In blog years gone by, I use to post a scary story here in October. I stopped because the feeling everyone left the room when I posted my story is too sad for me. The cyber echo blocked out my desire to continue the yearly scary tales. (Sorry if I posted about this before.)Being raised by a generation with gloomy grim Victorian vibes, it is no wonder to me that I like ghost stories. In addition to that, my father liked to scare us kids with his true accounts of the paranormal world. In high school I became interested in Edgar Allen Poe. I also read HP Lovecraft and other ghost stories.
Alas, Goth isn't a style I followed. The Bohemian morphing into Hippiedom is where my youth melded into tender adulthood. When life became too real, I moved into the mystery genre where I remain.
In writing, I can only get so far with a horror narrative before I feel scared that it could happen in real life. (More about that another time.) Then one day on the way home from my father's, on a rainy, cold and dark night, I had a not normal experience.
There wasn't a blur, a quick noise or something in the corner of my eye. The sound was clearly the result of something intelligent moving objects in the stuff I was taking home. I actually stopped, parked and got out of my vehicle, after going through the toll booth, to let it escape, run away. Nothing ran, flew, jumped or slithered away. If it had, then there was enough open space for it to be seen.
Feeling the interior is free (enough) of whatever it was, I continued driving into the night north through New Hampshire and Vermont. And so did it.
At home, I can still see myself standing in front of my vehicle deciding to wait until the morning to bring things indoors in the daylight.
Begun circa 2004, the story is 90% finished.
Too scared to finish it?
Nah
Well Maybe a little
