Thursday, October 31, 2013


For a good part of my childhood, I lived in a haunted house.

At least, that’s what some people might say (and yes, I’m aware that this explains a LOT about me).

But really, there wasn't any sort of showy paranormal activity there — like plates flying across the room or spinning heads or green barf — the kind of stuff that makes great made-for-TV movies. There were just a few, shall we say, oddities about the place…

Like the fact that my parents would occasionally hear someone in the house calling for “Kyle.”

And that every so often the only neighbor in sight of our home would telephone to ask the identity of the guy sitting on the front porch step.

Um, Kyle would be a good guess.

As children, all my brother, sister, and I knew was that if you slept in the “little room” you were guaranteed to have a nightmare. So, we usually piled into one great big bedroom that my mom had decorated with friendly-looking circus prints.

I really wasn’t all too keen on those pictures — particularly the ones with the clown-faced children.

You see, whenever I awoke in the middle of the night, it always looked to me like their lips were moving. And I swear I could hear a bunch of incoherent whispering, too. So I would clamp my hands over my ears, squeeze my eyes tightly shut, think happy thoughts, and go back to sleep…

But I never told a soul about those pictures.

I mean, come on — even at the age of eight, I knew that blabbing about talking pictures in my bedroom would brand me as a complete nutcase. And I was a highly imaginative child, so I chalked it all up to my own overactive brain.

Then, when I was 9 years old, my family moved to a brand-new house with the bonus features of no “little rooms” and super-groovy shag carpeting.

On the day of the big move, my mom helped my sister and me set up our new bedroom. And as we were arranging the beds and unpacking the boxes, Mom pulled out those pictures of the clown-faced children.

“NOOOOOOO!” my sister and I said in unison.

“Whoa,” said Mom. “What’s wrong with these?”

And that’s when my kid sister piped up —

“They TALK!

PROMPT: What’s your creepy story? Everybody’s either got one, or knows someone who does. Put it on the page for a fun and frightful Halloween treat, then delight your friends with the result... Because one out of every two pumpkins knows that good stories are way better than candy!

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