Okay, so my imagination works a little too well at times. Because of this, I’ve often been hosed when it comes to being alone in the dark. My ears hear a noise and my brain starts going crazy, thinking of all of the horrid mundane and supernatural things that could have caused it. This old house (our house, not the TV show) doesn’t help very much.
Barb is in Boston tonight. I’m here alone in Hartford. I’ve been up a little too long, so my mind and ears are having a blast. Ever see the Simpsons where Marge left Homer alone with the kids and when she got home, there was a huge hole in the front door and Homer and the kids were hiding behind the couch, scared out of their minds?
Welcome to my world.
Now, I was preparing for things to go a little crazy tonight, just because I learn from the past. There’s one thing I didn’t count on. You see, there’s one room in the house I’ve never liked. I’ve just gotten a bad vibe every time I’ve gone in there. I affectionately call it The Room of Evil. If I’m alone, I stay out of there and keep the door closed. If I have to go in the room, I go as fast as I possibly can.
Is it possible for a second floor room to be built over an indian burial ground?
So tonight, just a mere few minutes ago, I decide it’s time to turn in. Flashlight? Check. Hockey stick? Check. Backup hockey stick? Check. I’m settling under the warm covers, ready to be lulled to sleep by the hum from all of the lights on the second floor burning brightly, when all of a sudden…
CRASH!!
Actually, much louder than that, but I’m too freaked out right now to mess with my CSS.
I grab a stick, find my glasses, put on my slippers and investigate. A picture just up and decided to fall off the wall. Makes perfect sense. And where was the picture? Outside The Room of Evil.
Bloody Hell.
Just know that if I happen to not make it through the night, it wasn’t the cancer that killed me. It was the house.