 Horror/Scary: August 26, 2015 Issue [#7174] |
  Horror/Scary
This week: It Can't Be True Edited by: Creeper Of The Realm  
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Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
~ Edgar Allan Poe
Horror stories give us a way of exhausting our emotions around social issues, like a woman's right to an abortion, which I always thought was the core of 'Rosemary's Baby,' or the backlash against feminism which I always thought was the core to 'Stepford Wives.'
~ Chuck Palahniuk |
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Not everyone believes in the weird stories people tell. Poltergeist isn't real. Neither is Bloody Mary. Right? Right? Well, I'll let you decide for yourself.
If you ask me, I'd tell you that I loved anything horror, but something changed. The only thing I can do is read horror because it's at my own pace and not someone else's. I will not sit around a campfire and listen to any kind of horror stories; once it gets dark, I refuse to talk about anything that might give me that creepy feeling where I have to look over my shoulder. I'm a believer in certain things, therefore I do not want to hear about real life experiences or otherwise.
Here's a few real life stories from my personal experience... You be the judge and tell me how believable those are. 
At age seven, my great grandmother died and the entire family came. I still remember the gloomy weather as they carried her coffin down the gravel road all the way to the cemetery. It was the only time I thought the graves would open up and corpses would start walking around, as the preacher did his thing. Silence encompassed that graveyard that day. No birds singing, no wind howling. Nothing.
Later that evening, when most of the family left, some of us stayed at her house. The night air had chilled so my grandma and her sister stoked a fire in the kitchen (mind you, this is an old house without a bathroom, let alone an electric stove). As the night grew darker and the house more quiet, a sound came from the outside - a woman crying. It felt as if she stood right outside the kitchen window, but anywhere you went in the house, the crying could be heard at the same level. A sad, steady cry, as if in pain. My mother never admitted that that is what we all heard that night. Instead, they all told me it was the fire, however, no one slept much that night because of the noise.
When my mom was younger, she and her cousins used a makeshift Ouija board to call on spirits - they summoned my great grandfather, whose daughter was sitting at the table. They asked him what he was doing and his reply had been that he was making fun of his daughter. The windows started to rattle and even though they did all this at night, once they said good bye to him, it was daylight. A few months after that, that same daughter of his, died. It's the only story my mom ever admitted to being true.
When my father was little, he stepped on something intended for another. He started getting horrible headaches to the point of fainting. My grandparents took him to all the doctors possible until one of them suggested taking him to a Mosque to consult with them. Turned out, my dad has stepped on something which would have killed the person it had been intended for. To this day, he still gets random headaches and his nerves are shot.
Two or so years ago, hubby moved for a job to another city. I followed. It had never occurred to me to question anything in that place, but there was a huge difference between being downstairs in the living room than the upstairs bedrooms and bathroom. I could never put my finger on it and just faulty A/C unit.
On the weekends, he'd go visit his parents and I'd stay there by myself. I'd always feel the need to close the bedroom door when going to bed as if keeping something out. What I didn't know was that, whenever I left he always slept in the living room and never upstairs. One night as we talked about all the supernatural things happening to people, he mentioned that part and the reason. He told me there is something in that bedroom that doesn't want him there. Of course I laughed it off. Wouldn't you?! Paranoid, I thought. That night, when we went to sleep, I stayed on my side as always because I like my space, and I felt him touch my hand, caressing it. I giggled and asked what he wanted. When he turned toward me in puzzlement, I drew a blank. I never realized that his back was turned toward me and that there was no way he could even come close to my hand.
I still brush that one off as him playing mind games with me, but I don't know how.
So, why did I tell you the few random stories from my own life or families life? I understand that it is hard to believe in something that isn't there. There can't be any good if there isn't any evil. If there is a God, than that means that the Devil is real as well.
When you pick up on creepy stories or invent some of your own, you have to believe in them in order to transfer them onto a page in a believable manner. If you don't believe, you can't expect your reader to do it.
'til next time!
~ Gaby  |
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