I have a bad habit of having the ability to scare the living shit out of myself. It’s pretty insane, totally absurd and extremely annoying. We have a mousey in the attic. It makes noise (duh). This is a problem.
Hearing noise at night makes my brain go apeshit. Nevermind burglars, it’s the made-up stuff that my grey mass produces that does it. So, there it is, tap tap, scratch scratch, krrr krrr, on the attic and me in bed. Eyes wide open (noise get scarier when eyes are closed ya know). I *know* it’s a mouse, or maybe a rat, as it does sound to be a little too big for a mousey. So yes, a rat even. Or maybe it’s a badger?
And so the stream of consciousness sets off… I make the unfortunate mistake of watching the very episode of “The Walking Dead” last week, mind, by that I mean the first 10 minutes after which I had to switch it off. Combine that with our neighbours who frequently get into very loud, very scary fights. What my mind came up with next, is the following:
The neighbours moved out last week, very quickly and unexpected. So, this rattling noise on the attic, went from mousey, to rat, to badger, to god knows what, and finally ended up being (ahem)… the zombied rotten corpse of her good self next door, being quite artfully stacked upon the attic by her killing boyfriend.
That’s right. I now have a FLESH EATING CORPSE on the attic. *eeeek*. Even though I’m perfectly aware and capable of thinking that this is nonsense, and well, just plain ridiculous, somehow I freak out completely and have to snuggle up against himself - so, if needed - I can wake him quickly and he can defend me.
It’s weird how I do that to myself. It baffles me. And somehow I’m unable to change this silly behaviour. It also means that staying alone at night is a challenge. And I’ve been doing this to myself ever since I was a wee kiddo.
I remember one night when my brother and me were staying over in my grandparent’s house. It’s very rural, and they had shutters on their windows which started to make a funny sound when it was windy. The trees in their garden started making strange whistling noises too. Me, about 10 or 11, wee brother about 8 or 9. I start tapping my hand against the bed and ask him quietly: “Did you hear that!?”. Off course, he’s starting to get scared, which gives me great pleasure, and even more so when I dutifully inform him that they might be poltergeists. Result: wee brother runs up to grandpa and grandma and sleeps in bed with them, leaving me giggling and utterly impressed with myself behind. Until I realize I’m alone, in a big dark room, with whistling trees and clattering shutters.
And poltergeists.
