The Chicken-Heart Diaries

Maggie, here. Well, this is my first day to blog, and as promised (or threatened) I'm going to talk about my new life. I'm kind of in limbo right now. Separating from my husband, and in the process of buying a to-die-for new home. Limbo (or Pergatory as our resident nuns would probably call it) is a log cabin on my former property, just until the closing on the new house. The cabin sits in the middle of a Children of the Corn field, bordered by state forest. You know, like in every good horror novel. No turrets or gargoyles or rocky cliffs above a jagged shore and pounding surf, but aside from that, this spot could have been designed by Stephen King.

Now, I'm used to being alone. In my old life, I was usually alone all week. But something about being alone in a place I'm not used to is a little--um--different. And I've only been here a week. Okay, so confession time. I may write these dark, edgy, often scary, paranormal novels, but deep down, I am the biggest chicken you've ever seen. Sometimes, when I'm writing a really goosebumpy scene, someone will walk into my office or the phone will ring, and I'll jump out of my chair with a shriek fit for a Halloween sound effects CD.

I was fine for the first few nights here at the cabin, which is the place where my parents stayed until my mom died, right here in what is now my living room, in January. I wondered if it would bother me, being in that space, but instead of being weird, it seems to give me a warm sense of comfort. In fact, they day I moved in, I opened the door and said, "Hi, Mom. I'm home!" So anyway, I was fine the first few nights. But then, Sunday night, things got a little odd.

About midnight, my faithful companion, Wrinkles--the aging, nearly blind, mostly deaf English bulldog who might try to bite a burglar, but would probably miss--started staring at the front door and growling. She just sat there, by my bedside, staring toward the door and growling, way down deep. She's not a very vocal dog, and she often does this very thing to say, "give me a bit of that sandwich, and give it to me now!" but there was no sandwich at play here. Hmm.

I got up to investigate, like any gothic novel heroine about to get herself into Big Trouble. Unlike said heroines, however, I was not wearing a long white negligee and spike heels, and I did not go poking around in the dark. My first move was to flip on every light in the house, and my second was to grab my car keys and put something on my feet in case I had to run for it. Granted, big black furry gorilla slippers were probably not the most practical choice, but I was in a hurry and they had to be better than stilettos. Those gothic heroines are always running away and breaking a heel or an ankle, only to lie there helpless while the killer monster from hell descends.

::shiver::

I never worry about attacks by actual humans, you understand.

Anyway, I turned on the outside light, made sure the doors were locked, peeked out the windows, phone clutched in my hand (useless, because who do you call for non-human midnight creepers? Oh, yeah, I forgot. Ghostbusters. Anyone have the number?) I didn't see anything or hear anything, so I had a few cups of strong coffee to help me sleep, gave the dog a snack, and went back to bed. A half hour later, I hear her growling again. This time she's stitting beside my bed staring intently at the wall. The wall! There was nothing there by the wall. And yet she's sitting there growling at it.

Naturally, I realized, as any sane, logical person would, that whatever, apparently invisible entity had been lurking outside the front door, was now in my bedroom standing by the wall. Ooooookay. Either that, or Wrinkles was doing her usual impression of Mr. Magoo, and talking to what she thought was me, demanding another snack. Right now she's growling at the back door, but it's daylight as I compose this, so it's perfectly okay. Everyone knows spooks only come out at night.

At any rate, I got up, muttered a few incantations, drank more coffee, and spent the rest of the dark hours puttering around on line and listening to Stevie Nicks, signing at the top of my lungs (a surefire method to scare away ANY predator, human or otherwise) while trying to get the hairs on the back of my neck to lie back down. When the sun rose, I collapsed in bed and slept for a couple of hours.

Why is it I can spend night after night alone in a familiar place without a light on in the entire place, forgetting to lock the doors half the time, but one little thing in a strange place gets my liver quivering? Who knows? I personally blame the dog. Wrinkles is a great pal, but not much of a protector. And if you're not going to EAT the beastie, don't bother letting me know it's there, okay?

That was the only scary night so far. The others have returned to peaceful and serene, thank goodness. Let's hope they stay that way. Meanwhile, I think I'm going to unpack my Katana sword (from the Highlander collection, no less) and sleep with it beside my bed. You know, just in cast. In this cabin, folks, there can be only one. Well, two if you count Wrinkles.

The photo up top is of my aforementioned sidekick, by the way, in her former favorite spot in front of the fireplace, scratching her back. Looks menacing, doesn't she?

Hugs,
Mags