vintagegal
“Don’t you realize that that old place is haunted?” they asked. Yes, I had heard the recent claims that every once in a while you might hear moans and groans closely followed by an occasional shriek of maniacal laughter coming from within its walls.
But being a skeptic I found that hard to believe.
Now had I been gullible—primarily a condition I find myself in on weekends due to alcohol consumption—I might have felt differently about it. But this being a weekday, I was absolutely certain I was cynically sober.
Going into the place might mean confronting a sense of anxiety and foreboding, which now spilled over my entire body. This—courtesy of my wife a compulsive house-cleaner with a penchant for sweeping up adjectives I frequently drop.
It all felt like sticky Ectoplasm, only worse than the stuff Slimer lathered all over Bill Murray in Ghostbusters.
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The site—which had been abandoned for some time now—ominously oozed terror. I can’t say why (according to my attorney) unless I put it in writing.
Why?
Because nothing ever jumped out or grabbed me there, nor anyone else for that matter. At least, not to my knowledge—which is apparently limited to a second grade education.
Still, the possibility of something like that actually happening to me left me curious about how I might handle it.
I realize curiosity has killed many a cat, but not being a feline myself (unless you count the time a gypsy fortune teller put a spell on me), I had no worries. That was until, someone told me cats have nine lives, and with few exceptions… people don’t.
Darn it, if only my wife—who wears a white glove and happens to have OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder)—hadn’t been so fanatical about throwing out all my little bits of paper, including the gypsy’s business card…
Then I might still be a cat!
I myself suffer from HCD (Husband Cluttering Disorder), which as any wife will tell you, is a REAL disorder. One every husband suffers from after becoming a male—usually by birth.
But, seeing as my wife had cleaned up all my clutter, I would now be unable to locate the gypsy. Thanks to my wife I was going to have to enter this terrifying place not as a cat, but… AS A HUMAN!
Stories had always surrounded the old place, but that never stopped amateur ghost hunters from trying to sneak past the bad grammar—like chopping and whacking overgrown shrubs—for a chance to get inside. Poor unfortunate souls.
I thought maybe they’d present no obstacle for me either, but I too was wrong. Instead, the stories now haunted me as well echoing throughout the cobwebs of my mind—like bats in a belfry.
Those who did venture inside—and survived to tell the tales—attempted to warn me (in spite of their better judgement) against going in again saying “Don’t go there girlfriend.”
Naturally—not being anybody’s girlfriend—I ignored them.
Once inside, I saw the writing on the wall. No really, I actually saw writing on the walls! It could have been continuous graffiti but I’m almost certain it wasn’t—because that sort of thing only happens in bathroom stalls.
No, this was more like an attempted sophisticated scribble gone bad, done by someone with neither the street smarts, or the familiarity with old Vincent Price horror movies. Where scripts were no doubt written intelligently.
Just then, I tripped over a mouse. A screen monitor sprung to light casting a giant shadow of fear over me. It wasn’t long before I realized… it was only my silhouette flickering on the stairs behind me.
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That’s when it struck me; picture-after- picture on the right side of the wall. This gave me a headache and I began to think to myself…
“Could the frames have been hung on weak hooks?”
Little did I know that these framed and angry people (trapped in this Night Gallery) were lashing out (the only way they could) at the fiend who had coaxed them into this frightening place of horror.
However, it was the photo above them that gave me the biggest chills. It was of some guy with the nose of a clown!
Have you seen the news lately?
Well then you know all about it. How clowns are running amok throughout the land trying to scare people half to death—as opposed to completely to death.
Not being a cat anymore though—thanks to my wife and her neurotic habit of throwing out gypsy business cards—this meant I only had but one life to give.
And so terrified as I was (and likely you as well) I decided to move back into…
MY OLD ABANDONED BLOG!
P.S. This last month was a rather busy one for us. Our oldest son just got married and one of our daughters told us we are going to be grandparents again. So I would like to apologize for my extended absence.
Which means; those of you who may have missed me before, may still get a crack at me by throwing some rotten fruit.
Hey, watch the darts buddy!
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In My Cluttered Attic 