Oh, Squiders, how I love ghost stories. And I love horror ala Poe or Lovecraft. But this love comes with a price. You see, my husband and I normally read in bed right before we go to sleep.
You see where I’m going with this.
Night is rarely silent. There’s animals outside, cars going past, houses settling. My cat likes to open and close the hallway cabinet doors which, at first, sounds like someone is in your house opening and closing doors until you realize what it is. That cat is going to drive me crazy someday.
And yet, despite my overactive imagination, I read these things right before bed anyway.
I tell myself it all isn’t real, but I’ll notice movements out of the corner of my eye (which is invariably a car passing outside or, once, my own reflection in a mirror, yay). We’ve had a recent addition to the family that means I’m up at odd hours, and while I’m dealing with that, my cat will come in and stare intently at one corner of the ceiling, and the new addition will talk to himself when he’s alone.
Everything is creepier at 3 am.
I tell myself that I need to stop reading horror right before bed. Or at night at all, actually. Sometimes, if it’s late enough and dark enough, I can’t even watch my beloved ghost hunting shows without freaking myself out. And, sometimes, after enough false starts, I will put that book down and wait until sunlight.
Until the next book, at least. And then the pattern starts all over…
(In case you’re wondering, I’m currently reading Girl of Nightmares by Kendare Blake, the sequel to Anna Dressed in Blood.)
