My Imaginary American Horror Story.
I survived torment not unlike Coven and Asylum- an all-girl Catholic High School filled with nuns and teenaged witches. My curse as an adult is an imagination capable of magnifying a glimmer of light into a disembodied eyeball peering through a second story window.
I am afraid of the dark. Things that go bump in the night terrify me.
Jessica Lange is one of the voices in my head.
What’s a scaredy cat to do?
Get a dog.
I haven’t had a pooch-free day since the 80’s. As a result, unless my insomnia attacks me, my mind rests rather easily most of the time.
One dark and stormy night, (because every horror story, imaginary, American or otherwise, needs thunder and lightning), an explosion of glass blasted me and both dogs out of our collective snoring and dreaming. We froze, three huddled masses beneath a make-shift shield of sheets and blankets.
“Go see. Go, go see.” I whispered vehemently, trying to rile Samantha and George, my Boxers, into storming the front-door.
Go see yourself, their faces said back, without so much as a muscle twitch. We all stopped breathing as well, to listen for clues about the intrusion.
I didn’t hear anything. More to the point, I didn’t hear anyone. If a prowler was in the house, I reasoned, the dogs would go crazy. They would bark incessantly and viciously at a strange person, I was convinced.
At that moment, as they hid under the comforter, I had to wonder if my certainty was misplaced.