As much as I love the story of Frankenstien, it’s actually erroneous to stage it concurrent with Halloween; it defeats the entire purpose.
Halloween was created the result of a ubiquitous violent, scary feeling among single men at the fact of their plight and of the upcoming seasonal inclement weather. Frankenstein’s monster, by comparison, is a being of spiritual exile, of singularity, unique in his inability to live, adapt, mesh in and cooperate.
The heartbreaking aspects of his transformation from guileless, optimistic “daemon” into vindictive, noxious killer are the crux of the story. As fun as the aesthetic festivities of a holiday can be, to which the monster certainly lends, the literary motif of existential failure is lost upon the celebratory occasion. Halloween actually appreciates the untoward, ungainly and rejected, the monster’s world shuns it, or even worse, shirks it, flees from it in need of distance. Isolation is a galvanizing emotional vehicle paramount to the story’s enjoyment, a dark room in which the spotlight of festivity only spoils and mediates.