Thirty-six years ago today a shrunken, bloody-faced demon with slimy black hair nearly scared me into an early grave. I still carry the physical and emotional scars.
My worst nightmare began in the bone chilling night, a thousand miles from home in the backwoods of North Carolina. (Not Deliverance, but close.)
Something overpowered me in my sleep. I could barely walk and was incoherent by the time they wheeled me to a cold place with walls that moaned every 15 minutes.
The next morning, men in green with empty eye sockets probed my body until I was paralyzed from the waist down. There was a blinding white light. The end was near. Suddenly, like a scene out of a horror film, an ugly little gremlin plopped on my chest and let out a spine-tingling scream.
In shock and awe, I starred into an impish face only a mother could love.
A few hours later, my precious Gollum looked more like cute little Dobby. The gore and birthmarks on each cheek of his elongated head had disappeared. He cleaned up real nice for his hospital photo.
Such an unnerving chapter in my life story. I was young and naive and didn’t take birthing classes. I felt so quilty for letting someone nearly twist his head off with a pair of cold, surgical steel forceps. I was scarred for life, but he grew up with a healthy addiction for Halloween masquerades and a good thriller movie.
Every season my little hobgoblin decorates his house and yard like a Clark Griswold Christmas and wears the ugliest face he can find to scare unsuspecting souls into an early grave.