Tell us a little about yourself. What are your favorite hobbies? Tell us one crazy thing about you.
 
As a writer, I’ve built my life around writing. I enjoy reading and I’m an active reader: meaning I underline and take notes in most of the books I read. These things have led to my monthly literature blog, On Page 42.
 
Crazy thing? Honestly, I’m a boring person. Sometimes I dabble in carpentry and other times I dabble in visual art. Of late, my hobbies can be boiled down to listening to podcasts like Behind the Bastards and 5-4 or listening to K. Flay and Grandson. My ears have been monopolizing my time. I’ve always been into a variety of music and so for those that know me it’s probably wholly unsurprising.
 
Why did you decide to start your writing career?
 
When I was maybe nine or ten, I got into writing funny poems. They were funny for my age. Once I learned what words were capable of, I dove head first into playing with them. I remember showing one of my poems to a priest at Sunday school. It was about the speaker being sick and it was colorful and goofy. The priest just looked back concerned. I learned firsthand writing can make you feel one way, and what you feel isn’t necessarily going to translate. 
 
After, a series of personal tragedies and 9/11, my writing turned away from humor. Writing became less about feeling good and more about coping with death and survivor’s guilt. I guess writing was always integral for me to function, so much so my family started pushing me to become a teacher the moment I could string words together. I’ve tutored, but I think for anybody that prizes reading and writing beyond stop signs, someone is going to expect them to get into education.
 
 
Does writing energize or exhaust you?
 
It often depends. The atmosphere is somewhat important. At Wells College, I loaded my schedule with any course I thought could improve my writing. My first semester there, I took Advanced Fiction. Between the campus life focused on mostly growing and courses that forced every part of my analytical skills out of their crevasses, the atmosphere was very conducive for my writing. At one point, I was able to sit down until 2500 words of a short story came pouring out. In those moments, sitting, typing on my laptop in the common area of the dorm, my energy was at an all-time high. I remember being so into a story as I wrote it that I started lightly weeping. And I don’t think there is any shame to emotional catharsis in writing.
 
Conversely, I have had those moments where there is an important thing I want to convey in a story or even my blog (trying to stay on schedule) and I can’t motivate my brain to finish it. It’s exhausting pushing through and going back to the building blocks. I look at the structure and say this is what I need to accomplish. And if I’m lucky, a phone doesn’t ring or a family member doesn’t interrupt the process. Writing 2500 words one day can be easier than writing 500 words the next day.      
 
 
What literary pilgrimages have you gone on?
 
I went to Edgar Allen Poe’s museum/house in Virginia. My mother took me there and it was a neat trip. A few years ago, I stopped by his tenant house in Baltimore, but it was too early and I couldn’t stay until they opened. But the anachronism of the updated tenant house attached to Poe’s preserved section was striking to me. I felt like we put more work into keeping the dead poet’s residence pristine than we did into helping the surrounding area survive.
 
There were tons of ravens with a creepy tree on a patch of yard. Very expected. There was also a cop car on the corner menacing the residents that lived nearby. Writing and publishing came from a place of privilege, so its hard not to see the indentation of that privileged in a poorer area.
 
I’ve been trying to get out to Iowa City for all the history and opportunity that exist there, but life’s thrown me some curve balls. I presented at the Bridgewater International Poetry Festival
in 2013. The best part wasn’t even my presentation, but it was meeting so many people that enjoyed writing and reading poetry.  Poets I’ll never forget like Aimee Suzara, Nicelle Davis, Dan Dissinger, Aimee Herman, Neal “The Surgeon Poet” Hall. There were so many. And it was so much fun.   
 
 
What is the first book that made you cry?
 
Growing up, reading was difficult for me. Everybody told me “do it do it do it,” but people rarely had the patience or didn’t know how to teach me to have patience with reading. So I started with the dictionary: two or three lines at time. Then I read encyclopedia sections. The overviews on Phillip II and Alexander the Great alone helped me out later in World History Class. After that poetry. Point being I worked my way up to books. That being said my first strong emotional reaction to a story was nonfiction story about a help line operator repeatedly helping the same caller, and then that caller almost committed suicide. It was touching, but if I remember correctly ultimately tragic. The most life effecting book I’ve read was Leslie Jamison’s The Recovering. It engaged both my desire for informative text and the need for a personal struggle.
 
 
When did you publish your first work?
 
My first poem was in the Three Lake Sampler. I was in middle school and I remember being disappointed because the line “And I Pray” was cut out of the poem. My first short story was “Saturday Night Introvertism” over at F(r)iction Online. Its still up, but looking back it was a little raw. At the time, I was just glad something I admitted was accepted. I remember there was this submission situation through a Boston literary journal where the editor said they sent me feedback when they didn’t. They just sent me this nasty email about how I’m not listening when that was the second time I had correspondence with them and the first time they just sent, “needs work.” I avoided submitting to Boston-related reviews for a while after that exchange. Then last December I published my first poetry collection, “Calls for Help” through Atmosphere Press.
 
 
How many works have you published?
 
I have just the one poetry collection published. Although, I have numerous individual poems and short stories published through many reviews and journals, some are even in anthologies. 
 
 
Which one is your favorite?
 
Over at WordsForCharity.com, they published “A Ghost Story.” It was one of my more humorous stories. Part of me is irritated its behind a paywall, but its for a good cause. I really like the story. 
 
 
What writers did you enjoy reading as a child?
 
Dr. Suess, Edgar Allen Poe, and Langston Hughes. I remember trying to explain the subjectivity of poetry to my Aunt and I basically rolled Frost. She completely shut down. I still find Frost overrated, but there is this great analysis on YouTube by Zoe Bee about the “The Road Not Taken.” 
 
 
What did you learn while writing?
 
There is never a point when one is done learning. I first wrote without limitation. I thought my best work would come from that. Then I wrote with limitations put on my structure or my style and it was better. Structure allowed me to tighten things up when I came from unorthodox points of view. Then I wrote what others told me to write: through prompts or competitions that specified elements. It took away my control and made me work differently. Most importantly, I read. My writing never progressed faster than when I made daily reading a priority. It doesn’t have to be the same genre. In fact, how nonfiction inspires fiction can be pretty cool. Same with fiction inspiring poetry, or the inclination of a memory sparked by either of those to inspire nonfiction. Writing is what propels me to keep learning.
 
Are you working on anything new?
 
For a few years now, I’ve been working on a novel. I’ve done plenty of short form stories and I’m trying to finish a long form one. Also, I’m not blind to the lack of seriousness that many of my family take in poetry. I think they see it as akin to a random word generator, unless its Frost.
 
 
What advice would you give upcoming authors?
 
Don’t expect anything. There’s no typical publishing anymore. There’s the big four and indie/ self-publishing. Unless you’re extremely lucky, you will have to call around, email, and talk to a plethora of people. Getting reviews and publicity is near impossible because most only do it for the big four publishers. A lot of people won’t respond. I was able to set up a Zoom event with authors from Twitter, but alumni from my college refused to set anything up with me. its weird that sometimes strangers are more helpful than people you know. Don’t be pressured into giving away your book. You put work into it and people asking for free copies because they know you is an acknowledgement that they don’t value the work you put into the text.
 
You can find Greg here:
 
Twitter @GregTMiraglia
Instagram at greg_t_miraglia
Facebook Writer’s page is Greg T. Miraglia
GregThePoet.com

Thank you, Greg! 

Taking a break, be back soon. 

One eventful evening, I was hard at work doing my technician duties when another technician, my partner in crime, ran up to me and told me I had a phone call.

One of my duties at that time was to do all the ordering for that pharmacy, from pills, to products, to inventory items, you name it, I ordered it. I did this every day, nonstop, Monday through Friday. At this point, what I ordered and what I needed came second nature and I knew what was coming from where and usually how much it cost.

This particular day, when my technician came running up to me to tell me I had a phone call, she instructed me that it was about one of my orders.

“Miss Laura,” she said, “The package you ordered yesterday was held up.”

This wasn’t really surprising; a lot of packages get held up for different reasons. It was a pain but what could you do? I’ll admit though, I was annoyed, I needed what was in that package to fill an order.

“Why?”

It came out in more of a hiss than a question, which I didn’t mean for it to.

“I don’t know,” she said, “It was held up by the Sheriff.”

I’m sorry, what?

I didn’t order THOSE drugs. I ordered the legal ones. I stood there for a minute trying to figure out what in the world I ordered could have caused the Sheriff to get involved.

Last time I checked, Preparation H and Fixodent were perfectly legal in North Carolina.

“They’re waiting for you on the phone,” she told me.

As I walked to the phone, I wondered what the caption would be under my mugshot. I took a deep breath and answered the phone.

“This is Laura can I help you.”

“Hey, Laura. This is Danny. I was calling to let you know that your order was held up due to snow in Sheriff county.”

I felt my face twist.

“Sheriff’s county,” I repeated.

“Yes,” he said, “I wanted to apologize for the inconvenience, but we hope to have your package to you tomorrow.”

I looked over at my technician, who looked as though she was about to check her bank account to make sure she had enough bail money  for me.

I sighed into the phone, “Okay, thanks for letting me know.”

​Well, at least I got my cardio in for that day. Didn’t even have to work for it.

It was another fine day in Charleston with my friend and her sister. We had decided to go to ‘The Market’ downtown that day. We weaved through people left and right, stopping at different tables under the shelter of the building’s. Everyone was huddled under to get away from the sun.

The day was nice, you could fry an egg on the sidewalk, but it was nice. My porcelain self ducked under the buildings as much as I could. I only have two shades, porcelain, or lobster. The buildings were only about a car length a part, so I could bounce out of one building into the next without getting much sun. The buildings were also built to where you had to walk up a ramp to get into each one. The streets were a lot lower than the buildings for whatever reason.

We were halfway through these buildings when mother nature decided to change it up a bit. One second, it was sunny and hot, and the next second there were black clouds and a down pour. Out of nowhere, rain poured down on us like someone turned on a faucet. I was standing in one of the buildings watching people walk around as if nothing changed. They ducked out of one building into the next.

The rain itself didn’t bother me, I for one know I won’t melt. The water level, however, was a bit concerning. Before I could move, the water flooded the streets, the drains were so backed up it shot water BACK OUT OF THEM. The water level rose so fast and so high, it was beginning to enter the buildings. My friend (who used to live in Charleston) and her sister (who now lived there) didn’t bat an eye.

“Uh, is no one else alarmed by this?” I asked, pointing outside at the water level.

They both smiled at me, “No, this is normal.”

Of course it is.

Without another word they turned back to their table. I felt my head tilt a little as my brows furrowed. I glanced back outside at the water level, it was still coming down and the water was still rising. It was so high now; the water was over the tires on the cars that drove by. Still, everyone carried on. If this kept on, we would be washed into the ocean that was just down the street. I’m not a good swimmer and I don’t care to think about what’s out there in the ocean waiting for me.

I was about to voice my concern again when this random man in a KAYAK floated past us, in between the cars that were being overtaken by water. I watched as he paddled his little heart out, weaving in and out of the cars down the street.

And then, just like that, the rain stopped. The sun came back out and everyone kept on with their day. The streets were still flooded, the water splashed up against the buildings as people began to wade through it to the next building.

My friend and her sister stepped out into it.

“Um,” I spoke up.

They were a lot taller than me and the water hit their knees.

“It will be gone in a second,” my friend reassured me.

Because of my porcelain (white chicken) legs, I wore pants while everyone else wore shorts. Reluctantly, I followed behind them. Stepping into the flood, the water rose above my knees, soaking my pants and making it extremely hard to keep my flip flops on. As I struggled to get across the street to the other building, I was thinking about how random all those events were. Just as I lost one of my flip flops to a massive wave that swept by me, I looked up to see a horse and buggy stopped in front of me, waiting for me to get across the road so they could pass.

I’m sure I looked as confused as the horse did. I reached in and grabbed my floating flip flop and jumped back into the building, letting the horse and buggy pass by. My friend and her sister were already in the other building shopping. I stood at the door and watched them fade into the crowd as I pulled my flip flop back on. I decided to wait in the building until the water level dropped.

​At this point, I’m pretty sure there were shark’s swimming in the streets.

You never know what you’re going to hear when you pick up the phone at the pharmacy. Let me explain. I answered the phone one night and the following conversation took place.

“____ pharmacy, this is Laura. How can I help you?”

“I need to speak with a pharmacist.”

“She’s on the other line with a customer, can I help you or would you like to hold?”

“Are you a pharmacist?”

“I’m a technician.”

“Honey, I have a little problem. Maybe you can help me.”

“Okay, what is it?”

Words you should never say, especially in a pharmacy.

“I swallowed my inhaler.”

At this point in life, it didn’t surprise me. I thought it would, but it didn’t.

“You swallowed your inhaler?” I repeated.

“Yes.”

I was a mix of concerned, confused, and overall, curious as to how this customer swallowed an entire inhaler. The fact that they were still breathing alerted me that I wasn’t getting the full story.

“Did you swallow part of your inhaler or the whole thing?” I asked, resting the phone between my ear and shoulder while folding my arms across my chest. I noticed everyone working in the pharmacy look at me.

“Well, honey, I was talking to my daughter and got distracted and swallowed it.”

I felt my eyebrows furrow.

“The whole thing?” I asked again. Do I need to be calling 911?

“No, honey, just the capsule part that goes in the inhaler,” they then told me.

I inhaled slowly, closing my eyes.

Just a little pharmacy background in case you don’t already know. There are some inhalers that come with a capsule that you place inside the inhaler itself. When the patient closes the inhaler around the capsule, it punctures the capsule, releasing the medication into the device. Allowing the patient to receive the medication through the mouthpiece.

“So, you just swallowed the capsule that goes in the device and not the inhaler itself?” I clarified.

“Yes.”

“Okay, give me just a second and I’ll get the pharmacist for you.”

I put them on hold and skipped to the back, where the pharmacist was now checking a prescription.

I poked my head in the door and yelled, “Pharmacist needed on line one. A patient just swallowed their inhaler.”

I then promptly turned and walked off, I heard the pharmacist shout in a confused tone, “What?”

​I said what I said.

I was in Charleston with a good friend of mine, visiting her sister, when we decided to escape the 142-degree weather outside. We ducked into a Chick-fil-A on the corner and ordered some food. We were waiting at a table when I noticed this kid in a Chick-fil-A shirt walking around the room with a basket of mints. He stopped at every table asked if the customers would like one.

Chick-fil-A has a reputation of having some bang-up customer service, so this didn’t surprise me.

When he reached our table, he offered up the basket. I of course took one and so did my friend.

“Thanks,” I told him, pulling on the wrapper.

When he offered the basket to my friends’ sister, she smiled and shook her head.

“I don’t want a mint,” she told him, “But I’ll take a hug.”

There was a stunned silence as I looked up at her from my wrapper.

I don’t think they do that here.

The kid stood there, trying to remember if that was on the contract he signed when he took the job. I shot a look to my friend who was equally concerned.

Apparently, my friends’ sister had taken a long pause before she finished her sentence which ended in, “Bobby.”

It was only after that, this kid realized they knew each other. They went to church together. He smiled and they hugged, while I sat there in stunned awkwardness. When he made eye contact with me again, I threw my hands up and shook my head.

​“I just wanted the mint,” I told him. 

I was in my teens, my parents and I had stopped in several stores during the hustle and bustle of the holiday rush, to mark off some names from their Christmas list. I remember both my mom and I were holding bags filled with our purchases, when we walked out the door into the parking lot.

Straight in front of us, a small crowd had gathered. There was a man with a long beard who spoke to the crowd, whatever he was saying, it had them all mesmerized. We stopped to listen. I remember pushing myself up to the front so I could see. He was in regular clothes for that time of year, but on his head, he wore a Christmas hat. He was probably in his twenties.

“Anyone,” he asked.

The crowd looked at each other.

“I’ll say it again for the new folks joining us,” he said.

I folded my arms as he stepped back to broadcast.

“Here’s a Christmas riddle for you,” he said, “What is on my hat, that you get one free?”

I glanced at his Christmas hat. Just towards the bottom of it, there was a small mistletoe leaf.

The crowd looked at each other again in confusion. Are you serious? It’s not that hard.

“Mistletoe,” I called out.

The man seemed shocked that I had gotten it, he stood there for a second and then nodded. He pointed at me, signaling that I was correct. It wasn’t until he started walking towards me that I realized what I had just done to myself. As he bent down, he puckered his lips.

I flung my hands up in front of my face as I screamed. Leave it to me to be subtle. I fell backwards into the crowd, desperately searching for my parents. I was about to be kidnapped, where were they? The man stopped in his tracks and flung his hands up to his sides.

“What,” he cried out, “do I have fangs?”

He seemed a little insulted. It’s then I caught a glimpse of my father, who had been standing behind me the entire time. He was laughing! I tripped out of the crowd and bolted for the car. The realization of why no one was answering his riddle, was crystal clear at that point.

​Yep, lesson learned. 

A good friend of mine had talked me and my husband into going to a thing called FanBoy. Now, if you don’t know what that is, it’s an event that’s held in different area’s at different times of the year. During this event, you get to meet some of your favorite tv stars, movie stars, what have you. You get in line and wait your turn to say hello to him or her and possibly even get an autograph. The one we attended seemed to have a lot of stars from horror movies.

I know, right?

But the thing that convinced me to go was the fact that there would be two people there that day that I had always dreamed of meeting. The first was Dirk Benedict, the man who played Face or Templeton Peck on the A Team. The second was Derek Mears, who was not only an actor but stuntman, and was in the 2010 Predators movie. He was the predator.

When we walked into this place, there were tables as far as the eye could see. Behind each one was an actor, artist, stuntman, or voice-over. The first table I spotted was Derek’s; he had a long line, so we decided to walk around and see what there was to see. Another thing I noticed, was that people dressed up as characters from different movies. There were lots of them walking around.

Enter a man named Jeff Cochran, also known as Wickedbeard.

We were halfway down the back of the aisle when I noticed someone dressed up as Jason Voorhees, the main character in Friday the 13th. At the time, I didn’t know who the character was or what movie they were in, but I knew enough that I didn’t want to be around him. Mama didn’t raise no fool and all.

I didn’t know at the time that the man behind the mask was Wickedbeard, I didn’t know that he liked to dress up in these life-like interpretations of terror. I didn’t know that he was looking for someone to scare. And, I didn’t know that he not only spotted me coming down the aisle, but he also noticed my frantic pivot in the other direction, which then, in turn, put a target on my back. All things that I learned later.

I remember my husband saying, “Don’t act scared like that, he’ll notice.”

First of all, I’m not acting. I AM SCARED. There is a man coming at me in a mask with a weapon, who’s very being dripped of murder.

Everyone get in the car, we’re going home!

My good friend laughed it off and told me there was nothing to worry about. People dress like that just for those events and it was all good. Why didn’t I believe that?

I turned around to find that the mask man had completely disappeared into the crowd. If I were lucky, I could hide from him the rest of the day, while I collect my two little autographs and hopefully escape with my life.

When we came back around, Derek’s line had freed up. So, my husband and I got in line, while my good friend stood towards the front of the line taking pictures. Derek was greeting the folks in front of us at his table, taking pictures, talking, signing, the usual. From the moment I saw the dude in the mask, I made it a point to tell my husband that we needed to leave quickly. There was no telling where this dude was. He could pop out at any second. My husband just laughed it off and told me not to look so scared. Thank you, honey.

There were about three or four people in line ahead of us, talking to Derek. I stood there beside my husband, reevaluating my life’s decisions up until that point. I couldn’t help but fidget. You guys know I can’t handle these things. My husband wrapped his arm around me, I assumed to partly comfort me and partly hide his amusement at this point.

If he gets me, buddy, you better bet you’re coming too.

My friend was still taking photos at the front of the line. She was glancing at me and smiling, I thought at me. Then she just stopped taking photos. That’s odd. I told myself that I needed to chill out—I probably looked like a lunatic standing there. I decided to focus on Derek’s table, all the posters, and signed things he had laying out.

It wasn’t long before I realized something was hovering just over my right shoulder. Glancing over, I noticed it was the top of a metal spear. I felt my own face twist in confusion as I followed the spear behind me.

I remember the start of my husband’s sentence, which was, “Don’t—”

I assume he was going to say don’t turn around, but we were far past that now. Attached to the other side of that spear was none other than, Jason. Donned in his mask and ripped-stained clothes. He was literally breathing down my neck.

Y’all, I dang near wet myself.

In the next two seconds, I made a spectacle of myself, in front of the predator, guests, friends, and everyone else in between.

The sound that came out of me then, was something I can only describe as true fear. It was the sound nightmares were made of. My husband jumped and the three or four people in front of us jumped and whirled around. Even Derek Mears himself jumped. He seemed confused at first, but I didn’t have any time to explain. I’m sure he thought I’d lost my mind.

I don’t actually remember moving, but I did. I ripped myself out of my husband’s grasp and catapulted to the front of the line, cutting in front of everyone there, so I could cling to my friend, who was now horse laughing. I lost the feeling in my hands and feet, but I clung to my friend as best I could. My heart was about to bounce right out of my chest and run, leaving me behind. I wanted to follow but my body had just accepted the inevitable and shut down right there.

“Wow,” Derek yelled, “Put her in a movie!”

Has anyone called 911? I need them.

Everyone laughed it off, including my husband who now folded his arms across his chest and stared at the man in the mask.

You’re all sick. Sick!

“Laura, that’s Jason,” my friend explained, “He’s from Friday the 13th.”

Well, what is he doing here? It’s Saturday!  

The guy just stood there, without a word. Staring at me. Swell.

“She’s scared of you,” my friend called to him.

Really? What gave it away?

She smiled at me and then called to him, “Do you guys want to take a picture together?”

Oh, I need to lay down. You find out who your friends are I suppose.

While everyone watched, I moved as close as I could force myself to, so she could snap the picture.

“Alright, smile,” she called.

ARE YOU SERIOUS? JUST TAKE THE PICTURE!

I tried to smile. Even before she snapped the picture, I could feel myself pulling away from him unconsciously. That’s when he took it upon himself to reach out and grab me. He pulled me close to him, in a type of bear hug. I squeaked. I wasn’t sure if I couldn’t breath because I was about to faint or because his grip was that tight.

Once she snapped the photo, he simply turned around and walked away. He never said a word. I turned to see the crowd had departed and I was next in line to see Derek. I don’t know if he was smiling because he was just a happy guy or he was laughing at me on the inside, but I willed my legs to move towards him.

“So, do you want a scary picture where I grab you by the neck or a nice picture,” he asked.

Sir, I can’t take much more. Just smile so I can go crawl into the fetal position somewhere.

During the next several hours, we bounced from table to table. Occasionally, I’d look up to find Jason standing very far off from us, looking at me. I don’t know if that’s a movie thing or what, cause again, I never watched it, but--

​Sir, do you know CPR? Cause if you keep this up, you’re going to have to learn.

Year’s ago, one of the pharmacists I worked with, had been called in to work for an hour on her day off. I pulled up after her shift started, I parked my car beside hers and I noticed an older woman sitting in her passenger seat. I smiled and did the awkward wave, she waved back. When I got inside, I asked who the woman was, turns out, it was her mother.

“You weren’t going to invite her in?”

I could not fathom why she had left her mother in the car.

“I told her to come inside,” the pharmacist explained, “But she didn’t want to. She wanted to wait in the car.”

Well, that wasn’t a stretch, older folk tend to do what older folk want to do. I left it alone. The pharmacist worked the rest of her hour and left with her mother.

The next week when I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed someone was sitting in her passenger seat again. Convinced it was her mother who refused to come into the pharmacy, I pulled up beside the car and parked. When I looked over to wave, I got the surprise of a lifetime. It wasn’t her mother that sat in the seat but a clown. A clown. I jumped/jolted a little out of my seat before I reached over and locked my doors. Whoever this person was, sat still in the passenger seat. The guy was kind of slumped to the side as if he were sleeping but his eyes were wide open. His head rested on his shoulder in such a fashion that it made me think of all the scary clown movies I had ever seen. It wasn’t even close to Halloween. What was happening?

Did someone dressed as a clown get drunk and break into her car for a nap? I looked away for a second, partly to make sure I wasn’t crazy and the other part was not to be rude; staring at someone like that was just as creepy. When I looked back up, the guy was still looking at me. I thought about calling inside the pharmacy for help or at least to tell them to call 911. Who dresses up like clown and then breaks into people’s cars? Or worse, did she know this person?

He didn’t move though, he just watched. For half a second, I thought he was dead; which didn’t help. Then I realized, he wasn’t breathing. But he wasn’t breathing because he wasn’t human. It was a doll. A Life Sized Clown Doll. Randomly sitting in a parked car, in broad daylight, at a pharmacy. Is this how I go?

Either someone slipped me something and seeing clowns or there was really a life size clown doll sitting there, glaring at me with its possessed eyes. Who in their right mind would put a possessed, life sized, clown doll in someone’s car? That was a terrible trick.

I bolted out of my car into the pharmacy. The pharmacist smiled at me from behind the counter, but I wasn’t smiling back. I threw my thumb over my shoulder, pointing to her car.

“Did you know someone put a life-sized clown doll in your car?” I spit.

She laughed like it was funny.

“I put him in there,” she said, “Someone gave him to me, and I had no where else to put him until I get home.”

“Did that someone hate you,” I asked, “You’re actually taking it home?”

“Well yeah,” she said, “he was given to me, what else can I do with him?”

“Open the car door on the interstate,” I shouted, “That thing will kill you in the middle of the night.”

“No, he won’t,” she told me, brushing it off, “He’s cute, he won’t do anything.”

First of all, you need your vision checked. Second, Madam, you’re crazy. The last thing I need is some clown doll roaming around this town killing people off. But that is exactly what you’ve brought upon us.

​When it begins, you’ll be the first to go.

​I was in my early teens when I went to my first haunted house. Now, mind you, this wasn’t one of those corn field things where people chase you with sharp objects. It was actually in a mall; the upstairs part had been turned into the giant haunted house walk through. It started with clocking in like you would clock in for work, proceeded with a walk through, and ended with a bridge. Now, I realize that some of you are scoffing at this. ‘That’s not even a real haunted house,’ you may say. But to devout cowards and extreme introverts like myself, it will do.

I don’t like being scared, I don’t like things chasing me, screaming at me, touching me, this list goes on. I also see no point in walking into a dark room, filled with things you don’t recognize, knowing full well, something is in ‘said room’ that wants to cause your heart to hurt; or even stop. No thank you.

This faithful day, I accompanied my cousin and her mom through this dark maze of hysteria and bewilderment. Keep in mind, I was young and dumb; with a positive outlook that I’d survive it. I’m not that gullible anymore. As we walked up the stairs to the second floor, the thought crossed my mind, ‘What am I doing?’ Before I knew it, we were standing in line to ‘clock in’. It was just the three of us. The group before us had already gone in, above the loud sounds of compressed air, fans, and scary music; I could already hear their screams. Great. Great.

There were two guys that worked there, standing by the clock. One rested his hand on the clock, while the other watched on. My cousin’s mom clocked in first, followed by my cousin, and then myself. The clock itself made me think of a coo—coo clock. You took the time card the guy gave you and inserted it in the top of the clock, it punched your card, shot it back out, and made a little dinging noise. Of course, the first two got through it just fine but when I reached up and inserted my card to clock in, a hand burst through the front of the clock and grabbed my wrist. I screamed, releasing my time card, leaving it inside the clock. I tried to jerk my hand away but couldn’t because the grip was so firm. The hand held me there for a few seconds before releasing me, retreating back inside the clock.

It was then I realized that hand belonged to the guy leaning against the clock. Everyone laughed, me not so much.

“Oh, we got a screamer,” he announced.

His words made me think he had a precognition. And he did.  

I don’t know you, Sir, but I don’t care for you right now.

When we entered the house, the first thing I noticed was the fog that assaulted me in the face. It was dark inside of course, with the occasional strobe light, but the fog was everywhere; and it was thick. It was also humid in there, which was something I didn’t expect. My cousin pushed her mom in front, then wrapped her arms around her waist from behind. I then did the same thing to my cousin. We were a tight chain of nerves as we ventured into the unknown.

The next thing I noticed was the black drapes everywhere. They hung from the ceiling, preventing us from seeing further into the maze. There were ear piercing noises happening beyond those drapes, I couldn’t figure out what they were. When we reached the first drape, my cousin’s mom reached up and pulled them apart, revealing more drapes further up. We slowly wobbled together through the drapes. When I passed through it, I realized the drapes were cut up, black, trash bags. They were everywhere, blocking the view from every directed.

For me, it was sensory overload. It was dark, with flashing lights and fog that strangled you while trash bags clung to you. But wait! There’s more--

When my cousin’s mom moved the second set of trash bag drapes, someone was there. I know this because, even though I didn’t see them, I heard them. I also heard and felt the other two’s reaction to seeing them. Whoever it was, was in costume and screamed like they were in the final try out for a roll in a horror movie. In return, we also screamed. It became a choir of screaming.

Everywhere we went, something or someone jumped out of somewhere. There were things coming out of the walls, the drapes, pretty sure the floor--

We white knuckled our way through this entire maze, jumping, screaming, and darting in different directions. At the last leg of this maze, there was a bridge. All we had to do was cross it and we were done. The other two went ahead of me. It was a metal bridge that ran through this spinning tunnel. The artwork on the tunnel was something I had never seen before. When I passed through it, I took in the odd ‘rings’ if you will, as I walked. I was halfway through the tunnel when I began to lean. I didn’t want to, but I did. I was leaning so much that I had to rest myself on the railing of the bridge. I remember grasping my ticket tightly because the guy at the front had made the comment, ‘Don’t lose your ticket. You’ll need it.’ What did that even mean? Would they not let me back out without it?

The other two stepped off the bridge and continued on while I struggled not to fall off. For the life of me, I could not understand what was happening to me. It felt like something was actually pulling me off the bridge. As I stared at the funky art on the spinning tunnel, my leaning became tipping. I was tipping over the railing of the bridge, dangerously close to falling over. In a panic, I dropped my ticket, which fell between the small gap of the bridge and tunnel. My first thought was, ‘Crap, I’ve lost my ticket.’ I think I actually yelled that, but no one heard. My second thought was, ‘I’m gonna die! If I fall off this bridge, I’ll be crushed where the bridge and tunnel meet.’

I was now halfway over the bridge, being pulled towards the tunnel art. No matter what I did, I could not pull myself upright. It was one of the scariest things I can remember from that time. Finally, I just closed my eyes. If I was going to die, I didn’t want to see it coming. And just like that, I popped straight up, as if that last 45 seconds never even happened. I stumbled off the bridge to the other side in bewilderment. What had just happened?

Later on, I learned that the tunnel is called a Vortex tunnel. Its main purpose is to create an experience of vertigo for the person walking through. It creates a loss of equilibrium as the brain receives conflicting signals from the body and its senses.

​There are some sick people in this world.