We love ghost stories. The thing is this. Monsters and vampires remain within us.I remember sitting around a campfire as a child, shuddering “Are there bears in the woods?
Will the marshmallows come out before we incinerate from these flames? This is truly hell…”
Listening to tales about the living dead, my mind wandered. Is that what I have to look forward to? Being a an adult zombie?
Now, to my horror,on Halloween Eve, I sit around the TV, watching CNN with my Yorkshire terrier. We are both stretched out, dry drunks listening to the tropes about Trump and Clinton. I bought low fat ice cream and it sucks. I can’t go out to score something more lethal because the elevator is crammed with kids and their parents who are yelling and screaming, running up and down the service entry stairs.
As a child, I silently walked down Irma Drive in my leopard pajamas, climbed up the steps to ring neighborly doorbells, and shoved my plastic pumpkin under the noses of gracious moms who faked a smile and threw a penny in for Unicef, or worse an apple slice. A tiny bag of M & Ms or a cookie was pay dirt. I ate as much of my most coveted candy before I got home and turned it over to my mother. She was a binger.
The specters are still here. So are the dead.They say boo and I quake.
Ghosts can be bad.