Tag Archives: Scary

Journal – Ghost Hunting

 

Some of my siblings and I went ghost hunting! It’s tremendous fun, especially if you don’t find anything.

We stayed a night at the Lemp Mansion. It was beautiful and eerie. We had a great time exploring the place at night after the lights went out and everyone was gone. They really set you up for ghost hunting there. The staff lock you in and leave at nine. You get to be alone, and if you’re lucky enough to schedule a night without any other guests, you really will be alone. Unfortunately we had a couple of rooms with other guests that night, and they were loud and constant talkers! But they didn’t leave their rooms much.

We went exploring, it felt pretty dumb, because the stairs and doors were creaky… not just eerie creaky, but cringy LOUD creaky. We got to be the ghosts for the other guests once because the door was so loud, they heard it and called, “hello?” And we crept away. I actually didn’t get why my siblings did that to them…  maybe because it was nice to let them believe in Santa. Or maybe it was because we didn’t want them to find us four grown-ass idiots tiptoeing around the mansion in our socks and jammies. We did a lot of sneaking around those people, that was probably the silliest and most fun of everything. They never caught us! As far as we know. They were pretty drunk. At one point a guy walked by, and my sister and I stood still in a dark corner as our only defense, and he never saw us. It was crazy.

Our room was the Lavender Room, haunted by the Lavender Lady, and also by Billy Lemp who was a playboy in life and a nasty shower-peeper in death. My sisters and I tried to lure him out in the bathroom by flashing him but he didn’t manifest.

The bathroom was magnificent. It had a giant bay window, a marble bath, a shower with a built-in spot-free lateral rinse, and extra space enough to perform several backflips. It was excessive, but hey, excessive bathrooms are what money’s for, amirite?

My ghostiest moment: when I was alone in this bathroom pooping, the overhead light came on, then after about ten seconds it turned off again. Maybe Billy was a coprophiliac? They didn’t mention that in the brochure. I, er, finished up, then tried the light. It was one of those lights on a dimmer switch which shouldn’t be on a dimmer switch. If you turned the knob slowly through the low, medium, high settings, the light went: low, higher, lowest, bright, off. With much flickering in between. 

The whole building’s electricity was on the fritz. Lights flickered weakly all the time. It started to remind me of Stranger Things. Their wiring must have been SUPER old. Why pay for expensive rewiring when it’s spookier for the guests this way?

Also, there were some brutal cold spots from the overhead AC ducts in consistent places.

When we went down to the basement, we got our worst scare of the night: the ice machine. We could hear it from around the corner. It said, “whirrrr whumpity whumpity BANG!!” *dead silence* “whirrrrr, whirrrrrr, whir-whir-bumpity thumpity kkkk clack rattle whirrrrr” and so on. The poor machine was choking to death on the flickering electricity. Once we realized it didn’t want to eat us, I pitied it.

There were an inordinate number of mirrors hanging on the walls. I had to wonder if the owners decorated it that way on purpose, to increase the suspicious photos and reflections we might see, or even just to give us a good jumpscare around corners.

It was beautiful though, it has a scary atmosphere, and we had tons of fun. I highly recommend it. I hoped I would see something, but in my heart I knew I wouldn’t. Still, we ate a lot of brownies and stuck close to each other nervously and felt like kids again on a great big sleepover. Go check it out, unless you’re a sensitive, then maybe don’t, because it’ll probably end like The Shining for you. I’m still not discounting the possibility of ghosts, and I definitely don’t want anyone getting scarred for life because I told them this place was delightful and unhaunted!

I like ghost hunting, especially if I get to do it with good people. Next time I’ll apply what I’ve learned and catch me that big ten-point ghost I’ve heard about, and get him mounted on my wall.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

The thing outside

A little horror story.

Alfred Hitchcock said, it’s the things you don’t see that scare you. I wrote this a few years ago as an exercise on that concept.

 

 


 

We shivered in the dark, listening to it scratch against the door. Turning the lights out had not tricked it. It could smell us.

“Let’s go out the back,” my little sister Anita said, casting a nervous glance behind her.

“It moves too fast,” I said, but I glanced behind me as well. It was worth a shot.

Slowly we made our way backwards, feeling behind us, not taking our eyes off the kitchen door. We could hear it outside, scrabbling against the old grainy wood softly, insistently. We got halfway to the back door and then the scratching stopped.

Anita froze. We stared at the door, waiting for it to do something, but nothing was happening.

“We have to shut it inside. Then we can get to the car,” Anita said, pulling the car keys off of the counter and handing them to me.

“Are you crazy?” I whispered back, risking a glance her way. “That means one of us would have to open the door.”

She didn’t flinch. She stared at the door, her long braid resting on her shoulder, her eyes focused, waiting for some noise or indication of what it was doing now. All scratches had stopped. The other side of the door was silent. Too silent.

“Do you think it’s going around to the back door?” Anita whispered.

Suddenly I couldn’t move. I heard a desperate sort of gasp escape my throat.

“What?” She turned to look at me, alarmed.

“The back door isn’t locked,” I choked out.

Anita never hesitated. She dashed to the back room, and I watched her as she raced, her feet thumping loudly on the hardwood floor. It would hear that, I thought. It would hear that and circle around. I could see everything happening in crystal clarity, but was stricken by a horrible paralysis, unable to speak or move fast enough to prevent her from doing what she was doing.

Anita was a yard away from the door when it clicked open before her. Something pale was coming through. Finding my feet, I turned, unable to look, and ran toward the kitchen, toward the door, toward safety.

Anita screamed and screamed.

I burst out of the kitchen and slammed the door shut behind me, but the thick wood only slightly muffled the sound of my little sister dying.

I called her name through the wood. I cried out into the blank night. I kicked the door and pounded until my fist was bloodied with splinters. All this I did. But I could not make myself open that door.

When I paused for breath, there was a wet noise from within the house. It was lingering, distracted by the blood.

I still held the keys in my shaking hand. But I didn’t want to drive away from here, not if she wasn’t with me. Next to the car key was a smaller key with a cheery owl key cover which Anita had bought ages ago; the key to the shed. Where the power tools were kept.

I smiled joylessly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

A nice peaceful lunch

 

I went outside into the courtyard at work to do some nice quiet pencil drawing, to regain confidence. My whole creative life is just one long interrupted battle with perfectionism. Why this should be, I don’t know. We’ll save that subject for a million whiny poems. But drawing in pencil is always easy, and a nice reminder that I can indeed draw.

It was very windy. My hair kept fluffing into my face. Normally I’d stick a pencil in there to hold it out of the way but, well, I was using it to draw. Minimalism has its pros and cons.

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Just when the drawing started to come together and I started to sink into the Zone…

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CLANG!!!!

I nearly jumped out of my skin. A large empty metal trash can, the classic kind that I can’t believe people still make and use anymore, fell over right in front of me. The lid blew off and the bag, being empty, wind-socked out.

I decided to do the responsible thing and put it back. I was the only one in the courtyard, and who knows where that lid could blow. So I walked the trash can to a good snug corner and tried to put the lid on it. Had some trouble. The bag was so fluffed out and would not un-fluff. I eventually just gave up and forced the lid over the bag. It was at this point that I started to giggle.

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(I know I just said I was a perfectionist. I vacillate back and forth between “not good enough” and “hell with it.” Guess which this doodle was.)

Slightly discombobulated, I sat back down to draw. WhoooOOOoOOOsh, said the wind. Pbptpbptpbt, said I with a mouthful of hair. The trash can remained firmly ensconced in its new corner, and said very little.

Behind me there was a loud, loud, gunshot CRACK.

THE FUCKING TREE WAS FALLING APART.

 

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So it wasn’t the whole tree but it sure sounded like it. The drawing is more or less to scale. The dialog is also accurate. It might not have hurt me a whole lot if it landed, but oh my bajeezus. That scared me good.

So… something didn’t want me to draw today. I went back inside where the angry gods couldn’t attack me anymore!

HAPPY EASTER YOU SONS A BITCHES! May God and nature smile kindly upon you and not send vengeful winds your way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Failed to write a love story

 

I don’t like romance novels. It’s the one genre I despise. I like a good romance, but not the formula Harlequin stuff. Boring. Easy.
I thought, well, if I’m so cocky, if love stories are so easy, then write one. So… I tried.

Enjoy the failure.

 


 

Daymond looked through the slats of his blinds at the neighbor across the street. She was walking around without a shirt again. Didn’t she think anyone could see her? He turned away. But even after he went to sleep, the image of her followed him into his dreams.

The doorbell rang. Ugh, it was early. He dragged himself from bed, bleary-eyed, pathetic, and answered the door in just his tattered pajama pants.
It was her.
He scooched his lower half behind the door to hide his shameful attire. He always took care in how he dressed, doubly so around her. The pants were an embarrassment.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning, and merry Christmas!” she said, her bright morning energy entering his brain through his eyeballs and burning a channel straight to the back of his skull.
She handed him a bag of cookies tied off with a bow. Cute. Distressingly colorful. Dear God what time was it. He stared at the bag and tried to remember what the etiquette was, was it even Christmas? What planet was this again?
“Ah, I’m sorry,” she said, her face falling. “Did I wake you up?”
“Huh? Oh, y…yes… no. It’s fine, I was just getting up anyway.”
“I’ll let you get dressed then. Sorry!”
She gave him another blinding smile and trotted back to her house.
Get dressed?
She thought he’d answered the door nude? She had the gall to treat him like HE was the nudist? He would burn those pants as soon as possible. They were ten times more mortifying than he’d originally thought.
He shut the door and put the cookies on the kitchen table. Cinnamon and ginger fragrance eked through the cellophane. They were so cute.
He reran the conversation in his mind… he’d forgotten to thank her. How rude he’d been!
He cleaned himself up properly, took his time. Showered, shaved, brushed, put on one of his nicer shirts. She wouldn’t think him a scruffy nudist after this.
Knocking on her door was scarier than he’d expected.
“Just a minute!” She called through the door.
When she did answer, she was dripping wet, in a towel. Just out of the shower. She smelled like coconut and jasmine. The towel was only barely big enough to cover her generous assets.
“I, uh… sorry, was this a bad time?”
“Not at all!” She replied. She looked genuinely happy to see him.
Her breasts were smashed into perfect cleavage under the weight of her arm. Her legs were so long, so long, and they ran all the way up to the edge of the towel… oh dear God. He was getting a little too happy to see her, as well. Why was she always parading like this? Wasn’t she cold? Didn’t she realize what she was doing??
“Thank you. For the cookies! I realized I’d forgotten to say thank you.”
Don’t look down, don’t draw attention to it, hold her gaze. He had to get out of here quick before she noticed. At least his pants were the loose kind. But what was that draft?
She noticed. Her jaw dropped.
The draft… he looked down. He’d neglected to zip his fly. All that care in dressing and he’d left his zipper open. Or maybe it’d come down as he walked?
But that wasn’t the worst of it. Mr. Happy had poked his head out and wanted to thank her, too.
His face bright red, he hastily tucked it all back in and down and zipped everything into place. But the damage had been done.
“That was an accident, I swear! I didn’t know…” what? That his fly was open? That she’d answer the door in full sex kitten mode?
He choked on his words. Never again could he talk to her. He couldn’t even look her in the eye. He was going to be her #MeToo story forever.
In shame he fled her front porch and hurried back to his house.
“Wait!” She called.
To his horror, she ran out of the door after him in her towel. Everything bounced.
“Wait!” She caught up to him in the middle of the street. “It’s not a big deal, really.”
She got off on it. The sexual power. What else could explain her behavior?
He still couldn’t look at her.
“Did you try the cookies?” She asked. Was she actually trying to start a new conversation?
“Um, not yet… they smelled good. Listen, you’re not dressed, don’t you want to go inside?”
She looked confused. “Oh, I have a towel on, it’s fine. I just didn’t want you to leave like that.”
“You don’t think I’m some kind of pervert?”
She beamed another one of her smiles at him. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“Oookay. I’m going home now. Nice knowing you.”
“Wait?”
“What FOR?” That came out harsher than he’d intended, but this was torture.
“Come back into my house. Try a cookie.”
“Wait… you are the pervert here? You’ve been trying to seduce me all along!”
“There are cookies at my house…”
She grabbed him by his shirt front and led him back into her house. He was never heard from again.

 


 

Well, I don’t know much but I know that’s not love. A distinct lack of sweetness, haha. Awkward boners tend to overwhelm a romance. Well, I’ll just have to keep trying until I get one right. Let that be a lesson to me.

I still don’t like dime romance novels though.