Wear-To-Scare theme
You can order all perfumes featured in this theme as a pack of samples.
In this theme
The Halloween season of ghouls, spooks, the undead and the better-off-dead is your chance to let your freak flag fly, perfume-wise.
With this selection, the gloves are off. No “do I smell pretty?” or “panty-dropper” fragrances here, because this line-up is all about conjuring the strongest emotions known to humans: shock, fear, revulsion, confusion, rage, lust. We’re talking suffocatingly sweet, overwhelmingly smoky, powerfully loud. Or stealthy helpings of rude nuances: urine, sweat, feces. Call them over-the-top, call them extra, call them “kill me now!”, but call them you will, because their tyrannical power over all noses in your presence is irresistible.
It seemed like a great idea at the time: ditch the rat race, get off-grid, and build a cabin in the forest with your own bare hands. Unfortunately for you, it turns out there’s more to wiring than changing a three-pin plug. You fell asleep with the lights on and woke up dead. On the plus side, the wreckage smells pretty good: smouldering wood, metallic rose oxide, and charred electrics.
This is less “who cut the cheese?” and more “did you just dump your maple-flavoured guts?!” Someone crack a window, because this is a 5-pong fire of caramel, cinnamon, sugar syrup and vanilla. Whoever smelt it, dealt it.
Is this blood still inside the bull, or spilled in the heat of violence? The metallic tang of the blood accord mixes thickly with dark musks, suggesting intimate seepage on personal garments. Rose and tobacco, unnaturally viscous, clots the blend to suffocating effect.
Rampantly animalic, Goat puts the rut in your strut with the unwashed hair smell of costus, along with nuances of oud, goat’s milk and mushroom. At the crossroads of virile and bestial.
Faded perfume on an abandoned dolly found at the bottom of a suitcase shoved in the back of the attic. There’s a tender bouquet of distant violet and rose, but don’t get too nostalgic. The dusty iris soon disintegrates with the spectre of civet and armpit, making you wonder: is this the smell of the doll, or the long-dead child who once played with it?
The drowned monk’s body is bloated, its fat turned to soap in his watery grave. His crime was revealing the apothecary secrets of his order, in a scroll inscribed with the antidotes to poisonings. This is privileged information that keeps the power with the friary, and he betrayed his vows. Farmakon is the smell of his sad story: the odor of parchment, ink — and the wax from the flesh of a drowned man.
"I didn't kill because I was angry with them, not because I hated them - I killed because I wanted to keep them with me.” Between 1978 and 1991, Jeffrey Dahmer murdered seventeen men. He lured them with gentleness, drugged them, took their lives, then preserved them. Some he drew, others he photographed. He tried to keep them forever. Jeffrey is the second chapter of Spiritica's Crime Collection. It is the smell of a damaged mind cracking apart, a world where reality and hallucination coexist. The extrait begins with accords of iced beer and poppers — cold, almost clinical. The heart opens like a wound that breathes: dirty carpet, carnation, coagulated blood, sweat, a sharp blade. The base is the sweetest confession: melted plastic, damp cellar, amber, vetiver. The cap’s flocked and laser-engraved finish reproduces the carpet of the killer’s apartment. Jeffrey is a fragrance that grips the skin like a memory unwilling to die.
