I have an admission: I’m terrible at telling scary stories. It’s not that I wouldn’t be able to given the appropriate subject, the problem is that I don’t have any. Almost everybody I’ve met has a creepy, scary, terrifying tale to be told and yet, I’m shamefully lacking in this regard. I suppose that the closest that I can come is my story of going to an old Hebrew cemetery on the outskirts of town with some friends and running betwixt the headstones and mausoleums for a time. It was dark, and a bit creepy but unfortunately there were no strange sounds, ghosts, or anything that could be remotely described as paranormal. My buddy was blessed with a particularly violent case of flatulence but that’s as close as any of us got to running in fear that night.
I would think that this might have contributed to my fondness for horror movies later in life. As I so rarely encountered anything supernatural or scary in my thirty-three years on the planet, I have to turn to other avenues to get my kicks. Live vicariously through others, if you will. Upon typing that last sentence it sounds exceedingly similar to one that a person would type as an explanation for their particular zeal for German schizer porn or feltching but I suppose it is accurate. For me, there’s nothing more titillating than those feelings of tension, fear and expectation as when listening to or reading a well-told tale of haunting or the unexplained. The feeling of gooseflesh, the tingle of the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end, the fibrous knot in the pit of your stomach as you’re anticipating what may come next; that’s what I’m looking for in a good ghost story. So help me out here, denizens of Pajiba, tell me a creepy or scary or terrifying tale of the paranormal that’s happened to you and help me get my fix.