A Scary Story for Halloween

I mentioned in an earlier post that, starting in childhood and continuing even today, I love juxtaposing the feeling of fascination with the feeling of horror. (“It’s so scary but I can’t look away and I’m getting such a rush from this!”) That’s why I’m a sucker for YouTube videos from sites such as Mr. Ballen and The Why Files with headlines such as “Who Are the Dark Watchers?” and “Ghosts of Flight 401.” Most of the time I watch these out of curiosity with a large dose of skepticism mixed in, but even when I don’t believe the stories, I’m like, “Well, thanks, you did a good job of combining fascination with horror!”

But in spite of my lifelong fascination with creepiness, I’ve never experienced any sort of paranormal event myself.

I’ve never spotted a cryptid looking at me through the backyard fence. I never walked by an abandoned house and saw a shadowy figure watching me from an upstairs room. I never heard a voice speaking when there was no one present. Shoot, I was raised in the woods and never even saw Bigfoot!

Nothing.

Never.

Nuts.

That doesn’t mean, though, that I’ve never had any scary experiences. Since it’s almost Halloween, let me tell you about one of them. . . .

As a kid I was easily spooked. While the other kids were watching Dark Shadows (a popular soap opera about vampires) and talking about it at school, I couldn’t even listen to the theme song—a theremin wailing in a minor key—or watch the opening credits—waves crashing on the shore—without feeling panic rising in my chest. (I dare you to listen to it without getting creeped out!) Then, after I was an adult, when the whole original series became available on video cassettes at our local library, I eagerly checked the first few tapes out, glad that Mom didn’t know I was going to watch them!

Guess what? Dark Shadows turned out to be incredibly cheesy, not scary in the least, and as slow moving as Frankenstein on Valium.

Oh well. Age changes our perspective on many things.

Anyway, speaking of being easily spooked, one memorable horrifying event occurred when I was in early elementary school—let’s say I was eight.

I always loved listening in on adult conversations. I remember that our neighbor from across the street, Henrietta Rice, would come over for coffee with Mom when I was very young. They would talk about the most interesting things (none of which I can recall now), but as Henrietta got to the best part of each story, her voice got quieter and quieter until only Mom could hear what she was saying. What was that about? Frustrating!

I recall that Henrietta had one great fear—she feared that when she passed away, the casket would remain open for the calling hours, and she did not want it open. She said that one night she had a nightmare: she was dead, lying in her coffin, and people were filing by looking at her. She wanted to move and talk and tell them, “No, no, close it! I don’t want everyone staring at me!” but—well, she was dead, so she couldn’t.

One evening Henrietta was home with her husband, Bob, sitting on the couch, and she suddenly died. It was one of those deaths where the person is talking and apparently healthy one moment, and then she’s gone.

I assume her wishes regarding her casket were honored by her family. I know they honored one of her other requests: she wanted this phrase on her gravestone: “I TOLD YOU I WAS SICK.”

I may have strayed from my point here somehow. . . .

I started to say that I loved listening in on adult conversations. One autumn evening, Mom and Grandma Swartz were sitting in our living room discussing something in hushed voices. I couldn’t stand that.

“What are you guys talking about?”

A glance went between them. “Well,” Mom said, “I guess it would be good for you to know. There’s an old man in town who’s been after little kids.”

“He’s been ‘after little kids’? What does that mean?”

“He, uh, he wants to get them and take them away. He’s bad. So, if you’re ever downtown, and an old man you don’t know approaches you, don’t talk to him, run away!”

I nodded and replied nonchalantly, “Oh, OK.”

“I didn’t want to scare you,” Mom added, “but I thought you should know. Are you OK?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah.” My brain began racing. An old man who tried to take children! Why would an old man try to take children? To kill them? Yes, to kill them! To KILL them! And if he ever got me, he would KILL ME TOO!

I immediately conjured up what the old man must look like—dressed in a black overcoat, black shoes, and a black bowler hat. His head was covered with white hair, and he had an unkempt white beard and moustache that hid his face. He walked with his hands in his coat pockets, and if you strayed too close, he would suddenly grab you and take you away and probably torture you until you were dead and no one would ever see you again!

“Yeah, I’m OK,” I said. My heart was pounding brutally and there was a weird ringing in my ears. Then I said, “I think I’ll go out to the kitchen and get something to eat.”

I left Mom and Grandma safely ensconced in the living room with their legs warmly tucked up on the couch, surrounded by a pool of golden light from the table lamp near them. But before reaching the kitchen, where a light was burning, I had to go through the dark dining room, which suddenly seemed massive—it was probably ten feet across, and each foot stretched out ahead of me as though it were a mile. Screwing my courage to the sticking-place, I began the trek, unable to keep my imagination from running wild.

What if The Old Man Who Kills Children was hiding in that dark spot under the table? What if he burst through the side door from the playroom, grabbed me, and carried me off before Mom and Grandma could even get their feet off the couch? What if I looked out the dining room window and he had his hairy face pressed up against it, gruesomely contorted as he fantasized about killing me for reasons I couldn’t even fathom?

Yes, this was truly how my warped little pre-adolescent brain functioned. Regardless, amazingly, I made it to the lighted kitchen, unscathed. I breathed a sigh of relief.

As anyone who’s watched horror movies knows, a potential victim should never, ever breathe a sigh of relief. Scientific studies have shown that one hundred percent of all Bad Things happen to people in movies immediately after they Breathe a Sigh of Relief.

But I didn’t know that, so I breathed a sigh of relief.

And that’s when it happened.

As I entered the kitchen, I turned right to get to the cupboards and refrigerator, and I looked out the large window in the kitchen door.

An old man was coming up the sidewalk toward the door! He had his head down, and as I stared at him in horror, he raised it and looked right at me!

Remember in cartoons how characters’ feet start frantically moving on the floor before they can generate enough traction to get into motion? (Shaggy and Scooby-Doo tend to have this problem regularly.) Well, my feet made approximately 379 swipes on the floor before I could get any purchase. All the while, who was screaming? Was it The Old Man Who Killed Children? No! It was I!

Was it possible that the way the Old Man Who

Killed Children looked in my imagination had

something to do with Arte Johnson’s portrayal

of Tyrone on Laugh-In? Mmm, possibly, possibly. 

Still screaming, I ran through the dining room, covering those ten miles in 1.01 seconds flat. Mom and Grandma had turned to me on the couch, their mouths wide and their eyes shocked. Or maybe their eyes were wide and their mouths were shocked, I can’t remember for sure.

“It’s an old man! There’s an old man out there!” I screamed, throwing myself at Mom. Then something in my brain clicked, and I blubbered, “It’s Grandpa! It’s just Grandpa!”

Well, that’s about the end of the story. Mom comforted me as I cried into her bosom. Did she mouth to Grandma above my head, “Neurotic!” I don’t know, but I wouldn’t blame her now if she did.

And what about Grandpa? I can imagine the scene from his perspective—innocently coming up the walk, ready to enter our kitchen as usual, and seeing his eight-year-old grandson through the kitchen window staring at him in horror, screaming, flying out of the kitchen still screaming and crying. Entering the house and seeing the kid on his mother’s lap, crying uncontrollably, completely emotionally shot.

“Anybody want to tell me what’s going on?” he asked.

I didn’t.

Copyright 2022, Steve Skaggs

HEY! IMPORTANT NOTE FROM STEVE: I assumed my lack of paranormal experiences was typical, but I recently asked relatives and friends for any supernatural experiences they have had, and I received an amazing collection of stories to share . . . which I will do before Halloween in my next blog post. STAY TUNED . . . if you dare!