A Cherub, Queen, Regrets, and My Obsession with Good Omens

good omens tadfield advertiser

Where do I start?

I suppose with the cherub(s). The plural will explain itself later.

Unfortunately, because of Hurricane Katrina, I only have a few pictures left of Jennifer Elaine. No photos left  from our childhood, when she truly resembled a creation of Raphael himself. The artist that is, not the archangel.

Cherub
Cherub (detail from Sistine Madonna), Raffaello Sanzio Raphael 1512

Three of us made up “the girls” of our block. We were the only kids who lived on the block the longest. There were others who came briefly and went. Some of whom I am still friends with in adulthood. But the three of us were “the girls.” Sort of like a more homogenous and smaller version of “the them.”

Donnell (myself), Jenny and Amanda. They are twins, fraternal but still very much identical to the human eye. We were the scourge of the 500 block of Community St. in Old Arabi – just blocks away from New Orleans’s Lower 9th Ward neighborhood and minutes away from the French Quarter (where much of our teen years were spent). For all intents and purposes, that was our neighborhood. We decided who joined our band of merry miscreants and who didn’t. There were kids from other blocks who later became part of our friend group as teens, but as kids it was just us.  We frequently had trouble with a group of boys from the next street over, and I will confidently say we always defended our territory with little effort.

The area from Community Park to the Lebeau Mansion (no longer standing) was ours. We owned it proudly. We rode our bikes to the Mississippi River levee and gazed upon our land. Even if there were other groups of kids who did the same, to us the dominion was ours.

In the early 1990s, we watched filming of Anne Rice’s Interview with a Vampire* from that same levee. Our levee.

(*Sidenote: Anne Rice’s The Vampire Chronicles are my longest running literary obsession. Those novels and The Phantom of the Opera.)

lebeau mansion
The Lebeau Mansion as it was when we were kids. It had a long history, but was sadly burned down in 2014 by amateur ghost hunters. (Source:https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LeBeau_Plantation)

All things pass with time, which I imagine is the natural order of things – if there were a natural order. As we became teenagers, our paths became a great deal disjointed. But we lived across the street from each other. Right across the street. We were still the girls, even if we weren’t always together causing mischief and causing Mr. Otis, the old man who walked his cat on a leash, bouts of agita. 

Jenny & Donnell at Burmasters
Many eons ago, Jenny and I in our regular local watering-hole, where things just seemed right. Long before smart phones and instant pictures, hence the quality of this photo. I’m the one in glasses.

By now you’re wondering where this rambling stream of consciousness goes next. Now I will address the next topic and major intermixture that will help make sense of the finale -my current Good Omens obsession. A novel that somehow I hadn’t discovered until 2019 when it was released as a Prime original series. And which since discovering have fangirled the hardest over in several years.

Queen

The three of us, the girls – myself, Jenny and Amanda – discovered Queen at quite a young age. Part of that was probably because of my parents’ vinyl collection from which I acquired several albums. One of them being the original Jazz album with the iconic Bicycle Race photo on the inner part of the sleeve, sadly yet another victim of Hurricane Katrina.

Did every cassette we had turn into Queen’s Greatest Hits? Well, there wasn’t a car to be had as we were children, but my bedroom oddly seemed to work the same magic. There were albums to be listened to and cassettes to be played and CDs didn’t exist yet. This was the Before Times, people. The 1980s.

We even had a mascot, Freddie Flamingo, which was a plush flamingo I’d caught at a Mardi Gras parade and was rather good at singing Don’t Stop Me Now.

jennyandamanda
“The Girls” as they were known around the neighborhood. Or sometimes “The Twins” aka Jenny and Amanda. Also known as my non-biological sisters.

Queen was a big part of our lives then, and still. Mine and Amanda’s anyway. . .

On November 18, 2003 my cherub, Jennifer Elaine, went to sleep for the last time. She and her twin both suffered epilepsy. She had a seizure in her sleep and it was her final seizure. Death does come like a thief in the night.

Jenny Obit
Screenshot from http://files.usgwarchives.net/la/orleans/obits/1/l-05.txt

Our Song

As kids we were all three inseparable, but I would be lying to say I hadn’t shared something with Jenny that was different than what I shared with Amanda. Neither of those being the lesser or greater. Just different. Love for them both, and I wish I could say unconditional because this is where the regret part begins.

But first, I will get to our song. It will clear up a lot to anyone familiar with the Good Omens Prime series, which is very close to the book but has new elements that I connected with on levels much differently.

One of my fondest memories from our childhood was of myself and Jenny, playing without Amanda this day for some reason. She would get mad at us because we tended to gang up on her unnecessarily sometimes. (Sorry, Amanda!) Probably she had had enough of our shit and went home to play Nintendo.

Jenny and I were running around like the little 10 year old maniacs we were in my backyard, around a table my grandparents had under a patio, listening to what I imagine would be considered an “antique” cassette player. I lived in a double. New Orleans people are familiar with the term if others might not be. My parents and I lived in one side, and my grandparents lived in the other side. Basically a duplex, but in New Orleans everything is different than the rest of America. And our housing conforms to our way of life.  

We were listening to my Queen’s Greatest Hits cassette, if you can even imagine it, and the song You’re My Best Friend was playing. (This was the Greatest Hits with the purple [or red?] cover that came before the Greatest Hits II with the dark navy cover that included more songs from Queen’s later albums.)

RedGreatestHitsQuennalbumcover

Jenny stopped running, looked straight at me with all the sincerity a person could have, and said to me “Donnell, you’re my best friend.” I don’t recall my response verbatim, but I imagine I said to her that she was my best friend, too. 

I only started being able to listen to that song again in the last five or so years. Since Jenny’s passing in 2003, I had skipped over it whenever it came up on my playlist because I couldn’t bear to hear it. That was our song.

Regrets

As I stated earlier in this piece, once we reached our teens, we grew apart a bit. Boys that weren’t worth it got in the way and stuff got really complicated. My two best friends had always gone to a different school than me, so we obviously had friends from school that were not part of our Community St. gang.

Jennifer was always such a fan of mine. Jenny and Amanda both always had the utmost confidence in me, and Amanda still does. I don’t know why. But before I started writing this, I prayed to Jennifer and asked her for some of that confidence now. This is the hard part. A lot of things happened, memories that I will keep in the sacred tabernacle of my mind. My cherub was tempted down a terrible path. And not by me.

Everyone pretty much accepted I was the evil one. It was known. Jenny was influenced easily, and I was normally the one who did the influencing. But at a point, I distanced myself and someone else came and took my place. Someone truly wicked, not just slightly evil in a cheeky, devilish way. Not someone who’d just sauntered vaguely downward. In our youth, I might have taken advantage of the fact that I could get Jenny to do certain naughty things. If I dared her to do a thing, she did it. She trusted me.

I failed her.

Bad.

Soon things were cascading out of control, and I didn’t know what to do. None of us really did. But by God, I should have done more. I do hold myself accountable in so many ways. We weren’t angels in our late teens/early-20s. I was a fool. I should have been more assertive with her. Aggressive even. But I felt betrayed for reasons, and we parted ways for a while.

Just days before she passed, I saw her and talked to her for the first time in a long time. I asked her to come over – from my front porch. Her grandmother was ill, and she said she couldn’t at the time but maybe soon. I said OK and went on with life. All I had to do was walk across the street. I could have easily gone over to her house, if she’d have let me. I was foolish and stupid.
That same week she died.

jennyandholly
Jennifer with her niece Holly, who is now an adult woman living her own life.

“Love of my life, don’t leave me…”

My Obsession with Good Omens

Let me first start with explaining that I am very prone to fangirling. Already mentioned: The Vampire Chronicles (When we first saw Interview With a Vampire as young teens, we decided I was Lestat and Jenny was Louis, because as I’ve stated, everyone knew I was the more tarnished one.) and The Phantom of the Opera.

Not yet mentioned, Supernatural.

Most recently, obviously, Good Omens.  It doesn’t take much of a stretch to imagine that when I saw this trailer I was instantly interested (also a friend of mine who knows I love Queen brought it to my attention):

Did I read the novel twice in the last month? Yeah. I did.

Have I watched the series thrice in the last two months? Yep.

You know what an almost forty year old woman who still fangirls over things like a teenager discovered? Good Omens animatics on YouTube. I didn’t even know that was a thing. It is. I’ve watched many of them.

I know if she was still here, we’d be all over this. Even as adults. And every time I watch a scene with Crowley and Aziraphale, I think of her.

I think of how we’d both read the novel together, and maybe watch the series together. Although at this point in life, we would both be grown with our own families. I can romanticize my imaginary scenarios. They are only imaginary after all.

Because in the series, Crowley tells disincorporated Aziraphale that he lost his best friend, but **SPOILER ALERT** his best friend returns.

Image result for good omens i lost my best friend
Mine won’t.

There is no magical happy ending in real life. Real life is raw and uncut. There are no edits. Things we lose are gone. Only to live on in our hearts and memories.

So make it count.

(This blog entry is dedicated to Jennifer Elaine Lapara April 2,1979  –  November 18, 2003)

 

Advertisements

Hypnos: Epilogue

Hypnos - In Greek Mythology, the personification of sleep (By user:shakko (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons)
Hypnos – In Greek Mythology, the personification of sleep
(By user:shakko (Own work) [CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons)

Last night was sleep study number two. If you’re just tuning in, you can read about night one and the morning after here and here, respectively. The point of last night’s study was to test my breathing on the CPAP machine. For you laymen out there, CPAP stands for Continuous Positive Airway Pressure. Essentially, when the wearer inhales, the CPAP machine assists by forcing an amount of pressure and air into the airway, thereby preventing apnea-or more specifically in my case Obstructive Sleep Apnea. When a patient experiences OSA, his/her airway collapses, preventing oxygen from traveling to its natural habitat inside the human body, the lungs-and ultimately the blood and other organs. Hypoxemia (lack of oxygen) can effect the human body in numerous ways, including but not limited to sleep deprivation, fatigue, weight gain, seizures, heart disease, organ failure, and death. To name a few.

I went to the hospital last night expecting the same as before, electrodes and wires and sticky things stuck all over and around my body. I was fitted with these contrivances by an all too giddy therapist, taking a shot in the dark here by assuming she’s with respiratory. While attaching all these wires and whatnot, she explained the benefits and importance of using a CPAP machine when one has OSA. She described the mask to me, how it works (of this I was already vaguely familiar as my son Robot Boy is ventilator dependent). The CPAP machine I’ll use is much smaller and less complex than his vent, and I will only require it during sleep. RB is on CPAP mode during the day, but he is on the rate at night, meaning the ventilator is giving him breaths instead of simply giving him a small amount of pressure support.

After being fitted with all these niceties (used with extreme sarcasm) and taking my sleepy time medicine, I lay on my back -per the instructions of the overly giddy Paula Dean-esque therapist. It wasn’t long before I fell asleep. First there were some exercises to perform. “Turn your eyes to the left and the right,” Paula Dean said over a monitor. “Leave your eyes open for thirty seconds.” This is more difficult than it seems. “Open your mouth for ten seconds.” Breathing (and talking) while wearing the CPAP mask with the machine on is quite strenuous. Imagine having extra air pushed into your lungs while you inhale to say, ” Yes”, “That’s comfortable enough”, and “I have to go to the bathroom.” That is what’s happening.

I know I was in REM sleep for a while before I started to drown. I was underwater, a whale-shark with its gaping maw inhaling seawater instead of oxygen. My mouth was open, and I was gasping for air, but with the CPAP machine administering positive pressure, breathing through my mouth became arduous. I was suffocating. My brain told me to remove the pulse/ox on my finger to call the therapist. I did, or rather dreamed I did. Twice. Before finally waking up, chugging air down my partially collapsed airway against the positive pressure that was, at the time, less of a help and more of a hindrance.

I tore the pulse/ox from my left index finger as the therapist was coming in the door. She explained she should increase the pressure. I agreed. The thought of having more air in my lungs was splendid. Paula Dean adjusted the machine, and I lay back down, trying to recover and relax. As a lifelong insomniac, it’s not a simple task for me to wake and fall back to sleep on a dime. So for about an hour I lay there with my eyes closed trying to sleep and trying not to concentrate on the air being forced up my nose.

My back was hurting. I turned my legs to the left with my torso straight. Paula Dean came back in. “What’s the matter, darling? You’ve been awake a while.” “My back hurts.” “I thought it was your back. Do you want to lay on your side?” I said yes, and turned onto my left side with my legs pulled up. I had to pee, but I didn’t want to with all those attachments. Hoping I could ignore the need, and everything else involved, I closed my eyes hoping for more sleep.

The new position meant the mask shifted, and I had a strange farting noise resonating off my cheek and into my right ear. I adjusted my face, and the farting stopped, but it was followed by a leak of cold air that, when blowing across my face, aggravated an old cheek bone injury I’d incurred several years ago when I fell flat on my face, knocking myself unconscious. This went on for another length of time before I decided to try to adjust the mask. I did finally and closed my eyes trying to sleep again.

The sound of the machine, with its pressure forcing air into the mask, sounded like ambient ocean background noise. I imagined waves coming onto the beach and sweeping back out again. I imagined torrents crashing into high rock walls. Nothing made a difference. After however long, Paula Dean came back into the room and asked what was going on again. I admitted I had to pee. She obliged, but all the wires had to come with. After taking one of the most careful pees of my life, I returned to bed. I decided to lie on my back, assuming the corpse pose.

Corpse Pose via Yoga Journal (http://www.yogajournal.com/poses/482)
Corpse Pose via Yoga Journal (http://www.yogajournal.com/poses/482)

It worked. After just a few minutes, I fell back to sleep. I dreamed odd and vibrant dreams for about three hours before Paula Dean came in to wake me. “I let you sleep an hour later than usual since you were finally sleeping so good.” I stayed in a deep REM (rapid eye movement) sleep for over an hour. “That’s a really long time!” exclaimed Paula Dean.

After brushing my teeth, using the bathroom yet again, and  filling out some paperwork, I was escorted outside to the parking lot. I said goodbye to Paula Dean and went to my car. I rolled down the windows and turned on the windshield wipers to remove the overnight condensation. I plugged my cell phone into the charger and checked Facebook (priorities!), and then I turned on the radio. Low Rider was playing. I raised the volume to an unacceptable decibal level, put on my eye patch, and drove home.

Low Rider written by Charles Miller and the band War and appearing on their 1975 album Why Can’t We Be Friends? (Wikipedia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Low_Rider)

 

The Kindness of Strangers

“I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.” 
 Tennessee Williams, A Streetcar Named Desire

Not always. But most certainly in the last ten months, and sometimes from the most unexpected of people.

Tonight my husband and I had our night out, when my mom stays at the hospital and we go out for a meal together. For Christmas, most of our family and friends gifted us with restaurant gift cards. Probably assuming we needed a break from hospital food, and boy are they correct. For tonight’s date, we chose from one of the restaurants near home. A newish establishment, to us anyway, having been away for nearly the last year. I would like to paraphrase our initial conversation with our waitress:

Waitress: “Is this your first time here?”

My husband and I, in unison: “At this location.”

Waitress: “Do you live around here?”

Us: “Yes.”

Waitress, in a teasing tone: “We’ve been here for a year now, why are you just coming to see us now?”

Me: “We spend a lot of time in New Orleans.”

Waitress: “Do you work in the city?”

My husband: “In St. Bernard.”

Me: “Also our son’s been in Children’s for a while.”

Waitress: “Oh, my daughter was in Children’s last March. How long has he been there?”

Us, again in unison: “Since last March.”

Of course, like most people who don’t know, she was surprised to learn we’ve been living at Children’s for the last ten months. She commented that her daughter was in the hospital for a week and how it was a terrible experience just seeing her baby suffer and being away from home. She empathized with us and said she didn’t know how we’ve been surviving for almost a year.

We talked for several minutes, mostly she and I. I’ve discovered as I get older, I not only am becoming my mother in appearance, but I have adopted her ease in engaging in conversation with complete strangers. The waitress and I discovered we’d both had bad experiences at a local hospital through which our pediatricians work, and we both decided Children’s Hospital was the better choice when our children had to revisit the emergency room. Coincidentally, our kids are the same age. After our conversation, she took our order and left the table.

Our appetizer came, and then our meals. The waitress refilled our drinks and asked if everything was satisfactory. I noticed her friendliness with the table beside ours, and I smiled. I’ve worked in food service. I’ve waited tables. It’s not glamorous, it certainly won’t make you rich, and many customers are, quite frankly, assholes.

Later as we were finishing our meal, the waitress returned and asked again how things were going. We talked a little more about our kids’ health conditions, and she revealed her daughter has had several surgeries since she was just one year old. The waitress said something then to which I completely relate. She said she asks herself why is her child sick when so many others are healthy. She said she blames herself, that she feels like she’s done something wrong. I agreed with her that I felt the same way. I explained to her that I’d just been telling my husband two days ago how I felt, and that I felt responsible for RB’s illness. Tonight he said the same thing to both of us that he said the other night to me, “Some things just happen. You can’t prevent things like that.”

He’s right, of course. But I felt emancipated in that moment. It was freeing to hear another woman, another mother, admit her feelings to me that way. That her feelings were the same as mine, without my having mentioned it first.

Not only was our waitress kind, friendly, and empathetic to our situation with RB, she must have talked to her manager about us, because our appetizer was comped by the restaurant. “Because we deserve a break,” the waitress said.

It was a touching and moving experience. But tonight has certainly not been the first time a stranger showed us kindness during these difficult times. Besides all the people mentioned in my previous post Just Another Year in Review, and those who helped us whom I haven’t mentioned because there were so many I would have to sit down and make a detailed list, there have been other incidents like tonight where a complete stranger has reached out to us.

About two weeks ago, I decided it was time for a haircut. I went to a local economy salon (and got a surprisingly great haircut, by the way!). I described to the stylist what I wanted, that I wanted it as short as possible where I could let the curls take over and still look decent when I didn’t have time to prime and prep myself. She suggested using a flat iron. I explained to her that I have one, and then I explained why I needed a  more feasible and convenient haircut. She asked a few questions about RB’s condition and his age. I answered her questions, and then she put down all of her tools and said a prayer aloud for God to bless RB and to heal him. Although I’m not overtly religious, I bowed my head out of respect for this stranger and her intention of doing something beneficial for my son and my family. It was moving. I believe in a higher power, and although I don’t follow my Catholic religion or rituals, I feel I am a spiritual person, and I respect anyone who believes in a God-or whatever word you’d like to insert here to describe Him, Her, It-that is supposed to promote peace and love and respect for our fellow humans. (Mind you, I don’t always have love and respect for my fellow humans, but I’m trying. I really am.)

Had she been Hindu or Buddhist or of any religion which teaches inner peace and love, I would have still bowed my head to her prayer. I don’t adhere to any one religion. I don’t believe it’s what God-insert your own name for your entity of choice here-would want. I don’t believe we are meant to fight each other over whose spiritual being is better.

“I watched the glee while your kings and queens fought for ten decades for the Gods they made.” Sympathy for the Devil, Rolling Stones, (Jagger, Richards)

If you know the song, you will get the reference. But I digress…

The point of the post is to commemorate these strangers who have added hope to our lives and have made this most difficult of situations just a little easier to endure. When we got home, there was this card waiting for us:

Image
A Thank You/Get Well card from the Radiation Oncology Team at Touro Hospital, personally signed by the doctors, nurses, and technicians.

Pressure

I get about one day a week off from my nearly 24/7 duties at Children’s Hospital. (If you’re just joining us, you can read about all that here.) This day is Friday, when my mom comes to stay with Robot Boy so I can go home, have a real dinner with my husband, decompress, and sleep. My mom works most Fridays, and she is wonderful enough to come after work and sleep at the hospital. Well, I shouldn’t really say “sleep at the hospital” because anyone whose ever been in a hospital or stayed with a loved one in a hospital knows you don’t sleep. Not more than an hour or so at a time, anyway.

It’s suffice to say these evenings I get away from the hospital are sacrosanct. I do my best to get home in enough time to go out to dinner with my husband and at least spend some time with him before he has to go to bed, as he works Saturdays usually. My home is approximately an hour and a half from the hospital, depending on traffic. The drive is hardly bothersome under normal conditions. For the last five years, I’ve had an hour commute to and from work-sometimes before and after working 12+ hours. I don’t mind driving, as long as the traffic is moving and there aren’t very many fucking assholes inconsiderate drivers on the road. I turn up the radio and exercise my vocal chords.

I sound nothing like Gonzo while singing this medley.

As I’ve said, under normal circumstances, I don’t mind the drive. However today, today my decisions led to me into very unusual driving conditions for my Friday night of freedom. My mom didn’t work this Friday, and she was at the hospital earlier than usual. Instead of leaving the hospital shortly after she arrived, I chose to stay and visit a while. I also have a terrible time tearing myself away from RB. Especially on nights like tonight, when he was watching me pack my bag, knowing that I was leaving. Not that he doesn’t love his grandma. He is very excited when she visits, but Mom is the safety net. Mom is there to make sure nothing goes awry. And also Mom knows-or thinks she knows-exactly what he wants most of the time.

I don’t regret my decision to stay, but I was less than pleased to be stuck in the horrendous traffic which accumulated at the precise moment I left the hospital’s parking lot. I made the unwise decision to leave at exactly 5p.m. on a Friday night. Oh and also on the night of a Hornets game. I sat on the same street for no less than 30 minutes. Someone in a black Yukon that’s license number I did not memorize for use in future voodoo ceremonies nearly caused an accident by purposely skirting around me while I was clearing changing lanes to avoid an 18-wheeler. I hardly berated the driver before he/she sped away.

Photo c/o Microsoft Office Free Clipart

I finally made it to the interstate, only to discover the traffic was almost as bad. With my bladder’s fluid gauge on full, I approached the High Rise, which any native knows is another traffic nightmare. At any rate, I finally got through the city and crossed Lake Pontchartrain en route to my home.

I exited as soon as possible and hit a gas station to fill up and utilize their surprisingly clean restrooms. I bought an enormous coffee (and a six-pack) and returned to the road. Instead of heading back to the interstate, I remained on the highway, which proved to be an unfortunate decision since everyone else in the state also decided to do the same thing on the same road. I was stuck in more traffic. But, with an empty bladder, a serious caffeine high, and good music, my two and a half hours in snarling traffic already seemed much less unpleasant, and at the exact moment I was contemplating driving through servitudes and on private property, the Muses graced me with a rather fitting song on the radio. . .

This song describes my entire life right now.”Pressure pushing down on me/Pressing down on you/No man asked for/Under pressure /That burns a building down/Splits a family in two/Puts people on streets.”

I, of course, recognized the fortuity. As I began to sing (both David Bowie and Freddie Mercury’s parts in perfect pitch, I might add), my foul mood was interrupted by tolerance and stoicism. What importance really, in the grande scheme of things (if there is one) holds traffic? I felt most uplifted: “Pray tomorrow gets me higher, high, high!”

Perhaps it was the music, or my utter madness, or the realization that there is no use being upset when you can grin and enjoy a major caffeine rush, or perhaps it was all these things, but I was wearing a smile and feeling so much better. “Cause love’s such an old-fashioned word/And love dares you to care for/The people on the edge of the Night/And love dares you to change our way of/Caring about ourselves.”

When the song ended, I felt like I needed a decent follow-up. You can’t just come down off a high like that. With my iPod on shuffle, I skipped the next two songs until I found a great song to accompany the first.

This is the cutest video ever.

“That time will come/One day you’ll see/When we can all be  friends.”

This interestingly unrelated piece of free clipart c/o none other than Microsoft Office

Under Pressure was written and performed by Queen & David Bowie and appeared on Queen’s 1982 album Hot Space.

The Miracle was written and performed by Queen and appeared on their 1989 album of the same name. The four boys from the video are Paul Howard as Brian May, James Currie as John Deacon, Adam Gladdish as Roger Taylor, and Ross McCall as Freddie Mercury.

Bohemian Rhapsody was written by Freddie Mercury and performed by Queen. It appeared on their 1975 album A Night at the Opera (titled after the Marx Brothers’ movie of the same name).

The Muppets were created by Jim Henson and currently belong to The Walt Disney Company.

Terror-ific Tales


Happy Halloween! The most wonderful day of the year. It’s almost sad the Halloween season has come to an end. (Well, it doesn’t really have to end, does it? Some of us prefer to be delightfully frightful all the time.)

Started the afternoon with the original shock rocker, the wonderfully horrifying and deliciously frightening Mr. Alice Cooper on the iPod. So glad he’s still touring because maybe one day I’ll get to see him live. I’m keeping the nightmare alive.

Unfortunately, we’re confined to the hospital room today, but we’re satisfying the spirits with some Tim Burton classics and enjoying the decorations.

I’m working on another scary story to share tonight. You can read more about it here. (P.S. The frightful fun isn’t going to end just because Halloween has passed. I’m going to continue to share my own and accept your stories. >;8} )

But aside from sharing my scary stories with everyone, I’d like to share some unnerving Halloween entertainment with you. Some of my favorite books and haunting tales.

1) Anything by Poe. Really. Just anything. But if you’d like something more specific, some of my favorites:

– Premature Burial. I had this story on tape (yes, tape), and hearing it read was way more terrifying than reading it. This story is scary stuff.

– Masque of the Red Death. “There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust.” Enough said.

-The Tell Tale Heart. In case you’re not familiar with this story, it involves murder, severe anxiety, and pulling up a few floor boards.

-The Black Cat. One of my favorites as a kid. I’ve always loved cats. Apparently, Poe’s characters didn’t, but they loved walling or holing people inside of things.

-The Pit and the Pendulum. What’s scarier than the Spanish Inquisition?

-The Raven. A classic. Needs no explanation.

2) Stephen King. Same as Poe. Just about anything the King of Horror has produced will induce fear. But again, I’ll share some of my favorites.

-Salem’s Lot. What? Vampires are really nightmarish creatures that want you to die in a horrible manner or else turn you into a demon-like monster like themselves? No sparkles here. Scary as hell.

-Pet Sematary. If Fluffy or Boo Boo kicks the bucket, just let them go. Seriously. You don’t want to know the alternative.

-Misery. Because being a writer isn’t terrifying enough.

-Gerald’s Game. A good example of why bondage is not a good idea in a secluded setting.

-Night Shift. Collection of short stories including The Lawnmower Man, Jerusalem’s Lot, Trucks, and Children of the Corn.

I could go on forever . . . Or at least for several hours or maybe a day.

3) Samuel Taylor Coleridge

-The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. If you think this tale is just a bunch of hooey you learned in 12th grade lit class, think again. This poem involves sailors lost at sea, death, a curse, a ghostly vessel manned by a nightmarish woman (“Life-in-Death, was she”) and Death, and living corpses.

“They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;
It had been strange, even in a dream,
To have seen those dead men rise.” – Samuel Taylor Coleridge The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

“The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;
Yet never a breeze up blew;
The mariners all ‘gan work the ropes,
Where they were wont to do;
They raised their limbs like lifeless tools –
We were a ghastly crew.” – Samuel Taylor Coleridge The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

4) Mary Shelley

-Frankenstein. I love this story. Forget everything you saw in a Universal Movie when you read it. It’s chilling, sinister, and moving.

There are so many more wonderfully chilling stories and novels available. This is a terribly short list. But it’s a start. Happy haunting boys and ghouls!