Photo by Vicki Harris

Photo by Vicki Harris

‘Come on, it’ll be fun!” she said, her eyes wide and her head bopping up and down. She was overly excited, my friend was, trying to convince me to go to a Haunted House over the weekend. “Don’t you love a good scare?” she asked and I knew then that I had to put a stop to that creepy smile starting to spread across her face.

It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know.

I don’t do scary.

I don’t eat cottage cheese or watch hockey or touch lizards or wear false eyelashes. I don’t do a lot of things, but right there at the top of the list — I don’t do scary. Not on purpose, at least. I get enough of it just walking around being me.

Once I was sitting at my desk gathering my things to go home for the day. I stood up, pushed my chair back, looked up, then jumped back so fast I fell back into my chair. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a woman was in my office staring straight at me. Scared the bejeezus out of me.

My heart pounding, it took me a second to realize I had just seen myself in the mirror hanging on the wall across from my desk.

Okay, so that’s embarrassing. Let’s just pretend I didn’t say that out loud.

I believe things hide under the bed.

Even my own husband doesn’t realize that I look under the bed at night before I go to sleep. You never know what might be under there. A goblin. A troll. A tiny Gremlin like the ones in that movie that started out looking all cute and furry then morphed into devil spawn and chewed on people.

“What are you looking for?” my husband did ask me once when he caught me with my head under the bed. I told him I was looking for a shoe. I didn’t want to tell him that I was making sure nothing was under there that would grab his feet when he got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom.

Wouldn’t want him to think I’m crazy.

One night I got up and something did grab my foot in the dark. I jumped and tripped, the death grip around my leg making me fall back against the bed. An alien? A rabid oompa loompa? A raccoon, for Lord’s sake? What was it?

It was me tangled up in my own robe.

“Nothing,” I said, my heart still racing, when my husband rolled over long enough to mumble and ask what I was doing. He started to snore again before I could even untangle myself. Great. He doesn’t even wake up to save me from what could have very well been a devil spawn gnome lying in wait to kill me. See if I check under his side of the bed anymore.

This is all, of course, the fault of my older brother, who lived and breathed each day of his adolescent life to scare me. Because of him, I will never go to a Haunted House. Because of him, I believe ghosts and aliens will come after me if I say out loud that I don’t believe in them and that my stuffed animals came alive at night and ate my Halloween candy when I was little.

Wait a minute… come to think of it, maybe it was my brother who ate my Halloween candy. I can’t believe I just figured that out.

Okay, so that’s embarrassing. Let’s just pretend I didn’t say that out loud.

Contact columnist Mandy Flynn at


supersquawker 4 years ago

Was that you I saw today in the Bat Girl costume with the thigh high black boots? Whoever it was she was HOTT!!


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