So, while my brother, cousin, and grandma went off to do something sporty a few days ago, I was left to wander my Grandma's large-ish, creepy-ish house all by my lonesome with three hyperactive dogs. Me and the brother had been exiled there once again, not that it was much of an exile. Grandma Patti would let us get away with murder. And parental advisory CDs.
Fifteen minutes later, I stepped out of the shower and glanced to my right off-handedly, where a stack of towels rested on a small table. But I noticed something odd, and did a double-take. Squinting closer, I saw that yes, smack in the middle of the top towels was a wet handprint, fingers spread apart. Um... o-kaayy... I definitely did not randomly reach out and pat the towel on the back. Good job, towel. Keep on sitting there. And it wasn't there when I got in the shower, either. Besides that, when I spread open my palm and laid it across the print, the print was bigger than my hand.
Whoop whoop whoop. Paranormal alarm going off here. I got dressed and got the fuck out of there -- Fast.
(Background info: The house is pretty old, and the previous owner, Fred, actually died there a few years back. This I did not know until the next day when I told my Grandma about what happened. She's mentioned some strange things happening to her there as well.)
Anyway, I scampered back down stairs, leapt up on the couch and sat there, unmoving for a few minutes. It's the frog philosophy. If you've ever been near a pond with bullfrogs in it -- We have two -- If you get close, they don't move. You can even poke them sometimes without them hopping off. If... I... Don't... Move... They... Don't... See... Me... I guess it's sort of like little kids hiding under the covers.
I finally decided I would try to read something to calm down, and went into the dining room, where my grandma kept the hidden treasure: FIFTY THOUSAND FUCKING JAMES PATTERSON BOOKS.
Oddly enough, I had read most of them.
But anyway, I found some sort of thick old paperback behind all the J.P. A little something by V.C. Andrews.
When I read, it's hit or miss. Sometimes the ADD wins and I can't read more than half a page before I'm off somewhere else again. Other times, I enter a Book Trance.
A Book Trance is a sort of semi-concious state in which I'm only aware of what's going on in the book. A fucking nuclear war could break out around me and I wouldn't notice. And even if something does manage to get my attention, I feel like I'm one wavelength removed from everyone else for a while afterwards. Muffled, you know? I went into a Book Trance with the V.C. Andrews book. It was done in four hours.
Now, apparentally, V.C. Andrews has reputation for writing some strange, disturbing crap. This, I did not know when I unsuspectingly picked up the paperback. By the end, I had gone WWWWHHHAAATTTT THHHEEE FFRRRIIIIICCKKKK!!!! several times, but what really made me go WWWWHHHAAATTTT THHHEEE FFRRRIIIIICCKKKK!!!! was found when I flipped back to the VERY first page in the book and found something I had not seen before, some sort of note from "The family of V.C. Andrews."
They basically told me that V.C. was dead (Common knowledge, though not to me) and that they had not actually written this book at all -- No, in fact, V.C.'s family, NONE OF WHOM were mentioned by name had penned the entire thing theirselves, along with the help of another author, ALSO UNNAMED.
My first thought? Who in the hell would write a book and put their dead family member's name on it?!
Second thought: Is this even legal?
Third: Who in the hell would write such a sick, disturbing book and put their dead family member's name on it?!?!
It was only on my fourth thought when I realized that I had been PWNed by a dead person -- Twice.
In one day.
Oh, life. Why must you always poke me annoyingly?
I -- well, it should be obvious by now that I believe in ghosts and such. Unhealthy Ghost Adventures obsession and all. If a normal person hears a noise at night, they think "Burgular!". If I hear a noise at night, I think "HOLY SHIIITE GHOSTS! CALL ZAK BAGANS!"
But it wasn't night when I heard a noise, it was morning. So instead of running to the Travel Channel, I just had a minor heart attack, then burst into song. I'm no Amy Lee, but I have an okay voice. Sort of a Christina Perri-Sara Bareilles-only-not-as-good voice. And I have fun singing. So whenever I'm alone, I usually just burst into song at random moments. Much to the chagrin of whatever unsuspecting dogs are within hearing distance.
While the dogs stared at me in alarm and I warbled "BRRRIINNNG MEE TOO LIIIIIIFE!", I walked up the stairs and decided to take a shower.Fifteen minutes later, I stepped out of the shower and glanced to my right off-handedly, where a stack of towels rested on a small table. But I noticed something odd, and did a double-take. Squinting closer, I saw that yes, smack in the middle of the top towels was a wet handprint, fingers spread apart. Um... o-kaayy... I definitely did not randomly reach out and pat the towel on the back. Good job, towel. Keep on sitting there. And it wasn't there when I got in the shower, either. Besides that, when I spread open my palm and laid it across the print, the print was bigger than my hand.
Whoop whoop whoop. Paranormal alarm going off here. I got dressed and got the fuck out of there -- Fast.
(Background info: The house is pretty old, and the previous owner, Fred, actually died there a few years back. This I did not know until the next day when I told my Grandma about what happened. She's mentioned some strange things happening to her there as well.)
Anyway, I scampered back down stairs, leapt up on the couch and sat there, unmoving for a few minutes. It's the frog philosophy. If you've ever been near a pond with bullfrogs in it -- We have two -- If you get close, they don't move. You can even poke them sometimes without them hopping off. If... I... Don't... Move... They... Don't... See... Me... I guess it's sort of like little kids hiding under the covers.
I finally decided I would try to read something to calm down, and went into the dining room, where my grandma kept the hidden treasure: FIFTY THOUSAND FUCKING JAMES PATTERSON BOOKS.
Oddly enough, I had read most of them.
But anyway, I found some sort of thick old paperback behind all the J.P. A little something by V.C. Andrews.
When I read, it's hit or miss. Sometimes the ADD wins and I can't read more than half a page before I'm off somewhere else again. Other times, I enter a Book Trance.
A Book Trance is a sort of semi-concious state in which I'm only aware of what's going on in the book. A fucking nuclear war could break out around me and I wouldn't notice. And even if something does manage to get my attention, I feel like I'm one wavelength removed from everyone else for a while afterwards. Muffled, you know? I went into a Book Trance with the V.C. Andrews book. It was done in four hours.
They basically told me that V.C. was dead (Common knowledge, though not to me) and that they had not actually written this book at all -- No, in fact, V.C.'s family, NONE OF WHOM were mentioned by name had penned the entire thing theirselves, along with the help of another author, ALSO UNNAMED.
My first thought? Who in the hell would write a book and put their dead family member's name on it?!
Second thought: Is this even legal?
Third: Who in the hell would write such a sick, disturbing book and put their dead family member's name on it?!?!
It was only on my fourth thought when I realized that I had been PWNed by a dead person -- Twice.
In one day.
Oh, life. Why must you always poke me annoyingly?
