I’m a big fan of paranormal shows. We recently got one of the Winegard satellite systems for the truck, so George can watch football games and such, but mostly so I don’t miss NCIS (I ♥ Jethro) and every single ghost show that comes on SyFy channel. Apparently there is no end to the number of people who have had the beejeejees scared out of them by a boogin, and they’re all willing to talk about it on camera. Unfortunately, the fiends and ghosts never seem to be on board with the shooting schedule, so I’ve yet to actually see an apparition.
I can relate to the innate fear these people have of the unknown. We’ve spent many nights in places I’m certain evil lurked around every corner. We were out in BFE, North Carolina, near the Cape Fear Basin, and had to spend the night in an abandoned gas station.
I think maybe being in the close vicinity of Cape Fear might have triggered my “fight or flight” instincts, as I was certain at any minute the ghost of Robert Mitchum would step out of the shadows and lick the side of my face in a lewd and lascivious manner. I spent the night on high alert, it would have taken Jesus Christ himself appearing in the cab of the truck and telling me to get out before you could have pried me out of it. Thankfully, we also hadn’t eaten much that day, so my bathroom habits complied and I had no need to leave the safe haven of our truck.
And there’s the time we were riding along in Arizona desert in the dark one night — I was already nervous about being abducted by aliens. We were way far out, even the XM Radio signal was spotty. George turned it off, and we rode along in silence. I started hearing this weird, low moan from the bunk. I ignored it for a minute, because George tends to get upset when I scream, “OH MY FREAKING LORD, DID YOU HEAR THAT?!” I kept listening, and I heard it again.
“Babe, do you hear that?”
“What is it? The truck making a noise?”
“No. There’s something in the bunk.”
A low moan emanated from the bunk. This time, he heard it.
“What the hell is that?”
“Oh my Lord, pull over. Call a priest. I’m getting out. PULL OVER!”
During the four minutes it took him to find a place to pull to the side, I burned sage and sprinkled holy water all over the cab. In my mind. When we finally got stopped, I was frozen between which fear was the worst; facing a moaning ghost in the bunk or being sucked up by an alien spaceship if I left the sanctity of the cab. By the time I had decided being sucked up by an alien was probably less likely, and facing a ghost was certain, I opened the door to jump out.
“Get back in here! I found it. It’s your phone.”
“My phone has a ghost in it? I’m calling Verizon and lodging a complaint.”
“No, dummy. Your sleep app was on.”
“I have a moaning ghost sleep app?”
“No. You have a Tibetan Monk sleep app. It’s a prayer chant.”
“That’s the scariest thing I ever heard. Who uses a moaning Tibetan Monk sleep app? Satan? What, do you play it for your worst enemy at night, so they have frightful nightmares?”
“Just turn it off.”
“I don’t want to touch it. I’m skeered of it. We need to stop at a Verizon store so I can trade it in for a non-ghost-infested phone.”