At Least They're Committed

Edison’s Black Dahlia has given me a mission. An important mission that I shall use this blog and all of my positive energy to fulfill: Writing the family ghost stories for Dublin.

Fun!

But where do I begin? I was thinking I should maybe start where it started for me: 3369 Beaumont in Ann Arbor, Michigan. The decayed corpses that shuffled toward a 3-, 4-, 5-, 6-, 7-, 8-, 9-year-old girl. How my parents got irritated when I’d wake them up and say something was in my room. How there was that woman holding a baby that one night as there was a light glowing from my sister’s bed. “Cindy?” “Cindy isn’t here right now,” the woman said. Found out the next day, my sister had gotten sick and had been downstairs the whole night.

Oh, that nasty, brain eating apparition! It was gray and dripping and I don’t know how I could have possibly known it was a brain since I’d never seen one that at that point.

Gosh, the decayed ‘ghosts’ that walked toward me in the night where I’d duck under the covers, my tiny self quivering as they got close and reached out for me. Does anyone know what a cold sweat feels like? You’re hot, burning up with fear, and yet your skin pops out cold droplets of sweat and it’s as if they boil and disappear on your flesh, but you can still feel the chill. And sometimes you feel the pressure of something sit on your bed. And others you just feel the covers poke down on you, but you know it’s not real. It’s just an overactive imagination.

Years later, when I saw ‘real’ dead and decayed corpses, I was amazed by how much they looked like my overactive imagination. Weird, right?

So now I’ll start with the ghost stories.