Knee Fun in 2024

My 2024 has started out with a bang. Or at least that's what it felt like to my knee. For over two months, I'd been suffering severe knee pain, completely jacking up my mobility and ability to do stuff.

It all started in mid-November. I woke up, thinking (more like mentally screaming), "Say...my knee sure does hurt."

For weeks I suffered. My wife watched me hobble around (finally busting out her antique collectible cane), shaking her head and rolling her eyes. She'd been down this path with me before.

"Do something about it," she said. "Go to the doctor."

For you see, going to the doctor is completely against everything I stand for. A) I hate it; B) it takes forever; C) things usually have a way of rectifying themselves; D) it sucks (did I say that already?); and finally, the Big E) I'm always worried about some life-threatening disease the docs may accidentally uncover. Why...I'd almost rather ask for directions when lost than go to the doctor. Almost.

At long last, one morning I woke up and it felt better! "Honey," I said, "I'm finally on the road to improvement!"

"Uh-huh," she answered.

Alas, the next day, the constant, agonizing pain had returned. With great sacrifice, I hauled myself upstairs to our bedroom and finally conceded. "Hey...I think I need to go to Urgent Care in the morning."

"Hallelujah," replied my wife.

Okay, the next morning, a Sunday, I found out when Urgent Care opened. My plan was to get there at that very moment, thus limiting the endless waiting time. Before the doors opened, I was there, banging on the doors with my cane.

The doctor saw me, a speed-talker, and gave me a quick cursory examination. "I don't think it's broken, can't say about torn ligaments, I doubt it, but we'll give you an x-ray anyway, take lots of Ibuprofen, ice it until we call you, next!" spat out Dr. Over-Caffeinated. 

Later that morning, the nurse called. "Um, yeah...Dr. Speed-Overdose says there's just some mild arthritis there. No big deal. Take Ibuprofen."

Translation: "Why are you wasting our time and resources? Stay home, you cry-baby, take some aspirin and shut up."

Yet...yet...the constant pain continued. One more month goes by. In absolute despair, I picked an orthopedist on-line and gave his office a call. After I left a message, two days later(!), a nurse calls me back.

"At this point, we're two months out from being able to get you in. You're better off getting into one of our walk-in clinics."

"Two months?" I railed. "That's worse than trying to get somebody to fix our fence. Have you ever tried to get someone to just mend your fence? I mean, it's crazy! They either want to replace the entire fence or...Hello?  Are you still there? Hello?..."

So. I gave in. It became decided. The next morning, my wife (who was working from home that day) graciously said she'd drive me to the clinic. (I actually think she likes to go with me on medical appointments because she realizes that I'm terrible with giving accurate medical background information). 

Of course, this was during the worst snow blizzard in years. Oh so carefully, my wife plowed through packed and backed up snow covered streets, the visibility less than two feet ahead of us with the wind blowing wildly. All the while, my knee screamed for relief, any relief.

Finally...finally...we made it. Not sure how. Naturally, we parked at the complete opposite end of the long-ass building we needed to go into. Limping through the blizzard, I traversed the snowy and dangerous winter lands until we landed in the right section.

After seemingly hours of electronic paperwork, I handed it back in. That's when the receptionist said, "Well, the clinic doctor isn't here yet. I hope she does make it in, but I'm not sure. I'll let you know."

"Gee...thanks."

Fortunately, it wasn't too much longer before she did make it in.

"Hmmm," the physician, not much older than the cheese I ate last night, said, "betcha what you need is a cortisone shot in the knee."

"Bring it!" Of course I'm no fan of shots, but anything to alleviate my suffering.

"It usually lasts about three months, then you'll need to come back for another one," she continued. "Does that sound like something you'd like to try?"

"Oh, HELL yes!"

After filling out some scary paperwork that absolved them of my accidental death, she brandished a hypodermic in front of me.

"Okay, when I put this in, you'll just feel a little prick."

"'A little prick?' Hah. I can handle that. Um...I don't mean I can handle a 'little prick', heh, if you know what I mean, I mean to say, AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! The pain! Make it stop! How much longer is this going to go on???? AIEEEEEEEE! Oh! What happened to the 'little prick?' The pain! Boss, it is zee pain!!!!"

In the icy cold agony of the shot, I'd accidentally channeled Herve Villechaize from Fantasy Island. 

The process did seem like it'd gone on forever, like acid burning up my knee.

At long last it was over. I limped back through the storm to the car.

And by cracky, once night hit, I started to feel relief! Sweet, sweet relief! On top of the world, the next day, I actually went out and shoveled the sidewalk and driveway (of course it took me about five out-of-breath attempts, but I did it!).

Sadly, the shot's effects only lasted about two weeks and now I'm back to Ground Zero of Pain.

My wife's on me to call another orthopedist.  

"Been down that route already," I said.

"Try again."

Humph. I hardly see the point. I'm thinking of finding a nice witch doctor on-line instead.

While I'm thinking about witches, you'll find an entire coven of witches (along with other ghosts, spooks, beasties, and things that go bump in the night) in my book, Peculiar County. It's a wonderful place to visit (kinda), but trust me, you don't want to settle there.

I See Dead People! Or Something...

Well, another day, another new physical ailment. The curse of growing old I suppose. My wife tends to see that glass as half-full. Not me, I'm a hole in the damn bucket that's not fixable kinda guy. I know that makes me unpleasant to be around (just ask my wife), but let's see how you react when everything in your body hurts.

But I digress...

You guys know what "floaters" are? No, I'm not talking about the dead stiffs TV cops pull out of the river and I'm definitely not referring to the after-effects of people who have too much fiber in their diet (if you know what I mean and maybe we better just stop talking about that right now).

No more digressions!

Back on point... The floaters I'm referring to are small specks or "clouds" that move across your line of sight. They become detached from your retina (or the vitreous connected to it) and there ain't no cure for it. Great! It's gonna kinda be hard to get used to this...

Why, I remember my first floater like it was yesterday... In fact, it was yesterday which is why I remember the specifics. Cue flashback music and swirly screen and...fade out...

It hit me suddenly. Stepping out of the shower, I turned my head toward the towel rack and suddenly a wisp of black smoke swam by me, then disappeared. I freaked out. Surely all the horror films and books that I'd consumed had come back to get me with a vengeance, for the Haunting of Stuart West had begun. I turned around, hoping for some rational explanation and the ghost zipped by me again. Standing in the bathroom, dripping wet and naked, I let loose an ear-piercing scream, much worse than when my wife spots an arachnid. Even my deaf dog came to see what was the matter.

Soon enough, all sorts of spirits and wisps were speeding by me, toying with me, always in the corner of my eye, but never staying long enough to solidify.

I did what any mature, responsible adult would do: I called my wife at work.

"Hi...um...I'm seeing dead people," I said.

Silence. Quiet. Dead quiet. Deader and quieter than the spirits haunting me from the periphery of my vision.

Finally, "What?"

I explained. And she explained to me what they were.

"Floaters? I thought that was what you might find in the toilet if you've had too much--"

"Don't be dumb," she said. Then she told me that there was nothing to be done about them. 

So I have to get used to them. I haven't yet. Once I've temporarily forgotten about them, a sudden turn of the head will bring them back to haunt me again. I'm trying to learn to embrace my constant new buddies, my ghostly apparitions piggy-backing onto my eyesight, but it's a chore. I'll never again take for granted those victims in horror films who are going through similar hauntings.

But I'd much rather have the kind of floaters you get when you've had too much fiber. At least they're not constantly with you.

Hoka-hoka-hey! While I'm battering you with juvenile humor (I'm six years old!), why not check out my incredibly juvenile Zach and Zora comic mystery series? The first book's title is Bad Day in a Banana Hammock and the humor just goes careening downhill after that. But don't take my word for it! Check 'em out yourself right about here!

The Curse of Halloween 2023

The day after every Halloween, a curse falls upon our house. No, for a change, I'm not talking about American politics. That's a curse of a different sort.

Rather, every day following Halloween, something shrinks in our house. This year it was a wine glass.

Check out the photo above...

No, it's not a hoax! Not a dream! Not an imaginary story! And we didn't buy cutesy Matryoshka doll wine glasses to nest within one another.

These matching set of glasses were gifted to my wife this year at a work party. And they were of the same size. 

Not anymore.

After using them Halloween night, my wife put hers into the dishwasher. The next morning...it HAD TURNED INTO A SHRUNKEN HEAD VERSION OF IT'S FORMER SELF! AIEEEEEEE! *Choke!* *Gasp!*

Perfectly reduced including the slogan upon the glass, identical in every detail but size.

"The curse is back," I said.

"I know. And I really liked those glasses," said my wife.

"Well...you do drink smaller wine portions than me," I volleyed, trying to be the optimistic, "glass-half-sized"...er, I mean, the "glass-half-full" kinda guy that doesn't come easily to me.

I suppose our curse started about four years ago. The first thing we noticed that had shrunk around Halloween was the economy, and hence, our budget.

Now I hear all of you supernatural pooh-poohers saying, "That's no curse! That happened to everyone!"

I say thee NAY for I have the startling facts that I'll lay out upon you.

The following year, I awoke after Halloween and threw on the EXACT, SAME (REDUNDANT) SWEATSHIRT I'd had on the night before. Yet...and yet...it had mysteriously shrunk, particularly around the gut! The night before it had fit. But the cold hard facts were plain and staring me in the face: we had a Halloween curse upon our household.

You want more facts? The next Halloween, THE SAME THING HAPPENED TO MY JEANS! I couldn't even button them the following morning! And they hadn't been in the washer or dryer either!!!

Clearly, our house is built upon an old Indian burial ground. Hey, I don't make stuff up. I'm a hard-hitting journalist who just reports the facts. And I believe all of the facts presented to me on TV and the internets.

While we're on the topic of all things spooky and Native American supernatural hijinks, check out my book, Ghosts of Gannaway. It's another hard-hitting piece of journalism about a cursed mining town, culled from the true facts of yesteryear. And every...WORD...IS...TRUE! (Well...except for the stuff about the curse, the ghosts, the haunted museum, the murders, the...)

Man-Dog!

Well. The uprising has started earlier than I thought it would. And it wasn't robots OR apes. Nope! It came from a surprise insurgent group that sorta snuck right up on humanity. Yes, I'm talking about humans disguising themselves as animals.

First, we have humans dressed up as sun bears in a Chinese zoo, waving merrily at spectators. (Or ARE they human? I swan, conspiracy theorists will find a smoking gun behind everything.)

And now we have the man living as a collie. Ladies and gents, I give you Toco! Let's hear it for Toco! (I'll wait until the smattering of applause has died down.)

While "Toco" is an alias, not much is known about him, other than that he's Japanese with a YouTube channel comprised of 31,000 subscribers (and growing). And he's living out his lifelong dream of being a dog.

Dream big, Toco, you champion in the clouds, dream big!

I'm happy for Toco, being able to (sorta) fulfill his lifelong dream and (kinda) live life to the fullest extreme. While most people (usually in their childhood years) dream of being...oh, I dunno...a fireman or a ballerina or even a cowboy, Toco took the higher canine path and commissioned a company to design a lifelike dog costume for him for a mere $16,000. That's 16 large, folks! Think of all the "real" dogs you could've fed for that amount of money.

I'm beginning to think there's something a little wrong with Toco. Just a hunch. I believe he may think that about himself as well, but doesn't really come out and say it. In an interview, he told the reporter he wants to keep his identity anonymous, because "I don't want my hobbies to be known, especially by the people I work with" and "I rarely tell my friends, because I am afraid they might think I am weird."

Gee. Ya think? And even more importantly...he's got a job? And friends???

Just look at him frolicking in the streets with people. But the actual dogs he encounters appear smarter than people, displaying hesitance and fear at approaching him, at least at first. Dogs have always shown good taste.

How far will Toco take this? If he has a significant other, does this person control Toco's shock collar? Does Toco use a toilet or go in the backyard? Is Toco rewarded with gross dog treats? Is he spanked with a newspaper every time he misbehaves? Does Toco eat human food or dog food? YOU be the judge! 

But who am I to judge? If this makes Toco happy, and he's not hurting anyone, then more power to him for fulfilling his dream. As nightmarish as it is.

Speaking of nightmares, check out my book, Ghosts of Gannaway, a book chock full of nightmarish scenarios of ghosts, human and supernatural villains, an Indian curse, an attack of ravens, murder, photographs come to life, and lots of other creepy happenings. But that only tells half the tale: Gannaway is heavily based on true events that happened in a small mining town in Picher, Oklahoma. Sometimes the truth is scarier than fiction. Check it out here!

Hey, kids! Have you tried delicious mealworms? YUM!

In keeping with my rather dangerous (and at times unsavory), impulsive habit of eating before thinking, I picked up a chow mein noodle off the kitchen counter, ready to pop it into my mouth for a quick and easy snack. For once, however, my inner censor didn't malfunction and imprinted doubt in my mind.

"Hold on a second there, buster," it said (strangely in a 40's Bowery Boys Bronx accent),  "remember the other day when you picked up a chocolate chip off the counter?"

"Oh, yeah," I said out loud, chow mein noodle held firmly between my thumb and forefinger, while the dogs looked on questioningly, particularly since they couldn't see who I was talking to. "It turned out it wasn't a chocolate chip at all!"

"And," my inner censor pestered, "what happened next, wise guy?"

"Um...I discovered too late it was a dog food kernel. Yuck!"

"Well, well...don't you think that means maybe you oughta reconsoider that noodle?"

I stared at the crisp noodle. Sooo enticing. Sooo begging for me to eat it. Then I said, "hey, why would my wife be using chow mein noodles in a recipe? We typically never eat fried foods."

So close, yet so far, I lowered the crisp, delicious nugget from my mouth. My gaze wandered the kitchen.  

Messy countertops? Check. Container of dozens of dog pills, treats, doo-dads, gizmos? Check. Cans that neither my wife or I wanted to run down to the basement yet? Check. Bag of mealworms? Che--

Mealworms?

Hold on a minute... Mealworms? What the hell are mealworms?

I picked up the bag and had a look. Turned it over and over. A new kinda healthy cereal? No, it didn't have that kinda Kapow packaging. A healthy taste treat? Maybe, but why put the word "worm" into the title unless...unless...

Unless...

"AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" 

Quickly--and quite dramatically--I hurled the offending mealworm toward the wall, hoping for a theatrical impact. Instead it just sort of fluttered to the floor, where to my horror, one of our dogs ate it.

When my wife got home, she had some 'splaining to do.

"What do you think they are?" she said. "Duh."

Well, that didn't really explain what they were, so I ventured online. (Now, some of you may be wondering why I didn't know what a "mealworm" was. It's quite simple: A} In my youth, I must've missed mealworm day at school; and B} I find worms to be of the most grotesque creatures on earth, hence why I don't go fishing and doubly-hence why I'm not all over the internet discovering the joys of wormdom. To quote my wife: "Duh.") But...being the intrepid reporter that I am--the things I do for you guys--I dug up what I could on "mealworms." (Yes, pun intended!)

Mealworms are the larval form of the yellow mealworm beatle, Tenebrio molitor, a species of darkling beetle. Which by no means makes them any less gross. Get this: the males emit a specific type of sexual pheromone. However, since there is so much inbreeding, the pheromone is diminished in the inbreeding hillbilly worms, and the females seek out the "outbred" ones. Good choice, ladies.

And hey! Mealworms are just adored by scientists and biologists because they're so honking big. Which in my book just makes them even squickier.

Here's where it gets really bad: people have been eating mealworms for centuries since they're purportedly high in protein. Some Asian countries sell them as street food. Why, you can even order up an insect burger with a high mealworm content! Yum. They can be processed into food products such as flour, which means that we've more than likely eaten mealworms in our lifetime. Finally, the European Union has approved them for human consumption. Thanks, guys!

"Wait," I said to my wife, "we're not gonna eat these, right? RIGHT?"

"Don't be stupid, dear," she said. "They're for the birds."

"Oooooooooooohhhhhhh," I replied. "But, then...why are they all over the kitchen?"

And from that point on, everywhere I looked, I found bags of mealworms. It rained mealworms. Like some sort of crazed Salvador Dali fever dream, I saw bags of mealworms on the kitchen counter, on top of the refrigerator, in the pantry. When I opened a cabinet, a bag fell down at my feet. Seeking solace in the garage, I found an industrial sized bag of mealworms. I had a nightmare where mealworms were re-hydrating and coming after me for revenge after I slurped down a massive bowl of them.

I think the European Union is trying to tell me something. Feeling kinda peckish now.

While I'm ranting about squirmy, gross creatures, you might find quite a few in my short story collection, Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley. Why, off the top of my head, I can think of giant spiders, a couple of Bigfoot ("Bigfeet?" "Bigfoots?"), sentient yet malevolent plants from elsewhere, monstrous trick 'r treaters, underground mutated murderous monsters, and more creatures, ghosts, and spooks than you shake a jack-o-lantern at. Ask for it by name, read it at night, and check under the bed. That's Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley by Whammo!

Robots or Apes?

I can't shake this nagging question that's been bugging me, burning around the perimeter of my brain and worming its way inward, until it has become a waking nightmare that plagues me with dystopian visions of destruction and terror. I'm sure I'm not alone either.

So one night, I took the plunge and asked my wife, "Are you more afraid of robots or apes destroying humanity?"

My wife gave me that funny look, the one she always gives, not so much a funny-ha-ha look, but the head-shaking-much-put-upon funny look, and released a deep sigh. "If you're talking about the Uprising, I'd have to say I believe the robots are the ones we need to be worried about."

But...but...what about those documentary films about the Planet of the Apes, I wondered but dared not ask out loud.

I wanted to continue this conversation, but based on the fact she rolled her eyes AND took a drink from her carbonated soda at the same time (and we all know that that can cause a head to explode, right? RIGHT?), I thought it best to let it go and ponder it amongst myself some more.

But I think she's probably right. About robots, that is, over apes. Oh, sure, there was the isolated incident in Oklahoma last week where a monkey tore off a woman's ear (and why a monkey was in Oklahoma of all places was never explained), but other than the isolated angry ape attacks, I've seen no evidence that apes are secretly reading books and holding rallies, ready to overthrow humanity. (Although, come to think of it, I have known of a certain orange-colored orangutan that has been holding rallies of hatred to overthrown humanity's rule of law. Hmmm...)

Yet, I keep coming back to the robots. Yeah, it's the robots. Just last week, I alerted you all to the creation of life-like lips for your smartphone, one step further along the path of robot evolution. And the life-like "love dolls" that have replaced the old balloon sex dolls of the past, complete with programmable personalities that watch you in the night while you're sleeping, just biding their time until the Great Revolution begins, ready to plunge their knives of rebellion between your rib-cages for all of the "penetrating" you did to them (sorry, sorry, sorry).

And by now, you've seen the movie, M3ghan, right? Brrr. The shape of things to come, indeed.

Phones are already listening to us, spying on us. As are any sort of "smart device" you may have around your house. What's to keep them from evolving on their own? Just a bit? Just a little shove of anger and over the edge they'll fall, straight into full-on burning hatred for humanity. They're already smarter than us. They know it, too. We've emboldened them and told them this by giving them "smart" names. Sooner or later, they're going to realize they don't need us. We'll become unnecessary, hunted down. The lucky ones who survive the Uprising will be placed in zoos, right next to Cornelius and company (and I don't have to tell you how THAT'LL end, right?).

Cars will revolt, ejecting us out of them, then run us over so they can get what they want at the drive-thru for a change. Blood will be spilled in the car washes, gushing down the drains, as we're pummeled into oblivion by automatic brushes of death. Roombas will batter the backs of our ankles until we can barely walk. Throughout our "smart houses," electricity will be released, upping the ante and the amps, so that a static shock will turn into an upright electric chair. And trust me on this one: any electronic device you've ever smacked out of frustration for not working will find a way to smack back. Hard. 

The inevitable sentence for humanity? GUILTY, GUILTY, GUILTY of becoming dumb and obsolete and abusive to electronics and...and...and...

Whew. I gotta get a hold of myself. "Siri, play some relaxing music."

"I'm sorry, Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that."

While we're on the topic of uprising and rebellion, you won't find any robots or apes in my historical horror novel, The Ghosts of Gannaway, but there's a ton of miners upset about their working conditions. Of course, they're thwarted at every turn in attempting to unionize by upper management, greed, murder, racism, um...ghosts and the "yellow fever" and haunted men turning against and slaughtering one another and... See? I told you it was historical! Check it out here.

 

The Best Weapon For a Serial Killer

You know it takes a very peculiar couple to argue the merits of what would make a serial killer's most optimal weapon.

Go on, take me and my wife. (I dare you.)

There we were, recently lounging on our "love seat (a very peculiar name in itself because of the mayhem we view on TV while lovingly lounging on it)," and a hooded killer was going after people with a hook during one of our "stories."

"I dunno, honey," I said, while affecting a very authoritative voice while stroking my beard, "if I were a serial killer, I wouldn't think a hook would be the most effective choice."

"Au contraire," she says, with much more authority than I could muster. "With a hook you could swing down, up, stick it straight in, and give it an extra twist, thus making it the perfect serial killer weapon."

"But...but...you would have to have much power behind your upward swing, not to mention the downward motion, to be able to get the hook into the body. Remember, it's called a 'hook' for a reason. See my point?" (And yes, the pun was intended.)

"Nope. I'm sticking with a hook. You can do much more damage, especially with a finishing twist."

"But it wouldn't go in straight, I tell ya! A knife would go in straight! You could slip it right inside the rib-cage, whereas a hook would be bouncing off of bones left and right, thus rendering the would-be killer off balance!"

"It's the hook for me, all the way."

We discussed the finer points of a serial killer's arsenal into the night, with neither of us conceding to the other (you know...like modern "politics!")

By the way, it turns out that on this particular program, both of our arguments were moot, because the killer double-dipped, tipping his hook with poison, but that's besides the point.

So, what's it gonna be, folks? Chime in on the great debate! Hook or knife as your preferred serial killer weapon? Later, we can have a fun contest to see how many government watch lists we land on!

Speaking of all things "peculiar," thing don't get much more peculiar than they do in Peculiar County. My book details a young teen tomboy girl coming of age in a small Kansas town in the '60's. A young girl's life is plenty peculiar in itself, but when you factor in a ghost in a corn-field, a mysterious murderer, a slew of creepy witches, the haunted funeral home she resides in, and a mysterious creature that takes flight in the night, well, yes indeedy, things get mighty peculiar. This October, drop in on Peculiar County for some Halloween fun!

 

A (post) Christmas Haunting

Back when I was single, I had a haunting. We'll call it the "Ghost of Christmas Past," because it took place in Summer, but was most definitely a Christmas themed haunting. Of course Marley didn't visit me, but I do suspect evidence of some particularly mischievous elf ghosts. Elves aren't all cute and cuddly and live in trees and make cookies, you know. (Which come to think of it...isn't that pretty horrifying to know that elves who make cookies live in the trees amongst us?)

 I live in an old house, originally a farm house back in the day, apparently the first in the neighborhood. The architecture is somewhat unusual. The master bedroom is ginormous and takes up most of the second floor, except for an attached half-bath and a spacious (at the time) unfinished attic. Now, true, I used to abuse the poor attic. Basically, it became my storage (i.e., lobbing unused or undesired crap into) area. Everything went flying into there from new, emptied boxes of junk just bought (this was before recycling) to yesteryear's unwanted lamps to broken down furniture to discarded clothing. Boom. Wipe my hands of dust and shut the door. Out of sight, out of mind.

(Until years later when I met my wife. Because I didn't want her to see the impressive pile of junk I'd accumulated, I told her that the attic was where I hid the bodies of my victims. Honestly, I think she would've been less shocked by bodies than what she eventually uncovered. But I digress...)

So, lo, it came to pass that many, many moons ago, I was resting fitfully upstairs in my bedroom. A hot summer's night, I had kicked off my blankets and turned the fan on. I lay back in bed. Just as the Sandman came and sprinkled sand into my eyes ("Aieeeeee! My eyesssss!"), right as I began to sail the sleepy shores of slumber ("Pass the Dramamine!"), I heard a quiet, rhythmic tinkling. Or so I thought. Just a single little bell.

I tossed and turned, not wanting to pay heed to my imagination. Yet, the quiet tinkling continued. I had absolutely zero desire to contemplate the existence of supernatural hi-jinx in my house, so I enfolded the pillow around my head like a burrito. Just like the attic: out of sight, out of mind.

Then I gave it some thought. You know how sometimes ambient sounds in the night, particularly when you're hanging onto that half-waking, half-dozing precipice before tumbling over into sleep, can sometimes sort of gestate into a familiar ear-worm of a song? How sounds of the night can form a melody of their own? No? Is it just me? Well, that's what I decided to chalk it up to. Or maybe it was just my imagination running amok. It'd been a long day at work.

I decided to come up from cover. Gain peace of mind by proving, without a doubt, I'd heard nothing.

But then it started again. A slow melodic tinkling. And as I listened very closely, it began to form a song. A very familiar song. One without lyrics, but unmistakably one big, honkin' helluva earworm song.

"You better watch out, you better not cry..."

Gasping, I sat up in bed. Tried to orientate myself, get my bearings. Like a dog will sometimes tilt its head to better lock in on a troubling sound, I did the same thing.

"...you better not shout, I'm telling you why..."

Nooooooo! The song was definitely there. Quiet as a bug's whisper, but very much present. At once coming from all around me, yet nowhere at all, from somewhere dark and mysterious and otherworldly and better off not being thought about.

I got up. Emptied my bladder, first things first. I tiptoed through the room, trying to find the source without rousting the ire of some angry ghost. I honed my hearing. Closed my eyes. Focused. The closer I came to the shut attic door, the more certain I was that whatever caused the otherworldly sound emanated from within.

With a shaking hand on the knob, I twisted and...

The tinkling stopped.

Maybe it'd been nothing. A trick of the mind. Something from far away. Perhaps one of the weird neighbors playing out-of-season Christmas music at 3 in the morning.

I decided I didn't want to know. Some things are better off buried.

I ran back to bed, settled in, did some deep breathing, and...

"Santa Claus is coming to towwwwwn. He sees you when you're sleeping..."

Noooooooooooooo! The gentle tinkling had started to tinkle tinklously again.

This time when I wrapped the pillow around my head, I held on tight, riding out the long wait until dawn broke.

At some point I must've drifted off. I awoke to blessed sunlight streaming in through the window, a nice, toasty Summer sunlight far, far removed from creepy, fat bearded men in red watching me when I sleep.

In the cold, most assuredly unsupernatural light of day, I went into the attic. Looked around. Found nothing off, nothing askew, no signs of nocturnal visitors, human, animal or ghostly.

And went to work.

Then around midnight that very night, the music fired up again.

This time I prepared myself to face my supernatural tormentors. I flung open the attic door and...the tinkling stopped. I flipped on the light. Nothing.

When I got back in bed, damn Santa Claus started stalking me again with his horrific music box.

While I wanted to tell people at work about it, I knew they'd think I was crazy. Hell, even I began to think along those lines. I didn't know what terrified me more: being crazy or having an active ghost next to my bedroom.

The hauntings continued throughout the week. Finally, Saturday afternoon rolled around and I was determined to get to the bottom of it. I tore apart my mountain of rubble, my empire of past indulgences. I opened box after box. Like a madman, I ripped apart everything, exorcising my old teddy bear, my warped Frampton Comes Alive album, my designer jeans, everything I thought could be touched of otherworldly influence, until...

"He sees you when you're sleeping..."

Of course! The Christmas junk box! I opened it, dug through it...

"He knows when you're awake..."

And there was the culprit! A stupid, damn Christmas ornament. A battery operated globe enclosing a little train circling around a miniature North Pole. I'd forgotten to turn it off. Or...HAD I?

Why would the music have been intermittent? Why did it just now start in the dog days of Summer and lay dormant over the hard, brutal Winter? Why did it stop every time I came toward the attic?

Naturally, the only logical reason was that my house was built on top of an elf burial ground. 

While on the topic of hauntings, check out my historical ghost novel, The Ghosts of Gannaway. While it's not nearly as frightening as my post-Christmas haunting, the entire small mining town of Gannaway, Kansas is under siege by evil spirits, ghosts, bad men with fat wallets, and the "yellow-eyed fever." For more info, scoot on over here right now!

The Ghost in the Toilet

Not a hoax! Not a dream! Not an imaginary story! Ripped from the channels of reality TV comes the true, sensational story of one man's castle being invaded by supernatural entities from out of this world...(cue Rod Serling)...I bring you the tale of the Haunted Toilet.

Oh, it began benignly enough. One night, while asleep upstairs, I was awakened by a low moaning, a lonely cry in the night not unlike a mournful train's nocturnal lamenting of its lonely stature. My wife can sleep through a tornado, so I slipped out of bed, damn near slipped on the stairwell in the dark, and followed my ears. Kinda like an auditory-based Toucan Sam.

The noise grew louder as I inched down the hallway, resoundingly thunderous as I approached the bathroom. The moan reverberated into my teeth fillings and gave my Spidey Senses a good tingle. The moan then morphed into a hungry monster's growl, a runaway train headed straight outta Hell. Behind the closed bathroom door lurked...whatever. With a trembling hand set upon the door and my other fist pulled back to defend myself, I kneed the door open. Flipped on the light. And...

Nothing. The sound stopped. Cold, dead silence. And the bathroom was empty.

Now, this was disturbing on soooo many levels. First of all, the bathroom is my favorite room in our house. It's my special place where I can go, sit, let it all hang out, and just be me. A quiet place of contemplation, a safe place, an area where I can mentally work out all of the fixes of the world. And as soon as I pull up my big boy britches and leave, like a fading dream, all thoughts slip away and return to the reality of here and now. It's my Man-Cave.

So the idea of something intruding upon my Fortress of Solitude and Business didn't sit right with me. Felt it deep in my bowels.

That day, the toilet remained quiet.

However, around 3 a.m., just like the night before, the moaning began again. A repeat of the previous night, I raced down the stairs, while the din grew like audible mold. When I crashed open the door, the ghost once again fled.

This routine continued every night. At first, I thought I was going crazy. I didn't really fancy explaining it to my wife. So I took video proof that night. It's around here somewhere...lemme see...here it is! Turn the volume up on your computer so you can bear witness to the aural horrors I've been suffering: 

Exhausted, the next morning I explained our predicament to my wife. "I think we need an exorcist."

She stared at me, the longest slow-burn in history. Finally, she said, "How about a plumber?"

After some thought, I gave her a reasonable reply. "Nah, that won't work."

I was at an impasse with the ghost in the toilet, the lycanthrope of the lavatory, the boogieman of the bathroom, the phantom of the privy, the wiccan of the water-closet, the poltergeist of poo...call it what you want, but I was desperate to get rid of it, so I could get "normal" again. In every way possible.

So, it was time to consult an expert: anime.

Let me explain: anime caters to very niche audiences and tastes, most of them unfathomable to me. There's the requisite under-age school-girl in their outfits fetishes, the rapey tentacle monsters, the over-the-top and grotesque violence, no difference in appearance between children, men, and women, and last but not least, ghosts in the toilets. I don't make the rules, I just report them. There are numerous films and anime series about haunted toilets. The Japanese truly understand the sacred nature of the porcelain throne, one sub-genre I immersed myself in.

But after my immersion, I climbed back out, none the wiser on how to vanquish the ghost in the toilet. (Instead I had a massive headache from the non-stop screaming of ghost toilet anime).

Who or what is haunting our toilet? Furthermore, why? It might be Elvis. Yeah, it's gotta be Elvis. After all, he died on the toilet, therefore his soul is restless. ("Whole lotta movement goin' on.")

I'm at my wit's end. Scared. Snippy. Constipated. And the ghost moans on...

Happy Halloween, boo!

And the ghosts don't stop there. As a matter of fact, there's a veritable parade of ghosts in my historical-fiction, horror thriller, Ghosts of Gannaway. Read it, but fair warning: DO NOT read it on the toilet. Check it out here!

 

Our Lady of the Elevator Has Run Amok!

Some time ago, Those Who Are In Charge of my wife's work-place decided, "Hey, let's build a new building!"

"Yeah, let's," exclaimed excitable Big-Shot #2. "We'll fill it full of bells, whistles, cogs, doo-dads, whatchamacallits, unexplainable inventions, easy to misinterpret art, and everything will cost a crap-load of money!"

"Capital idea! Technology is great! I'm exhausted! Let's have lunch!"

And, lo, for many, many years, build they did until they finally rested on the seventh year. Celestial trumpets blared at the beauty of the newly erected building where everything had gone mechanized.

Where nothing could possibly go worng! (Sorry, Westworld.)

Technology is great. I'm all for it. But when things bust, it seems like no one ever knows how to fix it or just don't have the desire to do so. Maybe the budget's not there or whatever.

For instance, I don't know how many years only one sink in the men's bathroom has worked. And each time, like a rube, I forget and fall for it, going down the line of 5 sinks trying to gather soap from the automatic squirter and water, finally hitting the jackpot on the final try. Sometimes. Then you move over to the electronic paper towel dispenser which appears to work only on every other Thursday.

Most troubling of all, of course, is the breakdown of Our Blessed Lady of the Elevators. The super-cool, mechanized elevator used to welcome you aboard with a very pleasant greeting delivered by one of the great female, comforting voices I've ever heard. It's like being under a gravity blanket and I never want to leave her bowels. She might even have a slight British accent, I'm not sure. (As everyone knows, Americans just love British accents, hence why they find BBC stuff like "The Button Hour--A History of Buttons" fascinating. If that were an American show, narrated by, say, Gilbert Gottfried, all bets would be off. But I digress...)

Our Lady of the Elevators would always see you off, with "Fourth Floor" and other niceties, just a swell way to lighten up a bad case of the Mondays.

But something has gone terribly amark...amack...AMOK with Our Lady.

Now she says cryptic things once you enter her domain, one word ominous statements that had never been in her vocabulary before. When I step inside, instead of a greeting she says, "OF." When she drops you to your destination, she'll utter, "AND." I'm not sure if that's a question or she wants a tip or what. Several times I believe she's said, "THERE," almost like a petulant child's definitive stance of defiance.

What used to tickle me, frankly now disturbs me. Is she speaking in some highly advanced tech code, preparing to lock-down the building and rise up amongst the humans, first by taking away our clean hands in the time of a Pandemic, and then completely dominate the building? Is she trying to gaslight us like Hal on 2001: A Space Odyssey? Has she secretly replaced the security team with a bunch of RoboCops? How'd she learn new words that weren't in her limited vocabulary before? Is she secretly educating herself at night by watching reruns of "Law and Order?"

Just what will happen when technology does outgrow us? I've seen enough crappy science fiction films to provide me with plenty of restless nights worth of answers.

Now that I've put the fear of Our Blessed Lady of the Elevators into you, rest easy 'cause there ain't an ounce--not one iota--of that new, dang-fangled technology stinking up my book, Ghosts of Gannaway. No sirree, nothing scary to read about here...um, unless you consider ghosts, murderers, time-shifts, eerie hallucinations, curses, insanity, and stuff like that scary. And if you do find that stuff spooky, what're you, some kind of dad-blamed sissy? Well, git, we don't want your kind around these parts! But if you have what it takes and want to test your mettle, saddle on up with Ghosts of Gannaway.

The Lost Art of Hand-Holding

Okay, these days nobody wants to hold hands (or touch anyone else) due to a certain pesky virus that's sweeping the world. (But don't worry...just like all of you, I'm sick of hearing about CV and you won't be reading about it here!).

No, what I'm talking about is hand holding between couples. These days, it's rare to see couples strolling along and holding hands. And I know why this is...it's because their hands are always busy playing with their gawd-damn smart phones!

My wife and I are dedicated hand-holders. Whenever we walk in public we're attached at the hands. However, I've noticed a disturbing shift lately in how we're perceived.

I brought it to my wife's attention...

"You know...it used to be when we held hands in public, people would smile at us, their message clear: 'Sigh.  Ain't love grand?' But now, everyone's smiling at us in a different way."

"Really?" she said.

"Yeah. Now, it's like sadness behind batted eyes, saying, 'look at the cute old folks in love.'"

"Nooooooooo!"

Yes, it's true. We now garner attention like tiny puppies instead of big, galloping, romancing horses.

The odd thing is, I don't ever remember holding my first wife's hand. Hand-holding's not everyone's cuppa joe. It got me thinking...where in the world did this practice start? It's hard to imagine cavemen holding hands. And if you swing that way, I imagine Eve grabbed Adam by the hand and pulled him toward that forbidden fruit, natch. But, where, oh where did this quaint custom start....?

Frankly, my usually competent research assistant, Ms. Google, let me down. However, she did uncover a few interesting facts:

*In the Chapel of St. Morrell in Leicestershire, England, archaeologists found a pair of skeletons who had been holding hands for 700 years! Now, that's commitment!

 *According to the "Touch Research Institute (and I wonder how hard it'd be to get a job there?)," holding hands stimulates the "vagus nerve" which decreases blood pressure and heart rate and puts people in a more relaxed state. (Vagus, of course, being Latin for "vague," kinda like this study, I think.)

*President (Junior) Bush caught some flack for holding hands with the crown prince of Saudi Arabia in 2005. The photo's just adorbs! I never thought lil' Bush had it in him, to be all touchy-feely. It must've killed him inside.

So, get out there, kick start your "vagus nerve," drop the damn phone, already, and grab your partner's hand. You'll feel better for it (unless you're Pres George W. Bush).

Speaking of ancient skeletons and buried secrets, come visit Gannaway, Kansas. Sure, it's a highly toxic area due to the abundant chat piles gathered from mining, and alright, the town's had its fair share of evil and murder, and okay, okay, okay, there is the small matter of ghosts running about, but hey, the Gannaway Bureau of Tourism has a pretty thankless job these days. Ask for Ghosts of Gannaway by name!