Fear the Crab

I woke up at 0230 with a very disturbing sensation. I thought I had heard my mother’s voice calling my name. My mom, however, is living in another house over two miles away, and there wasn’t that much volume to the call. I would have had to really fuck up big time in order for my mom to tap into those motherly reserves of righteous fury.

So if it wasn’t my mom, what could it have been? I did not hear it again, rather just the typical night-time sounds of splintering wood and rushing mists normally associated with old houses. The dog decided at that point to investigate the rest of the house, and when THAT happens it’s usually one of two things: she was hungry, or there was SOMETHING that attracted her attention.

I pushed that latter thought out, but my mind instead began to ponder if there was some psychic connection at work. Perhaps something happened, and I heard her calling me for help. I began to imagine my father, collapsed on the floor, whilst my mother was in bed helpless. I imagined the frustration and rising panic, my mom unable to call for help.

Oh hell, I hadn’t seen them in a week! What if something happened to them on the day after I was last there? My mom would be trapped for so long without anyone checking in! The worry set solidly within me, weighing my stomach down to the bed, freezing my head to the pillow.

I should call them, I thought. If they were okay, my parents would answer the phone. But if they were okay, they would not appreciate being called so early in the morning. I would have to wait until a more reasonable time, but how early is acceptable? Perhaps I could drive by the house and check at a glance, before I go to work. But, short of opening the door, it would be difficult to determine if things were okay from the street, and entering the house would ring the electronic doorbell, bringing me right back to the first problem.

No, I would have to wait until breakfast, and give my dad a call under the pretense of scheduling a birthday dinner. The earliest that could be was not for another five hours!

If there was nothing I could do then, I would have to try and go back to sleep. I sat up and read a book for another hour, before becoming tired enough that rest was possible again.

* * *

Maile called me at work, before I had a chance to check on my folks, and asked what happened to me that morning. After I explained the events that preceded my worries, Maile said she had also woken up at that hour, having suffered very unsettling dreams and brewing a rather creeped-out feeling.

Great. Now in addition to my fears of parents in trouble, I have fears of paranormal night-time visitations!

* * *

A phone call to my parents left me in relief, as they sounded quite well and busy with their daily lives. Tentatively scheduled a dinner for a July Saturday, and I left them to their thing.  I suppose, in hindsight, I could have driven up to the house and checked if there was a big pile of uncollected newspapers.  That bit of oddity would be grounds for house investigations.

Regardless. That bit of wonderful news scratches Theory One off, leaving me with the disturbing possibility of Theory Two – Ghost All Up In My Business.

Maile told me later that I had probably heard the siren song of soul-sucking freakishness outside our window, in its attempt to lure me into its gaping maw of hideous doom.

Great. Thanks.

Maybe it was good that I didn’t think to go out for that drive.

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!

I’m in a one-story shop, wood floors and walls with thick tree trunk columns supporting the roof. The varnish is very dark, offset by the white sunlight through large pane windows on the far side. I believe it is a shop because there are tables with assorted knick-knacks, but there are no prices (perhaps an antique store?). The shop is part of a larger structure, in a district of concrete. There are people outside.

A homeless man walks into the shop, eating rice out of a dog bowl. I briefly think that he stole it from a stray dog one of the residents leaves food out for. I watch the man walk across the room to a door set in the wall. He tries to open it, but it is locked.

A bus has pulled up to the shop, breaking the white curtain of light with its silhouette. Japanese tourists disembark and proceed single-file into the shop, heralded by a cacophony of conversation punctuated with desperate cries from the tour group leader. The homeless man approaches the tourists as though he works in the shop (I know he does not), and begins to “confiscate” their lunch under the premise of the store not allowing any.

A woman enters the shop from the opposite end. She seems familiar, yet unrecognizable. She disapproves of the homeless man, but does not stop him. I feel disgusted by the lack of authority and the willingness to be taken advantage of. I move to the center of the shop. My intention is to kneel and meditate in front of an altar. My thoughts briefly justify this action as an attempt to garner sympathy and mete out guilt. “Look, he has to pray to the ancestors for you to stop this.”

I sit for less than a minute. I am then prompted to approach the homeless man and lead him to the altar. I tell him that “Grandfather wants to talk to you.” He stands in front of the altar, which has transformed into a hinged door. The door opens to reveal a slender woman, gorgeous and robed. She beckons the man to enter. All his sins shall be forgiven. I step back. My mind tells me that this was not planned. I watch as the man sheds joyous tears, understandably eager to absolve himself of past misdeeds, and he graciously enters the door.

The door closes. I know it was a ruse, a trap. The door and beyond is something terrible. I wait for the scream, but it doesn’t come. The tourists have begun to browse the store shelves. The woman thanks me for my help. I try to tell her that the door is an illusion, that what is on the other side is worse than the man before. I try to tell everyone that they need to leave. The evil behind the door is not finished. It is still hungry and wants to consume.

I am ignored as the door opens again.

It was pointed out to me that I failed to mention a strange occurrence on Wednesday. While I was lazing in bed at Maile’s house, lying on my back while Pupu the cat was lying by my feet, I experienced a very weird incident. I felt something hit the top of my head, like something had fallen and tapped my scalp. I felt behind me, and there was nothing there except the pillows and headboard. Nothing had fallen from the top of the headboard. I thought it somewhat strange, then I began to realize that what I felt also felt like someone tapping the top of my head with a finger.

That creeped me out, because there was no one else in the room, and the only other people in the house were on the other side and certainly could not have fit between my head and the headboard.

Maile’s house seems to be loaded with weird activity. I remember several stories she told me about seeing a little girl in the bathtub, odd noises, and a robed, evil-looking bald man surrounded by smoke. She said nowadays, weird things only happen when I’m around, such as the time the both of us saw some quick movement across the floor, but there was nothing there. What made it doubly interesting was the fact that I saw something white, while Maile saw something black (or was it the other way around?). This happened a second time, except this time that flash of movement was something falling to the floor.

Tried the “bed head” look, though I don’t know if I pulled it off. Nobody said anything bad about it, so I guess I did okay. I don’t know if it will become a habit, though.

Min watched The Ring, and he was a bit creeped out by it, too. Not as badly as I was, however, but I felt better being able to talk to someone else about it. Now I just have to wait until George sees it before the circle is complete.

People have wondered what The Ring stands for. I have one theory, though for now I will only say one word: Eternity. I have other theories, too, but those can wait until I can explain without giving away details to those who haven’t seen the movie yet.

It’s 2230 hours, and I can’t sleep. I’m going to suffer tomorrow at school.

I just saw “The Ring” and I am freaked out. The movie scared me so badly I closed my eyes. Maile could tell I was uber nervous because I kept pinching the folds in her jeans. I must say that it was one of the best scary movies made, primarily because it didn’t require any gore or lots of blood to make it horror-rific. Still, I don’t think I’ll sleep well tonight. It’s not really because of the story in the movie, rather the images that have been burned into my mind like.. well, like the movie. Damnit!

I’m feeling slightly better, because I’m going to be sleeping over at Maile’s and I will find great comfort in her presence. And, the presence of a 170 lb great dane.

I met James and his new girlfriend Mary tonight, too. They came and saw the movie with us, even though they had already seen it. They were still a bit freaked out by it, but not as badly as myself. In fact, when we went to Anna Miller’s afterward and I was feeling better after a root beer float, James had the bright idea of bringing up a scary nightmare he had the evening after he saw The Ring for the first time.

He said that he was dreaming about something, and then he was woken up by a high-pitched noise, like that of a steaming tea kettle, accompanied by the static of the TV which is now on. He found himself on the floor, and it was broad daylight like the normal times he wakes up, and when he sat up to look at the TV, that “well scene” was playing. So he reaches behind him to get the remote to turn off the TV, and by the time he finds it, SHE’S at the screen. So he shuts off the TV, and everything is cool. Then the door to his bedroom opens up, and SHE’S there again!

He woke up with a scream on his lips.

Bastard.