Look who has free reign of the blog, yes, indeed, it's Virginia Boecker, talking about creepy stories and summer and imagination. Enjoy! And thanks for taking the time to write the guest post, Virginia! We also have a giveaway for the #DarkSummerRead below!
When I think of childhood summers, I think of the month my brother,
cousins, and I spent together with our relatives, far from home. They lived in
a small town (the inaptly named Metropolis), on the edge of a lake at the end
of a long dirt road, surrounded by trees of all shapes and sizes filled with
creatures of all shapes and sizes. Both house and town were a bit of a place
time forgot: creaking doors, odd drafts, and strange nocturnal sounds in the
former; roadside food stands, barefoot children, gravel roads, and rust-fendered
trucks spewing exhaust in the latter.
The days were hot and sticky, the air full of humidity, the sound of
cicadas, and the briny scent of catfish and bluegill that stocked the
lake. The five of us spent hours on the
water: canoeing (read: tipping the canoe), sailing (read: idling; there was
never much of a breeze), fishing (read: watching the fish; none of us wanted to
hook a worm) swinging from the death-defying heights of the tree swing before returning
home to make homemade ice cream (always vanilla, always more melted than
frozen.)
Our afternoons were the things of stories. Our nights were too,
albeit stories of a different kind. We took advantage of being temporarily
parentless to indulge in the things “forbidden” to us at home (no, not that): hair-raising
books and movies of the R-rated variety.
Stephen King’s Christine,
Friday the 13th, Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None were a few of our favorites: they were what
frightened us and got our imaginations running. We took the stories and made
them our own, twisting them in an ever-escalating effort to raise the hair on
one another’s neck.
Maybe those ancient trucks we saw rattling around Metropolis during
the day were waiting somewhere at night, maybe in a garage like Darnell’s,
their fenders popping out dents by themselves, their ripped vinyl seats
stitching themselves back together, the long broken radio tuning itself to a
long-defunct am station to play 50s hits from Buddy Holly, The Coasters, Dale
Hawkins, before turning out, driverless, to cruise the streets.
Maybe the lake wasn’t just a place for fishing and fun. Maybe a boy
drowned here once too, the body never recovered. Maybe he’s come back for
revenge, living in a shack in the woods, sharpening his machete by day and
stalking the woods by night, looking for children alone, away from their
parents, to flay with his machete… (now I’m freaking myself out.)
Or maybe, just maybe, my loving aunt and uncle weren’t so loving at
all. Maybe they brought us here to atone for our “crimes” (being tardy to
class, passing notes during class, doing poorly in class: this was all high
treason for thirteen year old). There would be no escape from this house, from
this town, until justice was served. We could choke, we could drown, we could
be stung by wasps or have an “accident” with a kitchen knife or simply, one by
one, the five of us would begin to disappear.
Since then, time has caught up: the home of our summers has been
remodeled: no more cold drafts from nowhere or things that go bump in the
night. As for Metropolis itself, riverside casinos have swept into town,
bringing with them paved roads, heeled feet, and restaurants. My cousins and I
have moved on, too. But any time we get together we still love to dig into the
archives, pull out a VHS or a paperback or two, and delve back into the dark
summers of our past.
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