Spooked

When I feel like my life is low in its daily “I’m so terrified I’m now officially scared of shadows” quotient, I like to read stories about paranormal phenomena. Demons? Love ‘em. Ghosts? Yes, please make me scared to leave my closet open at night. If you know anything, you know that closets are a hotbed of evil activity.

Thing is, I am not one of those people who is going to actually grab a Ouija board or hold some ill-advised séance so I can experience this in my own life. I want no part of it. I’ve realized that when I read about these things, I sort of mentally plead with any spirits to not reveal themselves to me. Just because I’m fascinated by them doesn’t mean I need to wake up in the middle of the night to one hovering over my bed, watching me sleep. So I’ll read a story about some type of human-dog-poltergeist hybrid chasing someone through the forest, and I’ll laugh nervously and think, “Woo, that sure sounds frightening! Hope I NEVER see ANYTHING like that EVER, please.”

I do this mental bargaining very politely, instead of going with what comes naturally and out of fear being like, “Don’t you EVER FUCKING SHOW YOURSELF TO ME.” If I were to offend a malevolent spirit, they could easily get revenge by scaring me so much that I literally poop forever or lose my mind and go mute and never speak again. Even writing this, I’m having “please do not appear to me” thoughts. As if a ghost is just sitting at its computer, refreshing my blog for paranormal mentions.

People who are like, “I have the sight” or “I see spirits all around us” or “the two eyes on my face are not the only ones I have” astonish me because they act like it’s no big. I will never be one of them. So ghosts, please, don’t show yourselves to me. I promise, I already believe.

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