The gates of Anmer Hall creaked shut at 6:47 p.m. on October 31st. No press. No protection officers with earpieces. Just a single pumpkin lantern flickering on the Georgian doorstep, its carved grin crooked like it knew something the world didn’t.

Inside, the Prince and Princess of Wales had declared a full media blackout. Phones surrendered to Nanny Maria Teresa at the door. Even the corgis were banned from the west wing. This wasn’t a royal engagement. This was Halloween: Cambridge Edition. And for one night, the future King and Queen were just Mum and Dad in a haunted house of their own making.

The transformation began at dawn. William, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hauled a 200-pound pumpkin from the Sandringham estate farm into the boot of a muddy Land Rover. Catherine, hair in a messy bun, balanced a cauldron of dry ice on her hip like a designer handbag. The kids—Prince George, 12; Princess Charlotte, 10; Prince Louis, 7—trailed behind in wellies, shrieking as the pumpkin rolled and nearly crushed Louis’s toe.

By noon, Anmer Hall’s grand kitchen—usually reserved for state-banquet prep—was a war zone of flour and fake blood. Catherine, in a “Witch Please” apron (a gag gift from Meghan, now ironically cherished), stirred a bubbling pot of “dragon snot” soup (pea and mint, rebranded). William manned the oven, burning his third batch of ghost-shaped cookies. George live-streamed the chaos to his private TikTok (username: @RoyalBakerBoy, 11 followers, all cousins) before Catherine swooped in: “No phones, darling. House rules.”

But the real magic happened after dark.

At 7:30 p.m., the lights dimmed. The family gathered in the wood-paneled library—usually off-limits for sticky fingers—now draped in cobwebs spun from biodegradable silk (Catherine’s eco-twist). A 150-year-old oil portrait of Queen Victoria glared down as the Cambridges unveiled their costumes.

William: a perfect Shrek—green face paint, ogre ears, a velvet tunic stretched over his rugby shoulders. Catherine: Fiona, but make it couture—emerald silk gown with a slit, red wig braided with LED lights that pulsed like fireflies. George: Spider-Man, but the suit was hand-knitted by the Queen from Balmoral wool, complete with a tiny Windsor crest on the chest. Charlotte: Maleficent, horns sculpted from recycled plastic, wings that actually flapped via a hidden motor (a prototype from a Norfolk engineer who swore secrecy). Louis: a roaring T-Rex onesie, tail dragging, eyes glowing red with battery lights.

Then, the ritual no one expected.

William dimmed the chandelier. Catherine produced a leather-bound book from the safe—The Anmer Grimoire, a 200-year-old tome of Norfolk ghost stories passed down through the Spencer line. Legend says it was written by a witch who cursed the hall in 1823 after being snubbed by the then-Prince Regent. Every Halloween, the family must read one tale aloud—or the ghosts walk.

The kids squealed. William cleared his throat dramatically. Catherine lit black candles (soy wax, naturally). They began:

“The Grey Lady of the Long Gallery…”

George’s voice cracked on the first line. Charlotte cackled—actually cackled—her Maleficent horns casting shadows like bat wings. Louis roared “RAWR!” at every jump scare, toppling a 300-year-old vase (caught just in time by William’s ogre reflexes). Catherine’s Fiona voice dropped to a whisper for the climax: “And on All Hallows’ Eve, she seeks a royal child to dance with forever…”

Louis bolted behind the sofa. George pretended to faint. Charlotte grabbed the book and ad-libbed: “But the princess cast a spell of TOFFEE APPLES and banished her to the pantry!” The room erupted. Even the portrait seemed to smirk.

Next: the Midnight Pumpkin Hunt. William had hidden 12 carved pumpkins across the 10-bedroom estate—each containing a clue to a “treasure” (a chocolate cauldron filled with Haribo, smuggled in from Waitrose). The kids tore through corridors with glow sticks, shrieking past ancestral suits of armor. Charlotte found the first in the boot room, tucked inside William’s Wellington. George discovered one floating in the indoor pool (Catherine’s idea). Louis’s was in the dog bed—Willow the spaniel sat on it, wagging innocently.

At 11:11 p.m.—the “witching minute”—they gathered in the courtyard. William lit a bonfire (carefully permitted, eco-logs only). Catherine produced sparklers shaped like wands. The kids wrote their “fears” on paper bats and tossed them into the flames:

George: “Failing my maths GCSE.”
Charlotte: “Never beating Uncle Harry at Mario Kart.”
Louis: “Running out of dinosaur chicken nuggets.”

William’s bat: “Not being the dad you deserve.” Catherine’s: “Losing this. Us. Right now.”

The sparks flew upward, mingling with stars over Norfolk. For a moment, the weight of crowns and cameras vanished. They were just five silhouettes, laughing as the fire crackled.

The night ended in the cinema room—popcorn, Hocus Pocus, and a blanket fort big enough for a future King. Louis fell asleep first, T-Rex tail twitching. Charlotte curled against Catherine, horns askew. George leaned on William, whispering, “Dad, can we do this every year? Like, actually every year?”

William kissed the top of his head. “Try and stop us, mate.”

At 1:03 a.m., Nanny Maria crept in to carry the kids to bed. Catherine lingered, snapping one photo on her private phone: William asleep in the fort, Shrek ears crooked, Louis drooling on his arm, Charlotte’s wings draped like a cape. She captioned it in the family WhatsApp (seen by 8 people): “The monsters are ours. 🖤”

By morning, Anmer Hall was spotless—staff sworn to secrecy, pumpkins composted, Grimoire locked away. But the magic lingered. A footman found a sparkler wand in the AGA. The Queen called at 9 a.m.: “Heard you revived the Grey Lady. Splendid. Send photos.” (Catherine sent one—of the burnt cookies.)

The world will never see the footage. No leaks. No drones. Just a promise: Next year, the witch returns. And the Cambridges will be ready—with bigger pumpkins, scarier stories, and a T-Rex who’s already planning his upgrade to Godzilla.

Because in a life scripted by duty, Halloween at Anmer Hall is the one night the script burns.