Being Brave. Being Dad.

The worst part about being a dad is that you realize that when someone breaks into your house to murder your family...you are the solution.  I mean, I still feel like I'm 17 years old...when does that end, btw?  When do I start to feel like the guy who can club another man in the face with a 9 iron? Incidentally, a golf club should be every mans weapon of choice as it is more fatal to have a focused point of impact then a blunt smash of, say a baseball bat.

Anyway,  we watched Paranormal Activity on TBS last night for a bit and I realized that if some demon is going to attach itself to my wife and then walk through powder and watch us sleep and then kill me, well, what am I gonna do?  But then, cause it was TBS, immediately following Paranormal Activity was Paranormal Activity 2! This time it's a family with a baby and a Nanny Cam. I didn't even watch it but I could tell that there was going to be trouble and everyone was going to be looking at the Dad to save them and you know what?  That guy was probably ten years younger then me, which means he felt the way I did ten years ago which means he felt like he was 8. And no 8 year old dads should be fighting off no demons!

Though, I have gotten better at pretending I can take care of a family.  I lock all the doors at night and check in on my kids...what I would do if they were floating above their beds I have no idea but I check to make sure they still obey the laws of gravity. Also, and this is new, if there is a creepy sound in the middle of the night, then I am the one who goes and investigates.  I creep down the hallway with a golf club ( I only own the one) and turn on lights and stomp. Which I think makes me brave, but again, what would happen if I came face to face with...well, absolutely anything, I assure you, it would not be pretty.

I do fight sometime.  Like, fisticuffs! Well, it really was only the once, but I did learn something about myself and that was if my wife is punched in the face by a drunk, then something inside of me toots very loudly, like a steam whistle and I will throw my body into any amount of certain harm. And maybe that's all I need. To be willing to get beat up or killed or levitated in order to save my family, and be willing to do so in a super crazy man/ferret sort of way.  Cause really that's all I got...well that and a golf club.

In the end, I suppose I do feel like a Dad.  The only thing is, I didn't know this was how Dads really feel.

Remember when you were a kid and just thought your dad had invented everything, so why would you worry about anything, Dad could handle it.  And now you're old and you've crossed the line where you find out, my Dad was a kid once, too. A kid who rolled his car racing it around Liberty Park, cause he was dumb and reckless and you did the same thing when you were 16, except you didn't roll it, you just hit a full garbage can and shattered a head light because you were hiding from older kids who had yelled at you at a four way stop...though, I suppose, it was still his car.  Yeah?  Well, I am starting to see that look in my own kids eyes, where they think I am the Dad so they are fine, but instead it just means I see everything that could possibly happen and it too scary and too terrifying to deal with so I just play dinosaurs (which, incidentally, were ALL KILLED by a meteor that just hit Earth one day, and now a great big huge and tough species is whipped off the face of the planet...see what I mean?! I can see everything that could happen.  But because I had a Dad who knew everything that could happen and he still let me Trick-or-Treat and sleep outside and try Cherry Bombs on the monkey bars, then I turned out be a Dad who knows every terrible thing that could happen...but also, knows every amazing thing that could happen!

Scared Stiff

So you've probably noticed that we here at Part Time Authors we have an affinity for the month of October - the weather, the food, and the tradition of telling a haunted tale or two. Well, with Halloween coming up this week, I'm going to tell just one more spooky story. 

(I’ll give you a minute to dim the lights and turn on some creepy music.  And your fog machine.)

If you’ll journey back with me … about four years ago … almost exactly to the day…

The weather is finally pleasant in Las Vegas during the month of October; and as is custom on warm evenings, Katie and I were sleeping above the covers on the night of this spine-tingling event.

It was not an unusual night, by any means. The kids had fought us on going to bed at a reasonable hour, we’d eaten ice cream, and The Office was not as funny as it had once been. By all signs, situation normal.

However, sometime just after 2 a.m., I suddenly woke up, almost in a jolt. But though I was awake, I found it impossible to move. As one would expect at that hour, the house was silent and still. But it was more silent and still than ever. The overwhelming feeling I had was that I was under water. My hearing was deafened, muffled.  I couldn’t breathe. And I could not so much as lift a finger. It was if my body was pinned down, even being pushed into the bed. Being suffocated by nothing more than the pressure of the atmosphere around me.

I made a conscious effort to sit up, as if raising my torso would immediately provide oxygen. With tremendous effort I tried to lift my head.  But still nothing budged.

I could feel Katie lying next to me; her body only inches from me, sleeping peacefully as if absolutely nothing life-threatening was going on next to her.

I became panicked and again exerted all the energy of my being to raise myself to a sitting position. Though incredibly sluggish, I could finally feel some hint of movement. I felt like I was far below the surface in a large body of water, trying in slow-motion to reach the surface for that first breath.  But it felt like I would never make it.

After what seemed like several death-defying minutes, I pulled through the thick air and sat all the way up, taking in a large gulp of air, and then another. My pulse was racing and I was even perspiring. I had no explanation for what’d just happened, but I didn’t feel any sense of impending doom or fear. The room felt clear and where it was once dark, I could see the outline of the room through the light that came in the window.  I rolled over and cuddled up to Katie, putting my chin on her shoulder and my arm around her body. She mumbled something incoherent, but I recognized it as a, “Are you ok?” kind of a mumble. My heart slowed down, and I fell back asleep.

The next morning I told Katie what had happened. Neither of us knew what to make of it. We never discussed it again. Fact is, I’d never discussed it with anyone until recently, when I was visiting with my brother, Dehn.

We were at dinner and Dehn happened to tell me about a companion he’d had on his LDS mission in Japan. He explained a time when his companion had awakened, frozen to his bed. It was essentially the same thing I had experienced four years ago. His companion, who was Japanese, told Dehn that it was something that occurred quite regularly throughout his life. This was also the case with other Japanese missionaries that Dehn talked to.

After I told Dehn the experience I had, he pointed me in a direction where I could read more about it – in fact, a magical place where I could read more about anything! This fairyland place is called Wikipedia. It’s on the Interwebs.

It turns out this kind of event is called sleep paralysis.

According to Ripley’s Believe It or Wikipedia, sleep paralysis can last from several seconds to several minutes, and in some rare cases (generally following a post-Thanksgiving dinner food-coma), up to several hours! Doctors, scientists, and drug addicts have also acknowledged that sleep paralysis may be accompanied by terrifying, vivid hallucinations and an acute sense of danger. (Uhm, no doi!)

Evidently some of the causes of sleep paralysis include narcolepsy, increased stress, sudden environmental/lifestyle changes, or excessive consumption of alcohol coupled with lack of adequate sleep. (You can Google "sleep paralysis" and read all about it.)

It was of course comforting to find an explanation of something that had truly felt inexplicable – even if the resolution was less paranormal than I had anticipated, and more of a physiological occurrence. 

The Nightmare, by Henry Fuseli (1781) is thought to be one of the classic depictions 

of sleep paralysis perceived as a demonic visitation.

Spooky Books

I hope this week hasn't been too scary for you. That photo of Topher from 150 years ago dressed as a bug haunts my dreams. Apropos of insectile costumes, Topher and I were in a production of Richard III once where all the characters' costumes were based on bugs. Topher was some sort of water beetle, I think, and I was his servant. A butler flea? I don't know. Our scene was him bathing and me washing him (this was at BYU, so don't get any ideas) and him talking about his fear of death. Then I left and some people came in and drowned him. Oh, Shakespeare!!

Anyway, in our continuing effort to get you in the mood for next weeks spooky festivities, I wanted to share some great scary books to keep you up at night. Enjoy! (PS. If you are reading this on a mobile device or through an RSS reader you might have to switch to the desktop site to see this.)

The Scariest Books I Never Read

Sometimes on Monday night my wife and I will discuss what I should be blogging about for the next day. Last night, as she cleaned up the mess she made making dinner for the whole family, I encouraged her by reading Ken's Post aloud.  It was a great post and got us in the mood to share a good spooky story. But upon further discussion we learned neither of us have a really great scary story in either of our pockets.  I mean, there was one time when the Devil was flying his helicopter through our front door and luckily Lindsay woke me up to inform me it was happening and shoved me out of bed to hurry and go lock the door...the door that the Devil was flying a helicopter into (hope that dead bolt holds!).  Upon further discussion, turns out it wasn't real, but just a dream.  So it really didn't stand up to Kens ghost picture (which you'll notice he quickly threw away as to teach us the principle of faith that said picture exists...those Craig's are always trying to teach you something).

I wonder why I have not been chosen for a phanstamic tale?  I am as gullible as anyone and I have a wild imagination that gets the best of me almost every day. And yet, I still don't have a creepy, skin crawly story that disperses shutters at its utterance.  

Boo. 

Not the scary way...the sad way.

Luckily there are good scary stories out there and those stories are in books and I've read lots of books and my wife has read, like a Brazilian more than me! (Brazilians are known for their vast knowledge of literature) And she told me about two scary books that I wanted to tell you about, cause you probably didn't know about them, and that's what this blog is all about: Educating idiots.

First book: Jane Eyre

So I guess there's this all proper and appropriate lady, probably Jane, who, like hears something in the attic, but then she's all responsible and doesn't get all wrapped up in whatever is up there. And I guess she loves this guy but he's all married, but that might have been a secret, I don't know, I've never read it and my wife just gave me a small smattering of details, but I've gone a head and filled in the gaps.  So Jane loves this married guy, and it's, like, in olden days so that kind of crap was real edgy.  Jane is all no nonsense and she doesn't see a way to get married so she makes other plans, but then as it turns out the sounds she is hearing in the attic is this guys wife and then (because it's a scary story) she burns down the whole house with her in it!!!  BLAAH HA HA HA!!  Though, this does give Jane the opportunity marry the man whose previous history with women was to shut them up in the attic until they burn themselves up. I'm sure they made it, though.

Second Book:Wuthering Heights

I mean this one has it all, unrequited love, crazy ladies and death...I guess the last story had it all too! So there is the guy, Heathcliff and I guess he's super hot and this lady, Cathy super loves him and I think he loves her but then he marries this other lady and because it's olden times, and he must have been literally the only man on earth, Cathy dies of a broken heart. Anyway, Cliffy is real sad to, but he doesn't die over it and then in the terrifying conclusion, Heathcliff is hanging out upstairs and who pops up at the window but Dead Cat, whose all tapping and crying, 'Heathcliff, it's me your Cathy, I've come home, let me ina your window'  That scene is depicted here:

Wuthering Heights the Movie          

Uh...no. don't keep reading...click that link and watch it, it's real hard for me to set up links so when I do I need you to follow them.  Go on! I'll wait.

Alright, so those are your two scary stories from me and my wife...well, mostly me, I mean she didn't even know I was interviewing her for this post...I didn't even know or I would have taken some notes or listened.  But I do want you to know that I promise you that I didn't even pull up a synopsis of either book before I presented them to you as fact. THAT'S the kind of hard hitting journalism you've come to expect from PTA.

I do have a question for you, though: Last night my wife told me that there are two kinds of girls in the world, there are Jane's and there are Cathy's...she later amended that to say there are two kinds of girls who read books in this world. And I wondered if that was true or what that even means, lets talk about it on Facebook because I'll tell you, it was hard to hear her over the roar of the water as she was loudly washing my dishes.

Indecently, she said she was a Cathy. Is that a good thing? 

The Big Red Van of Death!

So, once, a few friends of mine found ourselves loading up into my buddy's 15-passenger van. They called it "Big Red," either because they super love the gum or because it's a red 15-passenger van, I never clarified.  It was October and we wanted to do something real cool and real scary.  So we made our friend "Chris" tell us scary stories as we drove around Provo...Utah.  Well, things got real cool right off the bat, I mean, I was in the very very back seat with two girls, one my friend "Kacy"who was totally involved with my other friend "Christian" and the other was my wife; still, I was optimistic about my odds. "Chris" wanted everyone to quit messing around and get spooky.  He put in scary music, but it kinda got too loud at times, and then our friend "Josh" was complaining that Flight of the Valkyries was not that scary, but I thought that if Zombies were to organize and get uniformed up then Flight of the Valkyries would be wildly scary. Anyway, we killed the music halfway into the spooking.  So, I could tell right away that my wife was getting super scared cause she kept screaming and then snuggling me and we were giggling, all the while trying not to get caught by "Chris" who was telling us how one time, in that exact house, one of his students heard footsteps going up and down the stairs.  Or how from that hill, when Jesus comes, Ancient Native Americans will rise up and...well I'm not sure what they are gonna do, whatever Jesus wants, I guess, but still scary.  And we (the other eight of us) were sort of goofing off and saying that we should all get a booth at the pizza place across from "The Hill" so we could watch rising Indians and share a slice of Zah. Needless to say, if you think this showdown went down 20 years ago, you, mother, would be wrong.  It was two weeks ago. The average age packed into "Big Red" was 40.  My friend "Lisa" actually had to give one of her kids the brush off:

Kid: "Now, where are you guys going again?"

Lisa: "I'm just going out with my friends."

Kid: "But where?"

Lisa: "Ugh, we are just going to drive around!"

Kid: "You and your friends are going to just going to drive around?  Where?"

Lisa: "NOWHERE, GOSH!  We are just gonna drive around, gall, go to bed would ya."

So four and a half couples, all with more than one child--some with seven--driving around Provo's most haunted spots, which, after the giggles and wiggles begin to fade (we're all old and can only keep that crap up for a while) we find out that Provo is kinda creepy...at least where ever "Chris" goes. I would hate to short hand his terrifying tales about old theaters and Polygamist houses in a stand off, but you should know you missed quite a night. And so on this All Hallows Eve, Part Time Autors invites you to dump the kids and call your old friends.  Climb into the biggest car your friend has and tell a few tales, remember the second house you lived in and the dreams that woke you there, download a ghost app, eat great food and read a fine book and enjoy these days, these days where we may be older than our kids but we are still much younger than our parents, those poor farts.  

"At The End of the Lane" A Spooky Tale by a Part Time Author

There are those whose breath aches for the crack of treaded leaves, the race of whipped wind 'round a broken tomb stone, the shallow gasp of black night as it settles on your chest.

She was one of them.

She sat waiting at her window. Watching for the first dead leaf to fall at the foot of the aching maple tree that covered the front face of her house. She could match the tangles of bark and branches of the tree with the iced lines of the ancient glass in the windows of her dying home. She loved to watch. Families would walk by unaware of her stare through yellowed lace curtains. They would give sweatered smiles and hold mitted hands and call for their young to keep clear of the street. She would smile too; though her skin bagged and pulled hard toward the floor making it impossible for her lips to turn up at the ends, she would smile. She would smile while she waited.

Once. Once, her face had been smooth and beautiful, the color of promise. Once, her eyes had been compared to unseen tropical seas, now they lie in wait, hollow and grey, the pupil set far in from the color, creating a space.

Once.

Once. She hated the word. The sharp hiss, following the slack jawed ‘Un’, clawed the roof of her mouth as it slid out. She no longer thought, ‘Once.’ She only ever thought, ‘Next’. 

Perhaps, if those boys had not come that first year. Perhaps if they would have just passed on to make their mischief at other, less foreboding, manors. But they hadn’t. They came here, and she knew why. She was old. The house terrifying. The season called for it and she had her role to play. So, she invited them in and locked the door. She spent time sifting through the boys, finding the worst among them, the biggest liar, the bravest fool. She separated him from the pack. She sent the other boys off without him knowing. And he was left. And she was right.
He fought hard at first and she was sure he would overtake her; after all, he was a growing boy and she a crooked old woman, but he did not believe it would happen, he couldn’t believe. She had that on her side, she believed. She could see the whole thing as it was happening, as if from above. The swirling, and pulling, and crying out. The candlestick.

It had been her mother’s. Deep black marble with swipes of grey. It was brought back from Venice when she was a girl. It stood, always, center of the mantle to receive its accolades. It was cold to the touch, but not that first night. That night it burned her hands as she held it. She had worried that the heavy of it would put her off her balance, but she was buoyed by the weightlessness of it as it lifted over her head.

She knew where to put the body. She had always known. The cellar had been bolted off long ago, after they had running water brought to the house. The only access now was an old dumb-waiter that would spill the mess into the dark beneath. The smell. What of the smell? The smell would be covered by the cats. She had known that when the first stray coiled its tail around her drooping stocking. The smell, like the blood rush would fade.

Some get away.

She knew that, too. There must be a broken board down there, and she may not have hit them hard enough, or in the right spot. She could hear them shuffling around down there, banging into things in the dark or breaking glass, then quiet. That’s why she chooses the liars. What could they say? In the end, it’s just a boy who missed his curfew and is now babbling some fantastic story about the old lady at the end of the street. Even if they were filthy and bloody, no one had ever questioned her. No one had ever walked past the maple tree and knocked at the door and asked where the town sons had gone. And as long as no one asked, she would continue… to wait.

For they would be back, a new batch, braver than the last, hopped up on wild tales told year after year about the house on the hill and the children who never come back.

And so she waited for the first dead leaf to fall.


The end.