Posts Tagged ‘horror’


Have you ever been tortured? I have. I have lived, hell I live, with the constant and agonizing terror of not knowing when my torturer will come back through the door–when the purveyor of pain will return to peddle their product to the innocent man that is me. For years, I have faced the fanatical fiend that found her way under the false pretenses of a fortuitous future into my life. The problem, my friends is that the perpetrator who propagates my plight, is so sweet in the day and evil in the night.

So this alliterative attempt, albeit now with added assonance, is the introduction in another episode of my anguished sleep life.

I have written to you all before of my wife’s nightly antics. I want to record them so badly, but I worry that if I was to show “Awake Whitney,” “Asleep Whitney,” that some tragedy would occur like in Back to the Future with the polaroid and the whole “Marty McFly disappearing while playing Earth Angel” thing.

Lately, its taken a turn for the even more insane. It has become a harrowing experience complete with me waking up to Whitney standing on the bed, looking nine feet tall from my vantage point, head on pillow. In her eyes, resided a look that said, “I am going to stomp your head now.” When I asked her what she was doing up there, Sleeping Whitney scrambled for an excuse, as not to give her true intention of stomping my noggin into flatness. Her answer was simple and logical.

“I was trying to catch the floating baby.”

I am not even sure how to have responded to her statement. Why? Well it’s simple. I am not sure that the floating baby scenario isn’t just about the creepiest thing she could have said at that moment. It’s like interviewing a psychopath using the Rorschach Ink Blot Test. You know how it goes. I hold up a card that looks remarkably like an innocent butterfly and say, “What do you see, Whitney?” To which Sleeping Whitney would respond calmly and like it is obvious, “I see a butterfly…………..with wings made of human skin and the ability to talk, but when the butterfly talks it can only say perverse and vulgar phrases.”

Adding to the drama, once Sleeping Whitney explained her heroic intentions of catching the floating baby, she panicked and dropped in place like she was shot, or worse still, like the demon in her body promptly exited, stage left, and in doing so, her hind end hit the marble top of the bedside table, cracking it, and leaving a triangular shaped purple mass. For two weeks now, when Awake Heath pats Awake Whitney’s butt as an affectionate gesture, Whitney glares at him in pain. For just a moment, a fleeting and brief moment, we remember what lies beneath the seemingly sweet facade that is my wife’s awake body.

And this, my faithful following, was only one event, and it was the most innocent of them all. The following night, I was scared awake by Sleeping Whitney yelling in her sleep. Sadly, this is not too out of the norm in my house, but what ensued was unexpected. After about ten seconds of unintelligible ramblings, Sleeping Whitney somehow propelled herself, without having left the laying down position, three feet out of the bed slamming into the wall. The abrupt meeting with the wall was enough to wake Whitney.

Dazed and confused, she looked at me and said, “See what happens when you steal all of the covers?”

This was horrifying.

“After the “Floating Baby Incident,” and the world record setting “Three Foot Flop,” I quickly realized that crazy had come to town and that it had taken up residence in my bed. Alas, these two were just the labor pains of something much more terrifying.

In the middle of sweet dreams of unicorns, puppies frolicking upon clouds made of marshmallow goodness, and beams of rainbows and Oompa Loompa’s singing rhythmic riddles, I was jerked out of slumber. Sleeping Whitney must have saw my Ooompa induced smiling and felt the necessity to end all happiness. I can only guess as to what led up to it, but I picture a wide eyed beauty, now overcome with evil, panting as she reached across the bed and dug her fingers into my eyes. Grabbing with such violent tenacity, one of her fingers was actually able to get beneath my left eyelid, so that when I jerked away and grabbed her hand, my eyelid actually popped from Sleeping Whitney’s gripping fingers and slapped with elastic fervor back onto my eyeball. It was stretched so far and tight that when it connected with my eye, it created an audible popping sound and sent my head backwards; back and to the left; back and to the left like JFK.

Quickly, I blinked and felt for my eyes, certain I would find a gaping hole where once a deep Sinatra blue orb, capable of wooing myriads of women existed. To my surprise, I still had both eyeballs and my vision seemed only momentarily blurred by the tears resultant from a good quality eye gouging and eyelid popping.

I pushed Sleeping Whitney back onto her side of the bed. Sitting still, breathing heavily, I watched Sleeping Whitney. She appeared to be back to normal sleep. Curiously, I leaned in closely and tried to see through blurry tears. Too dark to get a really good look, I leaned in even closer. Silently breathing, eyes closed and resting, she looked as if nothing had happened. I kept close.

The following is not an exaggeration. I would not joke of such things. As I stared, Whitney’s eyes popped open glaring into my face, a small grin appeared on her face as I jumped back and recoiled under the covers. For the next three hours, I felt that lifeless, wide-eyed grin watching me as I feigned sleep. It was the longest night of my life.

So, let me retract my earlier contestation that crazy was now residing in my house, or in the least, let me revise the statement. Crazy just doesn’t do it, for Sleeping Whitney is far more sinister.

I just wanted you know, because I have been holding it in for years.


The morning sun casts a peculiar glow over the hills of Ramona, California. One can feel an allusive sense of ominous foreboding. Things are not all as they should be, but why they feel it is not immediately evident. The warmth resulting from the peculiar glow, clashing with the cool breeze have pushed and pulled a dense fog up through the valleys and hills as if ghosts, unshackled from hell and the grave, search eerily for a soul to haunt. The fog is thick and invasive, and for an instant, it has swallowed up the world outside of my house leaving me surrounded by whatever it may bring.

Just as abruptly as its uninvited intrusion began, so goes the fog’s departure. What is left in its wake is a mystery. A set of footprints. A fruitless tree. A woman with an imagination as massive as the very blanket of fog, which rested thick and viscous over the house in Ramona, California. This is a story of intrigue and suspicion sure to confuse the most talented of sleuth. Holmes, The Hardy Boys, Mason, The Rescue Rangers, or Columbo, none of them could piece this thing together, because there resides no sense in this story of horror in the fog. None of them could, but Whitney can and did.

My cell phone buzzed and vibrated itself across my desk at work. It danced with and floated for a second or two making the snapping sound of hard plastic bouncing on the faux-wood desk interrupting the silent work of ten or so people.

“Hello, how are you today?” I ask immediately seeing the caller ID and noticing my lovely wife’s name.

There would be no reciprocity to my greeting that morning, instead, and in a frantic tone, “The oranges, they are all gone! Every one of them is gone, disappeared. Heath, where once there was a multitude of oranges a veritable cornucopia of beautiful deliciousness, there is nothing but emptiness.” Whitney rattled off into my ear.

When one’s wife offers up their concern over missing oranges or missing anything, the best course of action is to exude empathy, to join with them in their terror, or to nurture their investigative instincts. As such, I assert that there must be a gang of fruit loving animals roving the area stealing bushels of oranges. Having never had a fruit tree until a few weeks ago, I did not have the requisite expertise to rule out animals altogether. Although, only one night ago, the tree had tens of dozens of oranges and today there are none, not even a rotting orange biodegrading into the roots and dirt below the tree. These animals are overeating.

Whitney, absolutely not content with my assertion of a clan of bandit animals, set out on a mission to solve this mystery. Whitney offered up to me a startling find. While walking just outside our house on a freshly repaved street, still shining with new tar, Whitney found a trail of footprints that appeared out of nowhere and disappeared in the same manner. They were white like they were powdered chalk and after about ten or so steps, the footprints faded to black.

Were these the prints of an orange bandit?
What kind of criminal leaves this kind of tell-tale–the sudden chalk feet running away from the area of the fruit tree?
Firstly the oranges and now the footprints?
What kind of hellish ghoul are we dealing with?
Who steals oranges?
What kind of maniac steals only oranges and not something better; I mean go big or go home?

I tell you what, in Whitney’s head, there is only this set of possibilities: The thief is a human, and said human either floats, emits chalk out of their feet and also floats, and / or is human, loves oranges enough to steal them, but accidentally stepped in a bag of chalk that they were carrying in their car, which logically was there, because after stealing the oranges, they bandits had to hustle to a little league baseball field and prepare the baselines and batter’s box. She hasn’t quite worked out the chalk part yet.

It is under this sense of tension, that Whitney introduced a teenage boy to a 9mm. Our house overlooks the gate to the community. Whitney was looking out the window while doing the dishes. She watched as an unknown car rambled up the long road to the gate and stopped. A teenage boy jumped out of the car and began running up the hill, some three hundred yards to our home. With a rabbit killing shepherd, an aged heeler, and a three legged chihuahua in tow, Whitney met the teenager at the door. Oh yeah, and she had a gun.

The conversation was short lived and resulted in a teenage boy running faster away from our residence. Equally odd. The boy requested a tire jack to fix a flat, but after fleeing from the gun wielding Whitney, he jumped in a car with four working tires and raced off, stopping at no houses on the way out…

I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t know what I believe. I don’t know what comes in the fog, but I do know enough to tell you that I am done doubting my wife. I do not want to go the way of the running teenager. These are the reasons that I believe my wife. She has an unparalleled intuition and a gun. If she believes that the oranges were stolen by a floating, chalk footed, human of average foot size, than damn it, I believe her. So, be on the look out for two things: A floating, chalk footed, human of average foot size, and a gun wielding Whitney on a mission to solve ghostly crimes…

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years…


I have a degree in English, but it is a track of English that centered itself on 17th Century Literature.  This means that almost all of my English electives were spent in Shakespeare, Milton, or survey courses of the great writers of the era.  It was an awesome time and I really got to know some great professors.  However, I do not write this to brag, I write this to tell you what it qualifies me to do.  After receiving this four-year degree, I left college with great confidence that I could either be a waiter or an officer in the Marine Corps; I chose the latter.  Luckily, my wife has a degree in History, so our combined potential for success as is measured by monetary value is nil; this is not how I gauge success, however. 

You see the cool thing about a bachelor’s degree in general is that they are almost worthless.  Now couple that with it being a bachelor of liberal arts and you have your own license to irrelevance.  This is not to say that I don’t love my education, because I do.  It has given me a unique ability to smugly reference mundane quotes from the lesser read Shakespeare plays or sonnets.  Also, it has allowed me a certain pretentious ere of self righteousness when I say things to smarter people than me. 

I remember when I told my father what I was going to major in.  He, being a supportive and always positive individual, was quick to explain to me that I was “wasting my time,” and he continued with, “but that fact alone isn’t too surprising.”  That’s as close as you get to “I like it” from my Pops.  Well with all of the graduations, there are equally great commencement speeches.  It had me thinking about my dad’s comments to me on life and education.  I believe graduates of today are getting the shaft because they didn’t get to hear a commencement speech from my father.  So I offer it to you.  Pass it along to any you know getting ready to start life after school.  This is what I imagine it would be like if he were given the opportunity to speak.

Kids.  And I intentionally call you kids, because that is what you are to me; you are children.  It is not meant to insult you or make you feel inferior to me, albeit you are young and uneducated on the hardships of life, it is meant to let you see who you are.  You are children.  What makes you this, you ask?  Children all have one motivation.  It pervades everything they do.  Initially, it is not a bad thing.  We, as parents play on it so that we can solicit good behavior through incentive based training.  It is simple; children all seek the most immediately gratifying route—what is the most rewarding course of action with the least work and time required to reap the reward.  Those of you who shed this first will be productive.  Those of you who don’t, will not.  I don’t care if you believe me or not.  I expect you won’t, because you are children and you know everything.  For years my own children have relayed one important lesson to me:  given advice from a man like me, mature, aged, learned in the ways of hardship, struggle and adversity, you will discount the advice as jaded cynicism.  Fine, you are children and you are unbridled in your foolishness, I accept that. 

You’re here today to get your degrees and run off into the real world, but you wanted advice, right?  You asked me to be here.  Don’t just sit there, I asked you a question, but don’t speak into my left ear, I can’t hear shit out of it.  Well I already alluded to everything you need to know.  You want to pursue your dreams, great, go do it.  I am not here to kill your desires.  I am here to say one thing and that is, BE PRODUCTIVE MEMBERS IN SOCIETY.  Do your best to not leech off of others’ production.  I know you are all a bunch of liberals and that you are borderline communists.  Fine, I accept that, you are young and unbridled in your foolishness, but please remember this.  Even communism relies on the productivity of its citizens to succeed.  For a communist society to have any lasting power, every member must contribute in some way, shape, or form.  While you kids hide behind communism as a way to prop yourselves up, you’re missing the point.  Run from the idea that the world owes you something, because the world has a weird way of kicking you right in the ass while you wait.  I have given my son the same advice since he was old enough to piss me off, and here it is.  “Get a haircut and find a job.” 

I have raised productive kids; none of them are rich, but they are productive.  I don’t believe any of them feel like I shattered their dreams, but the fact is, none of them call me for money.  They have homes and families and kids and all of things that matter.  If you ask me why they are successful I would tell you that it started when they stopped whining and started doing.  They became productive.  I didn’t raise robots.  My youngest daughter is an insane liberal, but she is a productive and insane liberal.  My middle daughter writes romance novels about gay men, and I have read them and they are great.  She is not rich, but she is productive.  My son somehow developed a backbone and some balls and became a Marine….so far, so good.   They married productive people—people who all do great things with great attitudes.  They are not perfect, they are productive.

And here is another secret.  Don’t stop being productive.  You get older, your bones hurt and you want to stop.  I promise you this:  when you stop producing, you will stop living.  So, go on.  Get out of here.  Go and do.  Don’t waste your time standing around here, leave!   If you want to be a socialist, great, go be productive while doing it.  Remember that sometimes we do what we have to do, so that one day, we can do what we want.  The road we want sometimes doesn’t marry up with the road we have to travel.  Suck it up, be a man, get a haircut, and find a job…I just want you to know this, because I have been holding it in for years….


My wife would make a stellar super villain or assassin. Her super-power is her brain used in tandem with hypnotic and alluring eyes of death. Because she is a genius, I have to work extra hard to stay alive at home. Every moment I live only increases the possibility I may be walking directly into a trap or ambush of epic proportions. Because she is currently incubating my daughter, I am extra vulnerable to her charm. The unavoidable draw of a pregnant woman cannot be overcome by any super power. Pregnant girls are the worst type of super villain. There are multiple incidents I can relay to you to justify these claims, and today I offer one of them up to you. I have titled this The Croissant Incident of 2012 as it happened in 2012 and deals with croissants.

My wife tried to kill me this morning. She had strategically placed a box of croissants, the huge box that you buy at the Sam’s Club or Costco, on top of the fridge. She is brilliant. She had it set up so that the croissant box relied upon the surface area of the door in order to stay up there. Think “bucket over the door trick” where the person opens the door causing the bucket to empty its contents on you. I saw her last night formulating this, but didn’t realize her evil villain tendencies until it was too late.

She acted as her own bait by looking at me with her deep brown eyes, rubbing her baby bump, where my daughter is currently incubating, and then asked for help getting the heavy stuff to her car. I’m caught. I should’ve known that she was plotting my death. I opened the freezer to retrieve three gallons of ice cream, which were no doubt going to be a part of my death celebration later at the school where she teaches. Like clockwork. The door opens removing a critical piece of surface area from beneath the croissant box; I am bent over leaving my head exposed to blunt force trauma; the box falls. The box weighs what seemed like 80 pounds, acceleration due to gravity 9.8 m/s squared, distance of 6 feet, box has a sharp point putting all the force into a small surface area. Punch all that data into a formula that looks something like this:

  (this photo is not my property, and I am not sure if I stole it illegally)

After completing the formula, the answer you will come to is: Really God Damned Hard.

The Croissant box hit me Really God Damned Hard.

What my wife failed to remember is that my skull is ten times thicker than the average mans, which is why I am capable of writing this blog right now and not dead.  Her longing to kill me was matched only by my longing to survive.

I came up dazed, grabbed the croissant box and put it so high none of us could reach it; it would do no harm to anyone as long as I was in the house. Saying nothing to my wife, I grabbed the celebratory ice cream, ran out the door and loaded it in her car. When I re-entered the house, I realized I had misjudged my wife’s longing for my death. There she is all pretty and looking very concerned over my recent near death scare. Her eyes grow twice their normal size, they are intoxicating. Must not look directly into them….I try to fight it by yelling, “What in the hell would you want a freaking croissant for!” What she says next is genius. “I told you that wasn’t a good place for the croissants……”

I just wanted you to know, because I have been holding it in for years.


The Ramblings of a Pregnant Zombie.