Funny Story Interlude
So, I have something of a confession. A few RL friends already know this about me, but why not share it with the world?
There is one physical thing that terrifies me more than anything else. One thing that, should even my eyes briefly scan across it in a public place, I cringe and move away and will sometimes go so far as to exit the place simply so I do not have to be under the same roof as this thing. To gaze upon it too long would surely drive me to madness, this modern day Necronomicon of terror and evil.
I'm talking about, of course, the Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark series.
Yes, all the laughing may commence now. I can marathon movies hailed as the most terrifying things ever made, I can read any horror novel you put in front of me without blinking, I eat survival horror games for breakfast. And yet those silly little books inspire a fear within me that I cannot describe. But I think the events that just transpired will illustrate my point quite clearly.
I'm in the process of cleaning the shed, slowly but surely. Now, a very long time ago, husband_brother and I had been discussing telling ghost stories in the shed and whatnot, and somehow those books came up. There was a discussion, and I agreed that since the shed was a safe room, it would be okay to have the first book out there, for when she could read to me from it. And it would be kept in a safe place, hidden from view, so I wouldn't have to worry about seeing it out there when I was alone.
We come to now, when I have completely forgotten the book was out there. I'm doing my thing, bopping along to Meat Loaf, putting candle holders and bags of incense into boxes, and I notice one of my alice bands up on a top shelf, on top of some plastic gardening trays or something. Perplexed, I stretch up on my tip toes and reach for my band....
And there it is. Glaring up at me with malevolence and the promise of devouring my sanity in the night. I drop my band, drop whatever else I'm holding, scream in that throat's-paralyzed-so-no-noise-comes-out manner, and run out of the shed.
I immediately return to the house, grab my cross and a swath of silk, and return to the shed to deal with the hellish tome as best I can.
It's now on the porch wrapped in silk with a cross on top of it, because I refuse to bring it into the house.
(It's the art that does it. I'm convinced it was inked with the blood of babies and tears of rainbows.)
There is one physical thing that terrifies me more than anything else. One thing that, should even my eyes briefly scan across it in a public place, I cringe and move away and will sometimes go so far as to exit the place simply so I do not have to be under the same roof as this thing. To gaze upon it too long would surely drive me to madness, this modern day Necronomicon of terror and evil.
I'm talking about, of course, the Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark series.
Yes, all the laughing may commence now. I can marathon movies hailed as the most terrifying things ever made, I can read any horror novel you put in front of me without blinking, I eat survival horror games for breakfast. And yet those silly little books inspire a fear within me that I cannot describe. But I think the events that just transpired will illustrate my point quite clearly.
I'm in the process of cleaning the shed, slowly but surely. Now, a very long time ago, husband_brother and I had been discussing telling ghost stories in the shed and whatnot, and somehow those books came up. There was a discussion, and I agreed that since the shed was a safe room, it would be okay to have the first book out there, for when she could read to me from it. And it would be kept in a safe place, hidden from view, so I wouldn't have to worry about seeing it out there when I was alone.
We come to now, when I have completely forgotten the book was out there. I'm doing my thing, bopping along to Meat Loaf, putting candle holders and bags of incense into boxes, and I notice one of my alice bands up on a top shelf, on top of some plastic gardening trays or something. Perplexed, I stretch up on my tip toes and reach for my band....
And there it is. Glaring up at me with malevolence and the promise of devouring my sanity in the night. I drop my band, drop whatever else I'm holding, scream in that throat's-paralyzed-so-no-noise-comes-out manner, and run out of the shed.
I immediately return to the house, grab my cross and a swath of silk, and return to the shed to deal with the hellish tome as best I can.
It's now on the porch wrapped in silk with a cross on top of it, because I refuse to bring it into the house.
(It's the art that does it. I'm convinced it was inked with the blood of babies and tears of rainbows.)