Category: Supernatural
Ready for another ghost story? I heard this one in high school.
It happened to a girl in my high school class. A friend of hers told me the story. I wasn’t friends with the girl herself — a short, timid brunette — but saw her around school all the time.
She has fond memories as a little girl of her parents tucking her in at night. Though she would usually look up at her parents with a smile, there were nights when she was so tuckered out that she closed her eyes and enjoyed the comfort of the tight sheets.
However, there were a few times where she would open her eyes as she felt them tucking her in, and see a dark, empty bedroom. Then she would look around and see the sheets halfway tucked in, as if someone was in the process of doing it — then stopped.
Those were just hazy memories though. She never thought much of them. Maybe she was just imagining being tucked in. Maybe she was having a dream. Maybe they had tucked her in earlier and she tossed & turned, pulling the sheets halfway out. Explanations abounded.
Her parents’ habit of tucking her in died out around her adolescent years. They figured she was old enough to tuck herself in by then. So she forgot all about the comfort of being tucked in.
Until one night.
She was perhaps thirteen or fourteen. Like every other night, she got into bed and began to drift into sleep. Then she felt her covers tightening around her. And there was a pat on her shoulder.
She opened her eyes. There was no one there. Just her dark, empty bedroom.
Downstairs, she could hear her parents talking. She shivered and pulled her sheets even tighter. Her mind wandered a bit, wondering if she had imagined all of that. Mercifully, she eventually drifted into sleep.
The tuck and pat happened again though. And again. And again. Maybe about once a week with no discernable pattern.
After a month of these sensations, she decided to tell her parents about them. Just to let them know, not to alarm them or anything. It was a spooky sensation, but she didn’t dwell on them much.
When she told her parents, her father’s face froze. She and her mother stared at his expression in confusion. Then he sat them down at the kitchen table and decided to share the background story about their house.
He had purchased the house cheap. They weren’t in a strong financial position, so the low price was very appealing. Her mother thought the house looked lovely, but never asked why it was so cheap. Her father did ask. This is what he was told.
The previous family was murdered in the house. The father had gotten up early one morning and decided to kill his wife and children as they slept. Then he buried the bodies in the backyard.
The murderous father was convicted and sentenced. The bodies of the family were exhumed and given a proper burial. So this girl’s father didn’t think there would be much of a problem here. He wasn’t the type to believe in ghosts and saw no reason to alarm his family with such a story — not when this house was such a bargain.
But since they moved in, he encountered strange events as well. Errant shadows on the way. Footsteps in the hallway. A prickly feeling on the back of his neck. Children’s laughter.
Hearing his daughter relate a similar experience gave him all the motivation he needed. They began making preparations to move. I heard this story just as they were about to close on a new property.
I followed up on the story a year later. In the new house, the girl and her family has had no a further encounters or sensations. It seems they were escaped whatever lingering ghosts lived in that old house of murderous past, even if the ghosts were caring enough to tuck a little girl in.
It’s time for a ghost story. And a real one, to boot. At least, as it was told to me by a friend from Brooklyn. Names are left out to protect the people involved.
In my friend’s mind, this story is 100% true, since it happened to her. You can read it and decide for yourself.
My friend was on a business trip with several coworkers. They were staying in a mid-level hotel. Nothing too fancy or shabby. It was old, a little creaky, but provided the basic amenities.
Two days into the trip, one of her coworkers knocked on her door late in the evening. The coworker looked upset. Her eyes were red and teary. She was shivering. My friend asked what happened, but the coworker just shook her had and asked if she could stay with my friend tonight.
Having an extra bed in her room, my friend nodded and invited her shaken coworker in. The coworker was a pretty private & quiet girl, so after a harangue of questions without results, my friend gave up and returned to the TV.
“Maybe she’s having boyfriend issues,” my friend reasoned. She had seen this girl with a boyfriend around the office and has had a boyfriend drive her to tears too.
For the rest of the trip, the coworker stayed with my friend. They talked a little more, though only about work and other superficial issues. Figuring it was none of her business, my friend never pushed her coworker for an explanation.
The rest of the trip ended without incident. They returned home and a few weeks later, were called out to that client’s office again. Time for another business trip. Their travel department booked them into the same old hotel.
My friend’s coworker was abnormally quiet this time around, even for her, though she didn’t register that fact until she related the story to me.
On the last day of the trip, my friend returned to her hotel room after an especially arduous day. Tired, she took a nice, long shower. When she finished, she got out and began toweling off. She stood in front of the mirror as she wiped her hair. The bathroom door was open so she could hear the TV in the bedroom.
Then she looked at the mirror and saw an old man standing behind her. Wrinkled face, wispy hairs, a blank expression. Just standing behind her. Staring right at her eyes.
Her heard stopped and she swiveled around. No one was there. She was alone in the bathroom.
She immediately stomped out of the bathroom and ran around the bedroom. She threw the closet door open. Looked under her bed. Peeked into the hallway. Checked the locks on her door. There was nobody was in the room and her door was locked tight.
Now you’ll need to realize something. My friend is a Brooklyn girl through and through. Some guy once tried to mug her and she fought back, scaring the assailant away.
So it shouldn’t surprise you when she grabbed a lamp and stomped around the room, shouting, “Who the fuck is there? Where the fuck are you? Get out of my fucking room you pervert!”
Her first thought wasn’t, “It’s a ghost!” No, she thought, “It’s a pervy old man!” How’s that for a Brooklyn girl?
After the team returned home the next day, she related the story to her coworkers. They all thought she was nuts and just laughed it off. The quiet girl pulled her aside later and asked in which room she was staying. My friend told her.
“That’s where I stayed last time,” the quiet coworker answered. Then she told my friend about the lights going on and off in the room. Right in front of her eyes. She didn’t see an old man, but the flickering lights, coupled with a grave sense of fear, sent her fleeing to my friend’s room.
My friend laughs when she tells the story. “I don’t know if it was a fucking ghost or not, but whatever it was, if I caught it, I would have kicked its ass.” Coming from her, I believe those words. I’m not sure what I should be more afraid of, a ghost or a Brooklyn girl.
Ever get a phone call from a ghost?
A friend of a friend did. True story. Here’s what happened.
She was driving alone in the evening. The sun was down and blackness surrounded her. Occasional headlights littered her view. Otherwise, the highway in front of her was as black as the sky.
It was around 10:00 PM. Her cell phone was with her. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a chance to use it before it happened.
Another car hopped the divider and charged towards her. The bright lights flooded her with its brilliant glare. She couldn’t see what was going on. She barely had any time to react.
The other car struck her head-on.
Even though she had her seat belt on, the force of the collision killed her instantly. That’s what the coroner reported later. At least she didn’t have to suffer.
The other driver was drunk. A senseless and avoidable tragedy.
Her family was alerted as soon as it happened. Their grief was horrible. Agonizing. It’s unbearable to feel the loss of a daughter.
Her friends heard about it soon thereafter. One friend couldn’t believe it. She even doubted it. How can you accept that a good friend, someone you were just talking to, is suddenly gone, forever?
Then she got the phone call.
It was her. Plain as day, her name appeared on the caller ID. See, she couldn’t be dead. She’s calling right now. The friend answered the phone.
Silence.
“Hello? Hello?” She called her friend’s name out several times. Still, no sound. Then the dial tone.
The friend dropped her phone. Icicles sliced through her spine. She shivered, even though it was a warm summer night.
The friend checked with the police later. Did someone use her phone? Maybe make the call by accident?
No, the phone was turned off and in police custody at the time of the call. It was later returned to the family. But no living person was using the phone at that time.
Was she trying to reach out to her friend one last time? What was she trying to say? Why that friend and not her family? And if that wasn’t her, who—or what—made that call?
It’s one of those mysteries we may never be able to answer in this lifetime. But perhaps, in the next life, we’ll learn the answer.
I think we can all agree that sometimes, it’s important to prepare for the worst. Part of any good preparation plan includes scenario building. From those various scenarios can come any number of solutions.
So it was with this judicious safety research in mind that my cousins and I embarked on the critical scenario building of what we’d do if the world was full of zombies. Such are the in-depth discussions that brew out of a belly full of Thanksgiving turkey.
Assumptions
First, we needed to lay out some assumptions. What kind of zombies are these? Slow, lumbering Night of the Living Dead zombies? Or fast, vicious 28 Days Later zombies?
We determined they were the latter kind. The most frightening kind. You can’t survive by just outrunning them, because they can run as fast as you can.
Second, how intelligent are they? We decided they’re not dumb, mindless creatures. They’re semi-intelligent, like the vampires of I Am Legend. They’re not about to drive cars and develop websites, but they can learn at the pace of a young child.
Next, are the zombies after you, or just walking around, minding their own business? We said they’d be coming after you specifically. They can smell your blood and are hungry for it. So you’re constantly on the run.
Finally, we were the only ones still alive. Everyone else was a fast, vicious, semi-intelligent zombie coming after you. Who said life was easy, right? However, we could use whatever we found, such as cars, supplies within grocery stores, and guns from weapon stores.
With those set of scenario assumptions, we played out various solutions.
Scenario One: 28 Days Later Penthouse Solution
We could hole up in the penthouse of a skyscraper, just like the father and daughter team from 28 Days Later. However, as we thought through the logistics, lots of problems emerged. There wouldn’t be enough power to last forever. That’s a major problem, especially since power is needed to run a refrigerator and possibly heat.
Being in a skyscraper means we’re well above the nasty zombie-infested world. But the semi-intelligent zombies would eventually climb up the stairs and hammer down our door. Being holed up anywhere meant they’d eventually break in – especially a simple penthouse room.
Food and water would be another huge problem. Even by raiding a supermarket for all the canned goods we could carry wouldn’t be enough. It would run out over time. Water especially. Also, what if the zombies happened to tamper with the power and water lines? They may not be intelligent enough to break them on purpose, but certainly could do it on accident.
The 28 Days Later penthouse solution would definitely not work.
Scenario Two: I Am Legend Offense Solution
We could hole up in a townhouse in the city, just like the hero of I Am Legend. We’d arm ourselves with weapons of all sorts, a trusty dog, and actively go hunting the zombies. The best defense is a strong offense, right?
The power, food and water problems of Scenario One are similar in this one. Not to mention the overwhelming number of zombies determined to eat our brains. All the guns in the world wouldn’t be enough to hold off millions of fast, vicious zombies. We’d either run out of bullets or get tired of swinging our axes. Plus, we need sleep and zombies don’t.
The I Am Legend offense solution would definitely not work.
Scenario Three: Lost Island Solution
Let’s get away from hiding in a building of some kind. How about we hole up on a deserted island somewhere? Sort of like Lost, except without the black smoke monster, genetic experiments, and civil war between shadowy scientists and enigmatic natives?
We’d choose an island where we could be self-sufficient: abundant food sources, fresh water, and materials for shelter. Without a way for the semi-intelligent zombies to get to us, we’d be safe indefinitely. Sure, we’d be living like cavemen again, but at least we could survive.
Sounds like a winner! There aren’t many ways to foil this solution.
Well, there’s very one small chance of failure. What if a ship full of zombies happened to crash onto the island? Sure, that would assume that a bunch of zombies wandered onto a ship and happened to kick it into motion and happened to aim it at our island. It’s a miniscule chance, but it’s still a chance.
It’s a chance we’d take though. The key seems to be removing ourselves from any large land mass full of zombies. If the zombies can get to us by feet, then we’re dead. But if we were someplace they couldn’t get to, then we’d have a good chance of survival.
After this intense discussion, we moved on to other vital matters, such as vampires and werewolves. It’s important to prepare for the worst. And what better way than to do so with a belly full of Thanksgiving turkey? I hope Janet Napolitano is taking notes.
“Hey stupidhead, that’s my cup of latte!” Leslie shouts.
The guy looks down at the latte, snorts, and takes a gulp. “I don’t see your name on it,” he huffs. Fuming, Leslie starts to wave her hands through the air.
“Fine. Want to mess with me? You’re going to regret it.”
The guy smirks and takes another gulp. Cafe patrons go “oooooo” and take two steps back from the counter. A barista makes a tiny yelp and dives behind the cash register.
A delicate shimmer appears above her hands. The air crystalizes and sparks dance around her fingers. A low hum starts to drum our ears.
The guy blinks and stops drinking. The latte starts to quiver in his hand. He takes a step back.
“Oh man, that guy is totally dead,” someone in the crowd whispers.
Leslie’s hands glow. The shimmer intensifies. Sparks begin whirling around in some kind of cosmic pattern.
“Wha-wha-what are you doing?” whimpers the guy. He drops the latte all over his khakis. Brown on brown, how pretty.
A shape emerges from Leslie’s hands. It’s long and pointy.
“Magic Missile!” Leslie chants. The missile leaps from her hands and strikes the guy squarely in the chest, causing 1d4+10 of damage. His body flies across the room and crashes into the wall. Sparks and flames lick his flesh. Shrieking in agony, he collapses to the ground. His tattered clothes trickle with smoke.
“What did I tell you, huh? What did I tell you, stupidhead?” Leslie jeers. “Mess with me, and you’ll regret it.”
A March 7th issue of The Onion was lying on the kitchen table next to a pile of newspapers. Gemini, whose hippie parents obviously named her during a drug-induced haze of sensibility, flipped through the paper. She sipped her coffee and turned to the horoscopes.
“Ah, Gemini,” she said to herself. Which, obviously, was her horoscope. Damn those hippie parents.
Her horoscope read:
In a tragic twist of fate, you’ll be overwhelmed this week by both a sense of fear and a pack of wolves.
She grinned. The Onion. Always so funny and full of silly horoscopes. She sipped her coffee some more.
A scratching sound came from the rear door. It sounded like fingernails scrapping on metal.
Gemini stood up and looked out the window. The backyard was empty.
“Huh,” she muttered. She opened the rear door. The scratching stopped. Again, the backyard was empty.
“Just my imagination,” she told herself. Gemini carefully shut the door and took another sip of coffee.
“AAAAIIIIEEEE!” A watery scream shook the kitchen. It came from upstairs.
“Mother!” She dropped her coffee and dashed up the stairs. “Mother! Mooother!!”
She swung open her parent’s bedroom door. The bed was neatly made and her parent’s Woodstock memorabilia decorated the room, love beads and all. There was no sign of her Mother though.
“Mother…?” Gemini whispered. She inched in. An eerie smell caught her. It smelled like mildew on old, wet laundry. Or a wet dog.
Her heart was pounding. She gripped her chest. “What the hell is going on?” she muttered.
CRASH! There was a smash of glass downstairs. From the kitchen. Gemini’s head felt heavy as she stumbled back up. She steadied herself on the wall and slowly slid to the staircase.
Something howled in the kitchen. “Arooooooooo!”
“Oh, come on,” she mumbled. “That’s too predictable. Don’t tell me I’m actually going to be overwhelmed by a pack of…”
A pack of wolves appeared at the foot of the stairs. Their jaws curled, revealing blood-stained teeth. They growled and arched their backs.
“Now that’s just stupid,” she stated plainly.
The wolves leapt forward, bounding up the stairs. Her legs took an agonizing second to respond. Then she scrambled back to her parent’s bedroom and slammed the door.
“Arooooooooo!” The wolves crashed into the door, rattling its hinges. The walls shook. The love beads swayed.
Gemini staggered backwards and frantically looked around. The window. She raced over and opened it.
The door began to splinter. Her eyes bulged. “Those are some strong wolves! Geez!”
She dangled her legs out the window and lowered herself. The ground wasn’t too far below. She let go and dropped. The impact sent slivers of pain up her calves.
Gemini rubbed her legs. From her parent’s bedroom, she could hear the wolves tearing down the door.
The kitchen door was ajar, its window shattered. She stared at it for a moment. Then ran back into the kitchen. The ceiling suddenly trembled as the wolves finally broke into her parent’s bedroom.
She grabbed the pile of newspapers and pushed the March 7th issue of The Onion to the floor. At the top of the pile was the March 14th issue of The Onion. Gemini tore through the paper and reached the horoscopes. Her horoscope read:
While truth may in fact be stranger than fiction, no one is the least bit interested in your personal adventures in babysitting.
“Waaa! Waaa! Waaa!” came the sound of a baby’s cries from upstairs. Gone were the howls of the wolves.
Gemini slouched into a chair. Her hair dangled in her face. She sighed a long and weary sigh.
“Waa! Waa! Waa!”
She looked up. Scratched her nose. Then picked up the papers and threw them into the trash.
. . .
What’s your horoscope say?
“Doctor! Doctor!”
A torrent of tiny bangs shuddered the door. Zach leaned up and tried to focus on the clock. 3:00AM.
“Doctor! Doctor!”
Zach threw off the covers and jabbed his feet into his slippers. The world was still cloudy from the fog of slumber. He grabbed his robe, his medicine bag, and tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes.
“Doctor! Doctor!”
Zach opened the door. A tiny girl, not more than six years old, was standing there with streaks of tears raining down her tiny face. The chill of the night air rushed at him.
He knelt down. “Little girl, are you all right?”
“Doctor! My mommy! My mommy!” She shook as she forced the words out.
“Is your mommy okay?”
She grabbed his hand. “My mommy! My mommy!” She pulled him from across the threshold and into the cold night.
The little girl led Zach down the street and past the town hall. It was a small town and a jog in any one direction would bring you to the town’s boundaries abruptly. Zach was the only doctor in town and was used to house calls, but rarely were there any emergencies.
“What happened to your mommy? Did she fall down? Is she sick?”
“My mommy! My mommy!” was all the little girl could manage. Her sobs echoed in the darkness. That, and the shuffle of their frenzied footsteps were the only sounds that disturbed the night.
The little girl had long black hair that flowed behind her as she ran. It almost floated in the air. Her eyes were deep and dark, like puppy-dog eyes, and her hands were as cold as the night.
She led him to a small, decrepit house at the edge of town. Zach tried to recollect what he remembered of its occupants. A woman and her daughter lived here. Both were sickly and he had given them some medicine. They never returned, so he figured they had gotten better. Perhaps that wasn’t the case.
The little girl pushed past the front door and raced up the stairs. Zach scrambled in tow. The house was black, save a few candles that dared to flicker. His shadow ambled up the stairs after him.
At the top of the stairs was the bedroom. The little girl’s mother was lying in bed. The air was stale and musky. Her gray hair was strewn all about. Sweat trickled down her brow and soaked her pillow. She was coughing violently. A pile of bloody tissues were scattered at the side of the bed.
Zach came to her side and opened his bag. The woman opened her eyes wide and gazed at the him. “D-d-doctor??”
“Shhh, save your strength.” He felt her forehead. The heat almost singed his palm. “I gave you some medicine long ago. Did you take it all?”
She nodded between coughs.
Zach reached into his bag and pulled out another bottle of medicine. “This will help for a little while, until I can go home to get the proper medicine. Here, take this.”
He dropped two pills into her limp hand. She slowly brought it to her mouth. Zach ran to the bathroom for a glass of water. She barely made it to her mouth when he returned.
“You need some water. Drink this.”
She coughed again and spit blood into a tissue, then took the pills and water. Zach watched her painfully swallow the cool water. Her audible gulp shook the room.
Then, with a tear in her eye, she turned to the doctor. “Th-th-thank you for c-c-coming.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank your daughter. You’re lucky she came to me in time. You should be very proud of her.”
The woman blinked. “Th-th-that’s imp-p-possible…” She shivered under the covers and the tear rolled down her cheek. “My d-d-daughter is d-d-dead…”
Zach looked behind him and saw only his shadow on the wall. A cold chill blew through his body.
. . .
Do you know any ghost stories?
“You know how you get an automatic A if one of your roommates commits suicide?”
Sandy frowned. “That’s morbid, Sally. Don’t say that.”
“You’re the one who’d need it.” Sally snapped her gum. “Didn’t you get a D in your last midterm?”
“No… an F…”
“See!”
“What are you two talking about?” asked Sarah. She walked into the room and dropped her bag. “Can I tell you that I am sooo tired? I’ll never finish this paper.” She sighed and fell onto her bed.
Sally snapped her gum and twirled a lock of blond hair on her finger. “We were talking about how you’d get an automatic A if one of your roommates commits suicide.”
“Sally!” Sandy huffed. She grabbed her Winnie the Pooh doll and held it to her chest.
Sarah took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “That would be absolutely delightful. Could one of you get right on it, so I don’t have to finish this paper?”
“Sarah, honey, you don’t need an automatic A,” said Sally. “You’re already getting an A, you nerd.”
“Not likely this semester. But if I don’t, my Mom is going to kill me.”
“You two are so morbid!” Sandy pulled her blanket over her feet. She unconsciously gripped Winnie the Pooh’s neck.
“And you’re such a ninny!” Sally chided.
Sandy stuck her tongue out. Sarah chuckled. “My my, what a mature and intelligent discourse we’re having.”
Sally cleared her throat. “You know what we need, ladies?” Sandy and Sarah sat silently. “A girl’s night out! Let’s go out and get trashed!”
“Absolutely ravishing idea, darling, but I’m utterly pooped,” Sarah muttered.
“I wanna go! I wanna go!” Sandy bounced on her bed. “Alcohol is more fun than talking about suicide and death and stuff.”
Sally snapped her gum. “Sandy, honey, for someone who’s such a ninny about death, you sure don’t show it.”
Sandy frowned and tilted her head.
“Look, you’re practically choking your Winnie.”
“Eep!” Sandy released her grip and Winnie fell to the floor.
Sally laughed. “You’re so funny!” She jumped up from her bed. “C’mon ninny, get your coat. Let’s get wasted!”
Sandy fetched Winnie and gently tucked him in. Sally smirked behind her back. Sarah kicked off her shoes and closed her eyes. “You ladies have a good time now.”
“Bye Sarah!” Sandy chirped. She grabbed her coat and followed Sally out the door.
. . .
“Did you hear about how this frat killed one of their pledges during rush week?”
Sandy frowned. “You have such morbid stories, Sally.”
Sally smirked and played with a lock of blond hair. “They blindfolded him and told him they were going to brand him with a hot iron. Then, instead of using a hot iron, they used a block of ice. The shock of the ice killed him.”
“Nuh uh! You made that up!”
Sally nodded. “It’s true. He expected something really hot and prepared his body for it. The shock of something cold freaked his body out so much that he died.”
“How can someone die like that? That’s impossible!”
“It’s true.”
Their footsteps echoed in the quiet quad. Only a few other students were walking about. The chilly autumn wind blew through the trees. Sally shivered.
“Aren’t you cold?” asked Sandy. “It’s freezing out here.”
“Yea, I’m getting cold.”
“Wanna go back and get a jacket? It’s right behind us.”
Sally stopped and looked around. Dead leaves blew off the trees and floated all around them. “Yea, let’s.”
They turned around and walked quickly back to their dorm. The security guard didn’t look up when they entered. He just nodded at their ID cards and buzzed them in.
“Wow, it got cold fast,” Sandy muttered.
“I know. It was hot as hell all day long. And now it’s… cold as hell.”
“How can hell be hot and cold?”
Sally smirked. “Sandy, honey, we need to get a beer in you fast.”
They opened the door to their room and stepped in. The lights were out and Sarah was in bed, quiet and asleep.
“Shhh, don’t turn on the lights. You’ll wake Sarah,” Sandy whispered.
Sally nodded and tip-toed to her desk. She grabbed her coat and quickly rushed out.
“That poor girl. She’s so tired.”
“Hey, she ain’t the one struggling in her classes,” Sally retorted. “She’s doing just fine.”
“That’s because she studies so hard.”
Sally huffed. “She’s just a nerd. C’mon, let’s go.”
Sandy trailed after Sally and watched her roommate saunter down the hallway.
. . .
“I shouldn’t have stood so close to that damn speaker,” Sandy shouted. “My ears are still ringing.”
Sally stumbled over a flower bed. “I’m so buuuzzed!” She hiccupped. “Those last shots of tequila darn near pushed me over the top!”
“Did you give that guy your number?”
Sally screamed. “Oh my Gawd yes I did! I can’t believe I did that too! Sandy, honey, did you see what he was wearing?”
“He seemed like a nice guy.”
“Oh my Gawd! He had this shirt unbuttoned up here, showing off his wispy chest hair. And a gold chain! Oh my Gawd that was so funny I almost threw up on him!”
Sandy giggled. “That would have been funny!”
“Oh my Gawd right! I can barely walk. I hate these stilettos. I—”
They both stopped. Red and blue flashing lights were screaming across the quad. A police car and an ambulance were in front of their dorm.
“What do you think that’s about?” Sandy wrapped her arms around her body.
“Oh my Gawd…”
They walked into their dorm. A police officer was talking to the security guard. Several students were clustered outside. Everyone was murmuring, but no one knew what happened.
Sally and Sandy walked upstairs and over to their room. To their horror, police officers were standing in front of their door. And their door was open.
Sally approached an officer. “Wha-what’s going on?”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, you can’t be here. Please—”
“AAAAAA!!!” Sandy screamed. She stood at the entrance and was looking into the room. Sally pushed past the officer and peered in too.
Sarah’s body was covered in blood. Her head was missing, replaced with a large and deep puddle of crimson. Her handprints, perhaps from a struggle, clawed at the walls.
And written above her bed, in her blood, were the words:
“Aren’t you glad you didn’t turn on the lights?”
. . .
Do you know any scary stories?
Woofer, the 170 pound Irish Wolfhound, backed his new owners to the couch and to their amazement, began speaking.
“Listen folks, this is how it’s going to be…”
But wait, let me back up a bit.
Martin Schwartz is a mild-mannered, friendly, and somewhat passive tax accountant. Some would call him a push-over, although Martin preferred to think of himself as accommodating.
Marietta Schwartz is a nervous, petite, yet outspoken force-to-be-reckoned-with. Some considered her the one who wore the pants in the family, and Marietta would have surely agreed.
They adopted Woofer from the local animal shelter after reading about a break-in two towns away. “We are not going to be victims,” Marietta had declared. “This world is too dangerous to live without protection.”
“But princess,” Martin replied. He always called her princess. “Wouldn’t a gun be dangerous to have around the house?”
“A gun? Who said anything about a gun?!” she hollered. “I’m talking about a dog!”
“But princess, a dog could be a lot of trouble. We’d have to feed it, walk it, take care of it…”
“We. Are. Getting. A. Dog.” And thus the Schwartz household adopted Woofer, a 170 pound Irish Wolfhound who sniffed at Martin’s fingers amiably, yet barked up a fearsom storm at the other dogs in the shelter.
So this new predicament was quite unexpected. And rather frightening to Martin, who had one hand gripped onto his wife’s arm.
“…I’m going to provide you with all the safety and protection you’d expect out of an Irish Wolfhound. In return for this, I have several ground rules which, under no circumstances, can ever be broken.” He gave Martin a stern glance. “Ever.” Martin whimpered.
“Rule Number One: You tell no one about what I can do. No one.”
Martin and Marietta nodded in unison.
“Rule Number Two: You give me warm moist food. Not that dried rock-hard crap. Food from cans with rich, creamy gravy.”
Martin nodded. Marietta wrinkled her brow.
“Rule Number Three…”
“Now just one minute,” Marietta started.
“Princess honey!” Martin screeched through his clenched teeth. “I don’t think we should interrupt him!”
“Quiet you!” She turned back to Woofer. “Canned dog food is expensive. We can’t just go buying loads of that stuff. How are we going to pay for all that?”
“That’s your problem!” barked Woofer. He climbed onto Marietta’s lap. “I see the house you live in. I can smell the detergents you use, the soaps you buy. You can afford luxuries for yourself, so you can surely afford some premium dog food.”
Marietta huffed. Martin shoved her. “Princess honey, I’m sure we can afford it!”
Woofer glowered for a few moments. Marietta could smell his hot, wet breath. It smelled raw and ravenous, with a touch of the blood and flesh of small animals.
“Rule Number Three,” Woofer continued. “I get my own room. No metal cage or pile of blankets in the kitchen. I want a whole room for myself.”
“That’s simply unreasonable!” Marietta argued.
“Princess honey!”
“Quiet you! Now where are we going to get an extra room from? We don’t have any more bedrooms in this place. This isn’t a mansion you know!”
Woofer bared his teeth and growled. Martin whimpered and held his hands in front of his face. Marietta straightened and sat up in her seat.
“You clear out one of your spare rooms,” Woofer snarled. “This house has more rooms than the two of you need. Just pile the rest of your stuff into another room.”
Marietta stared deep into Woofer’s eyes. “We. Do. Not. Have. Any. More. Room.” Martin could have sworn she was baring her teeth too.
The two faced off for what seemed to be, in Martin’s humble estimation, an utter eternity. Finally, Marietta spoke up: “There’s the garage. You can sleep in the garage.”
“No garage!”
“There’s more than plenty of room in there. It’s larger than any spare rooms we have.” They continued to face off with eyes locked and teeth bared. Martin gulped.
CRASH! The sudden sound of glass breaking startled them out of their stand-off. Woofer leapt off Marietta and sniffed the air. Martin held onto his wife. Marietta turned to the sound. “It came from the kitchen,” she hissed. Her eyes widened. “Robbers!”
Woofer started growling. He lowered his head and readied himself.
Two men in ski masks burst into the living room. They had guns in their hands. “Don’t move!” they shouted.
“They got a dog!” Just as he turned his gun to Woofer, the Irish Wolfhound bounded into the air. His jaw gripped onto the gun. With his hind leg, he kicked the robber in the face. Then he pushed off the robber with both feet and yanked the gun away from him.
Martin and Marietta sat frozen on the couch, wide-eyed. The other robber stood equally still with equal astonishment. Then he turned his gun onto Woofer.
With a single smooth motion, Woofer tossed the gun from his mouth, grabbed it with his front paw, and aimed it at the robber. Then he pulled the trigger. The bullet blasted the gun out of the robber’s hand.
Unarmed, the two robbers scrambled like cartoon characters into the kitchen. Their legs spun like wheels as they raced out of the house.
Woofer dropped the gun and regarded it with disdain. “Huh. A 9mm Compact Hi-Point. Amateurs.”
Martin scratched his head. Marietta stood up and turned to her husband. “Martin, get your pillow and an extra blanket.”
“Wha-wha-wha for?” Martin stammered.
“You’ll be sleeping in the garage from now on.”
“ME?!”
“Yes.” She turned to Woofer. “Woofer, you can take Martin’s place in the bedroom. And Martin will buy some premium dog food first thing tomorrow morning.”
And with that declaration, she marched upstairs. Woofer snorted and trotted after her.
Martin leaned back into the couch, scratched his head, and said to himself: “I knew we shouldn’t have gotten a dog.”
. . .
What would you do with a talking dog?
“Eat your brussel sprouts, Jimmy,” his mother said. “They’ll make you grow big and strong, just like the Hulk.”
Jimmy frowned and pecked his brussel sprouts. He didn’t like how they tasted, but he knew his mother was right. Mother was always right.
He put one into his mouth and bit down. Yuck. “Eat them and you’ll be big and strong. They’re good for you.” Jimmy grimaced and carefully chewed.
After dinner, Jimmy marched upstairs and for bed. He put on his Hulk pajamas—his favorite. Then he slid into bed.
His stomach rumbled. Deep inside, there was a throbbing dull pain. Must be the dumb brussel sprouts, he though. But it didn’t feel like the usual stomach ache. This pain felt different, somehow.
His mother came into the room and knelt besides his bed. “Now go to sleep.”
“Mommy,” he whimpered. “My stomach hurts.”
“Do you have to go potty?”
He shook his head. “No. But it hurts.”
“Either you stop complaining or you go potty.”
Jimmy nodded. He got out of bed and walked over to the bathroom. His mother watched him go in, then shut the door.
Jimmy wrinkled his brow and perched on the toilet. The cool porcelain kissed his buttocks. He looked down at his pajamas. The Hulk stared back up at him. Jimmy curled his lips and scowled like the Hulk. “Grrr!”
The pain in his stomach continued to throb. He rubbed his tummy, but that didn’t help. He clenched his butt cheeks and pushed, but that didn’t help either. Jimmy sighed.
Suddenly, the pain EXPLODED!
It radiated throughout his body. Fiery spears shot out from his stomach and into his limbs. Jimmy fell to the floor with the pajamas wrapped around his ankles. He tried to cry out. Only a soft whisper dripped from his lips. “Mommy…”
An intense heat burned under his skin. Tears welled in his eyes and mucus trickled from his nose. He rolled onto his side and curled into a fetal position, as the pain reminded his body of the primal shock it experienced during childbirth.
And then, as suddenly as it started—it stopped.
Jimmy huddled and twitched in the fetal position. His heart beat was thundering. Though the pain subsided, the memory of it lingered.
He opened his eyes and saw the cobwebs under the bathroom counter. A spider hung there, staring at him as if it had just seen a monster. Then he looked at his hands and his life changed forever.
His hands were green. And large.
Very large.
So were his arms. And his legs. Muscles rippled under his skin. His pajamas lay torn to shreds on the floor. Except for a convenient strip which held onto his waist and covered his family jewels. Pajama elastic band technology is apparently quite a wonder these days.
Jimmy stood up and looked at himself in the mirror. He grinned.
“I’m the Hulk!” he shouted. “Yes! I’m the Hulk!!” He pumped his arms into the air and jumped. Each time he landed, the house shook. The booming vibrations sent his mother right back into the bathroom.
“Jimmy, what is going on…”
“Hi Mommy!” Jimmy shouted. “Look, I’m the Hulk!”
At that split second, two forces struggled to dominate his mother. The first was the urge to scream until ever molecule of air leapt out of her lungs. The other was the urge to pass-the-hell-out. The second urge won and she crumpled to the floor.
“Mommy?” Jimmy nudged his mother. “Mommy, are you okay?” She moaned but remained unconscious. Satisfied that she was okay, he returned to the mirror. “Oh wow! Wow wow wow wow WOW!”
Suddenly, a chill ran through his spine. The chill poured through his veins like a cold shower. His teeth chattered. In the mirror, Jimmy watched his body begin to shrink.
“No! No no no no NO!”
But he couldn’t stop it. Just as heat had exploded throughout his body, cold now radiated through his limbs. The chill was unnerving. He dropped to the floor again and felt his entire body shriveling.
No, Jimmy thought. Don’t want to change back. No no no no NO.
And just like that, he reverted back to a little boy. His pajamas miraculously adjusted to fit his new waist size, but the rest of his Hulk pajamas were in shreds.
Jimmy climbed back up and looked in the mirror. A little boy started back at him. No more great big green Hulk. Just a little boy. Jimmy retired to the toilet bowl and sighed.
A few moments passed. Then his mother woke up. She rubbed her eyes and blinked. “Jimmy? Jimmy?”
“Yes Mommy?”
She blinked again and looked at him. “What happened?”
“Nothing Mommy. I’m done with the potty now.”
She rubbed her temples. “What happened to… your pajamas?”
He looked down at the shreds. “Oh. Um. I ripped them.”
“Ripped them… how?”
“I’m done going potty now Mommy. I’m going to bed.” He stood up, gathered up the shreds, and cast one last glance at the scowling Hulk in his pajamas. Then he walked past his mother and back to bed.
“Oh, and Mommy?” he called from his room.
His mother slowly climbed to her feet and to examine her face in the mirror. “Yes?”
“Can we have brussel sprouts for dinner tomorrow too?”
. . .
Do you like brussel sprouts?
