Inexplicably, I woke up this morning with a large scratch running lengthwise down my chest and stomach. It wasn’t there before I went to bed last night. My friends, if you didn’t believe me before about the authenticity of my previous ghost wound, then get a load of this.
Yeah, yeah, I know — I’m getting a little soft in the middle. But check out that gnarly scratch. It really stings. How the hell did it get there? The skin on my chest was smooth and unscathed the night before when I went to bed.
At first, I was inclined to place the blame on my cats, Momo, and Madam Beasley Meowington (Maddie for short). They’ve never really gotten along, and they do often chase each other around the apartment when Diana and I are trying to sleep at night.
It’s not hard to imagine those cats chasing each other around the bedroom during the dead of night. In the heat of the chase, perhaps Momo jumped up to the surface of the bed and decided to use my chest as a landing pad. That’s just what cats do. Yet as convenient as it might be to simply blame the cats, there are a couple problems with this explanation.
First, how in the world was I not woken up by an eleven-pound cat thrashing my flesh while he skidded to an inconsiderate claw-stop across my chest? Like I said, this wound really stings. Whatever it was that scratched me, it got me deep. Second, I sleep with my blankets tucked neatly underneath my chin, so I’m not sure how likely it is that a cat would be able to penetrate this protective layer above me. Third and finally, the t-shirt I was wearing on the night of the alleged cat attack has no visible rips or tears on it.
You’d figure the shirt would show at least some sign of wear after an incident like that. The physical evidence just doesn’t seem to support a cat attack.
So, what gives? Something clearly doesn’t add up around here. I’m not convinced that I should attribute this wound to my cats, and it’s not as if I sleep with knives in my bed. Perhaps there are some things in this world that simply defy rational explanation. Perhaps some of those pissed off ghosts whom I’ve been telling you about have decided to reach out to me this Halloween season in order to send me a message. The spooks are upon us, my friends. Beware of the gasping night, the cackles of specters, those diversions of fright. As we draw ever closer to All Hallows Eve, draw your loved ones closer, and remain ever vigilant of the talons that strike out at our feeble tendons and tissue under the cover of shadow.
Boo.
Alright, it was Mrs. Peacock with a rusty dagger in the ballroom. You’re lucky she didn’t have time to sharpen it.
By the way, the cats saw her coming and hid under the bed. Wusses.
All right, then. Let’s just check the cards inside the envelope. Hmm, no, sorry. Care to guess again? You’re probably right about the cats being wusses, though.
Take a look in the mirror, KZ. There, I think, you may find your culprit. Well, maybe. Do you bite your nails by any chance? Often leaving jagged ends at the tips of your fingers? I do. And I’ve often scratched myself accidentally in that same way. Usually on my arm or side. It might seem like too deep of a scratch to have done it on your own with tiny bits of nails. But, consider how strong you are and how much force you use when scratching yourself. So that’s another theory. But yeah, you might have a ghost otherwise.
No! It was ghosts, I tell you! I wear oven mitts to bed!
I believe you. Ghosts must have done it. It couldn’t have been you, unless you left out the part about you being a masochist and into “cutting”…naw. It couldn’t have been Diana, unless you left out the part about her being a sadist and into “cutting”….naw. Ghosts. Must have been ghosts.
Nicky, you are so right on the money. I twas totally ghosts. There is no other explanation available to us. Thank you for your demonstration of faith.
First of all, I love the pic of Maddie you chose. She has this expression like “WHAT!? WTF YOU BLAMING ON ME NOW, BITCH!?” And if you really believe in ghosts, then maybe you will stop those annoying peanut-gallery comments you love to interject about my horror movies.
Don’t lie. It was a Tonberry.
The bastard went for a throat stab, but his aim was a little off.
Time to videotape yourself while you sleep
I’m too afraid of what i would see, Monique. Filming myself asleep would be something almost akin to playing with a Ouija Board. That sort of activity would just welcome trouble, you know? Beware! Spirits are lurking.