Archive for November, 2012

Well, here’s another adventure with the paranormal I had when in undergraduate school.  It was a Saturday night, around midnight.  I was taking summer school classes and staying at the dorm in Lubbock.  I had just come back from a date.  We had seen Omen and I was scared.  The dorm on the third floor was deserted.  It  was like I was the only living and breathing being there.  My room was about midway down the dorm hall and no one, I mean, no one was about.  I guess everybody had gone home or were on really late dates or staying overnight someplace.  I called out in the darkness and it was silent.  The kind of silent that freezes the blood in your veins.  I nervously went to the public bathroom.  It was huge with toilets on one side and showers with those old fashioned shower curtains.  As I entered, the hair on the back of my neck stood out, and I heard a small noise behind a shower curtain.  I stopped and stared, my breathing hitching.  “Hello,”  I called out softly, then gaining some courage, called out louder.  For a full minute, there was nothing.  My mind filled with visions of the Psycho shower scene.  (After watching that movie, I couldn’t shower for months)  and werewolves hiding behind the shower curtain, their sharp teeth gleaming in the moonlight, from the windows letting in much needed light.  I had forgotten to turn on the lights.  The sound, a scratching like noise, sounded again and my vision narrowed as I focused on the sound.  It was surely coming from the third shower curtain to the left.  I gulped as I took a step backward, my eyes glued to the curtain.  It was at that moment my heart speeded up, for a hand appeared around the curtain.  It was pale with long red nails, really long read nails, done really bad.  A low pitched voice began to speak, “I want to drink…”

I ran like the wind out the bathroom and to my room, which I had foolishly left the door open.  I grabbed my car keys, my heart in my throat as I ran down the hall.  Behind me, in the darkness, I could hear the pounding of footsteps.  I hit the elevator at a run and hurried inside, frantically pushing at the button.  The door closed with a click as the footsteps closed in.  I got a glimpse of something moving fast.  I ran to my car in my  KA t-shirt, men’s boxers, which I slept in, my hair in curlers, and went to spend the night with one of my girlfriends who was spending the night at her fiance’s house.  I guess I’ll never really know if it was a vampire in the shower at the dorm, or a low-voiced party girl who wanted to go out drinking, with a really bad manicure.


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Well, today I was thinking of old friends and situations.  Some odd.  Not the friends, just the events.  Debbie was with me when I got trapped by a  gravestone.  We were looking for a witch.  We didn’t find the witch, just bruises and scares.  Charisse was with me when I saw the spaghetti headed monster at the bridge.  Debra M. was with me when we snuck up on a parking couple at our Lover’s Lane (which was down by the bridge-same bridge with the big headed monster).  We scared the couple so badly that the guy pulled a gun on us.  Well, maybe it wasn’t our brightest of moments.  Anyway, I’m glad I survived those years and am thankful to have such great friends who put up with my over-active imagination.

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I’m an odd duck well not really a duck, but odd yes.  I’m an idiot in math, a Neanderthal in technology, computers hate me (that’s another story), but now for the good stuff.  I’m an artist, sculptor and an award winning author.  Sometimes my readers ask how I come up with my stories since I mainly write paranormal romance for adult and young adult (I also do a little romantic suspense with a twist-there’s always a twist and some humor as well).  Now about my supernatural stories.  It wasn’t just one step that put me on the road of the paranormal journey.  Remember Robert Frost, “The Road Not Taken”- hey, I took the unknown road….werewolves, vampires, gargoyles, trolls…the whole lot.  One of my first memories of the supernatural was when I was in high school.  I was the girl who was known as “the girl who saw the spaghetti-headed monster.”  One night we went to find the monster.  He was supposed to live in the cemetery.  Three boys and three girls.  My girlfriends believed me about the monster, the boys just wanted to make-out.  Typical right.  Anyway, my boyfriend was trying to kiss me when I heard it!  Then saw it!  Red eyes glowing in the utter stillness of the ebony night.  I screamed, which put Hyde off kissing me.  Pointing, I told him, it’s the monster!  The others ran over to us, and I explained that the spaghetti-headed monster had been replaced by a werewolf.  Of course, my girlfriends screamed.  The boys made brave noises about hunting the creature.   I really was curious.  LIke a cat.  Maybe I even had seven or eight lives.   We bravely headed in the direction of the Wolfman of Fort Phantom Lake’s last known location.  As we scrounged the schinery (that’s like really scratchy bushes and mesquite trees) the boys got more and more nervous.  Something LARGE had broken through the bramble bushes.  The buys were starting to believe in the unknown.   I could tell by the way their eyes darted nervously around, and their breathing grew tight.  They should believe.  We had not only one monster at the lake, but two!  Our town would never be the same.  A few minutes later we arrived at a farmer’s field.  It would have been so Stephen King, fields of corn and all, but it was peanuts.  The soil in our area was too sandy for corn.  However, it grew great peanuts and monsters, I guess.  Anyway, we carefully moved in as to not alert the werewolf.  Suddenly, my girlfriend groaned and pointed.  I moaned in terror.  There was a large object, half-hidden in shadows on a cross-like thing.  My girlfriends started to cry and I tried to make sense of it.  Werewolves didn’t sacrifice their victims, they ate them.  Feeling secure, I tilted my small flashlight at the object.  My boyfriend chuckled.  It was a scarecrow.  And not a pretty one.  Or typical.  It had a hairy face and big shoulders.  The eyes were closed and so was the mouth, but I just knew there were fangs there. Shakily, I approached and moved the flashlight to the hands.   Dirty, big – really big, hairy and the fingernails were claws!   My boyfriend said it was fake and I started to argue with him.  Really, what kind of nut had a werewolf for a scarecrow?  I knew better.  This was another werewolf the farmer had killed and hung to scare away other werewolves.  Suddenly, howling filled the air and we ran.  Later, everyone decided my spaghetti-headed monster was a scarecrow with a really bizarro hairdo and a gray beard.  The howling had been ole man Schmidt’s bloodhounds.  Sure…I had to quit dating my boyfriend because he couldn’t see the werewolves for the scarecrows.  Or the paranormal possibilities of the world.  Life’s tough in high school.  It’s tougher if you know the truth about the monsters under the bed.  They aren’t just under your bed!

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