So…it’s a little known fact about me that I HATE scary stories. I hate scary movies, slasher flicks, and pretty much everything capable of giving me creeps/nightmares (I feel my avoidance of nightmares is justified, given the fact my nightmares are PRETTY F***ING CREEPY.)
It might seem odd, given the fact I WRITE creepy stories. Book 1 is about grief, Death, loss, drowning…Book 2 is about a murdered witch and the havoc she wreaks on a small town…Book 3 is about monstrous/murderous spirits who lurk in dark spaces.
I won’t actually work on a lot of my projects at night/alone/in potentially creepy places. I like to phrase it nicely, creatively. My imagination is way, way, way, way too vivid for these things. If there’s even the potential for CREEPY, my mind will find it. It’s like visual mad libs, the creepy edition.
So…when I lug myself up to my bedroom in my old Victorian house, and the door is closed (I never close my door) and the lights are off, and I open said door and flick said lights on and I proceed to, for just a blink, see a body falling from the ceiling, I find myself on the fetal position in my office tweeting frantically and making this blog post. Because now I cannot sleep.
If anyone wants to tell me a cheerful story so I can work up the nerve to re-enter my sleeping quarters, that would be great.