Fear the Crab

Maile and I splurged on cinematic entertainment, buying three movies from Borders. This outing saw my first purchase of a Blu-Ray disc, Casino Royale. I haven’t watched it yet, but I have heard enough first-hand accounts of its decency to feel justified in the monetary expenditure.

The next movie was technically a choice of mine, but only so far as making its existence known to Maile. El Espinazo del Diablo (The Devil’s Backbone) is classified as a horror movie from Guillermo Del Toro, and since that director has a good history of weaving a terrific story, Maile was inclined to get this.

El Orfanato (The Orphanage) is another movie of the horror genre, and while it was not directed by Del Toro, it did feature him as a co-producer. Which could mean almost anything, I guess.

I only watched bits and pieces of the two horror movies, preferring to spend the rest of the time addressing the less-spooktacular adventures of Rayman’s Raving Rabbids. Maile contends that the movies were not at all scary, but if it’s one thing that I do not like, it’s creepy ghost kids.

My mother told me a story of how my brother would, as a young child, be awakened by nightmares in the middle of the night. The waking-up part, I’ve witnessed personally, but never thought much of it beyond a casual, “He’s at it, again.”

However, my mom revealed that my brother would wake up because he was being visited by little ghost children, who wanted him to come out and play. He would get scared, naturally, and bolt for my parents’ room. Turns out, long long ago, the area where I live was once home to a village whose population were besieged with plague, and a great number of children died. These kids were burned to stop the infection, and their spirits (along with anyone else, I imagine) still remain in the area.

If there’s one thing creepier than a ghost, it’s a frickin’ ghost kid. Adult ghosts can have a friendly melancholy that you can easily wrap your head around, and often they act as messengers of a wronged past or harbingers of omens to come. You can learn something from an adult ghost, I think. A lesson exists from those vengeful ghosts, too; don’t mess with them and get the fuck out of the house.

But ghost kids are unpredictable. They can be mischievous, they can be malicious, and they always look at you in that blank expression. Adult ghosts will tell you flat out what’s bothering them. Ghost kids seem to speak in riddles, or not at all. Ghost kids are fucked up, man, and ghost babies are the worst of the vile, monstrous lot.

Ask Maile, one of these days, to tell you the story of the ghost baby crawling out of the ocean, its lamenting cries preceding its arrival on sandy shores.

EDIT: The Kimberly told me of a time when she was house-hunting, and during a visit to this quaint little abode surrounded by a jungle of vegetation with her ex and two kids, how the house felt cold and dark. Evidence of the previous owner’s family still lay in plain view, most notably the child-proofed stairway with baby gates at both top and bottom, and acrylic-paneled banister. Something about the house was unappealing, so The Kimberly passed on it.

Later, in the car, her then-4-yr-old son mentioned that he didn’t like the house, either. When prompted why, he said, “That baby was really mean. I didn’t like him.”

FUCK!