the energy to back them up. We won. Repeatedly. One of my favorite years was the Princess Bride theme — I went as Inigo Montoya, which my dad found deeply flattering, and Brent, with his full magnificent beard, made an absolutely beautiful Princess Buttercup. You can imagine.
Brent as Princess Buttercup
Marketing team — Princess Bride year
Not everyone shared the enthusiasm, it should be said. The arrival of certain leadership brought a different energy to the season — less delight, more tolerance. But the people who loved it really loved it, and for the years when the Marketing team went all in, it was one of those rare workplace moments that actually felt like community.
That annual exercise — in seasonal design, in showing up fully for something joyful, in doing something moody and intentional without tipping into costume-y — turned out to be excellent training for what came next.
The Project
Enter Tell-Tale Hearth
Tell-Tale Hearth started as a school project, but it never felt like one. The brief I gave myself was specific: a year-round gothic, Victorian, and Halloween-inspired retail destination imagined for Salem, Massachusetts. Not a pop-up. Not a seasonal display. A real place, for people who live this aesthetic as a lifestyle rather than visiting it once a year in October.
The question driving everything was one I'd been sitting with for a while: why does this world — the dark, the atmospheric, the beautifully strange — only get to exist commercially for two months out of the year? Tell-Tale Hearth was my answer to that question.
Tell-Tale Hearth — Brand Overview
The Process
The Branding Story
The logo came together with real intention. I developed a primary mark built around the symbolism of home, flame, and storytelling — and pushed it into a full system from the start. Three variations: a primary mark for flagship use, an alternate for size-constrained applications, and a simplified version for small-scale uses like packaging labels and pins. Each had clear use cases. Each worked independently and as part of a cohesive whole.
A subtle gradient was part of the original direction — not decorative for its own sake, but functional. It added depth and warmth, reinforcing the atmospheric tone without overcomplicating the mark. It was considered. It was intentional. It was part of a system designed to scale.
Logo system — primary, alternate, simplified
My professor had other ideas.
Her preference landed on a single variation, and the gradient was redirected away from my original vision. I understood the feedback in the moment, even if I didn't fully agree with it. What sat less well with me was the shortsightedness of focusing on one option without engaging with the system as a whole. The value wasn't in any single mark — it was in the flexibility. A brand that can only exist at one size, in one context, isn't really a brand system. It's just a logo.
I still believe in the original direction. The full case study is here if you want to see the work — Tell-Tale Hearth Branding →
The Craft
Holiday Design That Doesn't Look Like Holiday
The best seasonal work doesn't announce itself. It doesn't need to. Here's what I've learned about designing for a holiday without being held hostage by it.
Mood over iconography
The moment you reach for a pumpkin or a skull, you've dated the work. Atmosphere is timeless. Darkness, warmth, texture, candlelight — these communicate October without a single seasonal symbol.
Color is your most powerful tool
Tell-Tale Hearth's palette reads as Halloween without a single piece of clip art. Deep warm tones do the work quietly. You don't need orange and black. You need intention.
Build a seasonal system, not a one-off
Tell-Tale Hearth's seasonal alternate palettes — Winter, Spring, and Summer sets — were designed so the brand could shift with the calendar while staying rooted in the same visual language. That's the goal: a brand that breathes with the year rather than one that gets packed away on November 1st.
Restraint is scarier than decoration
Every time I was tempted to add another ornamental detail, I asked whether it served the brand's long-term story or just my own impulse toward drama. The answer was usually restraint. What feels gothic and atmospheric is almost always quieter than you think.
Typography carries the season
Zilla Slab feels like a worn leather journal. It communicates something without saying anything explicitly seasonal. Good type choice does half the mood work before a single color decision is made.
Design for year-round first
The strongest holiday content doesn't expire. If you remove the pumpkin and the post still works in February, you've built something with real shelf life. That's the standard.
Closing
The Halloween Worth Designing For
Halloween isn't a brief you execute once a year. For some of us it's a design language — a way of seeing that shows up in color choices and typographic instincts and a consistent pull toward atmosphere over novelty.
Tell-Tale Hearth was proof that you can build something that honors that fully, without ever once reaching for a clip-art skeleton.
That's the Halloween I'm interested in. That's the one worth designing for.
