a true halloween story by chip

October 27th 2008 at 7pm, I had just finished up working with a client in Forks, WA and started on my way down to Ocean Shores for the night. It was obviously dark out, and too many deer were crossing the roads. Being too tired to continue driving down to Ocean Shores, I decide to shack up at the Lake Quinault Lodge. I mean Teddy Roosevelt stayed there, so it’s kind of an honor thing that I stay there too. It’s a famous lodge that nobody really knows about... unless you are there.

I call my wife to let her know what’s going on and she says, “No way! It was on the news the other day that the Lake Quinault Lodge is haunted.” I laugh it off, because what is the likelihood that this would be the same hotel some TV network decided to shoot.

I arrive at approx 9pm. It’s dark, it’s cold, and a thick wet mist has soaked everything…. I walk in and see cob webs in every nook and cranny. The place smelled like the original rustic wood paneling. The silence from no civilization within 110 miles was deafening. I thought WOW they go all out for Halloween,… until I saw the spiders,… and they were real,… it all was real. And because I have about 2 hours of reports to complete, the receptionist put me in room #211. It is where the wifi is the strongest, as well as it is the very same room President Roosevelt stayed in! I’m no TR fanatic, but now the honor is all mine,… at no extra charge! $$

I get to my room and promptly start my reports. There is no TV, the wifi is spotty, and my phone has less than 1 bar. About every 30 minutes I hear someone working on the gutters outside for about 5 minutes. Didn’t think much of it, except that I thought it sucked for them to have to work outside at night. Some time around 11pm I start hearing my next door neighbors who are making short work of their bed. About every 20 minutes they would go at it, but it was peculiarly slow and semi inconsistent. (Sorry I stay in enough hotels these days that I tend to hear couples a lot.) For as thin as the walls were, there was no passion, and in fact they were the most silent people… they were bouncing the bed too slow and dangerously too hard, and they would do it for about 5 minutes at a time. This went on all night, every 20 minutes. Finally around 1am, some heavy breathing came on, but it was passionless. It was heavy, like a bad dream snore, and it sounded close enough for it to be coming from the wall in my room. I finally fell asleep around 2am.





4:00am I get woken up by some major bed spring popping from my neighbors, as they continue their weird escapades….. At this point I do not fall asleep again.





6:00am I am packed and ready to go, so I go get breakfast. Amazing blueberry pancakes! And at 7am I went to check out. The receptionist asks if I had an OK night. I say yeah, cuz I never make a big deal out of a bad night. Then I say, “These walls are pretty thin huh?”He says, “Not really, why do you ask?” I say, “Oh I could hear the neighbors all night long.” He looks at his computer and says “That’s strange, you were the only patron in the whole lodge last night.”





I stop in at the internet café out on Highway 101. I talk business with the owners for the next 20 minutes. They say yes, so as I’m filling out the paperwork, I ask them about the Lake Quinault Lodge.





They say, “Hey Ghost Hunters were just there last month.” I ask why. They give me the run down.





I ask, “Do you believe them?”





They look at one lady and point at her saying, “She worked there for 25 years.” So I ask her if she ever experienced anything weird.





She says, “In the 25 years that I was there, the staff had to leave the premises four times because things got a little too weird, like things were moving for no reason. One night I checked a guy in who came back downstairs in 5 minutes saying he couldn’t stay with us. When I asked him why not, he simply said there was a guy in his room standing inside the bed.”



I ask, “He said the guy was inside the bed?”



She said, “He said he couldn’t see the legs of the guy because he was standing in the middle of the bed as if his feet were touching the floor, but he apologized to the entity for the intrusion, but the entity never acknowledged him. The entity just kept staring motionless at the mirror across the room.”



She relayed a few more stories.



When I asked her where the disturbances were, she said they always came from one room, and one room only… room #211…

Thanks Mr. Receptionist for shacking me up in the one freakin room out of all the other vacant rooms. That mirror was my only friend that night… and I haven’t been back.


Happy Halloween,
Chip

the things you guys want to hear about

I am a very cooperative sort. When people ask me if I'm having a good day, I like to answer the question, and I do so as honestly as possible. Which can lead to a lengthy answer (I'm sorry if you've ever asked this question and I've proceeded to then TELL YOU exactly how I'm feeling about my day).

You guys have asked some stuff of me recently, and I'm taking this opportunity to offer my best answers.

Without further delay...
Here it is...
More than you ever wanted to know about the nuts and bolts of Whimsy's Life, Updated...

(Also: dude, I had plans for a really great true spooky story that happened to Chip but I don't have the energy to write it. You'll just have to wait until next year.)

Let's commence.



. . .There's Still a Sliver in My Hand

I haven't picked at it. And it's not infected. No redness except for that little bump and it hurts only if I press on it really hard. But I think my lack of action has caused serious concern on some of your parts. Before you guys show up at my doorstep and demand that I cut off my hand, I am promising right now that I'm going to dig around in there (EWWW!) today. I promise. Before the end of the day I will have a nice gaping open wound and I'll throw a whole mess of Hydrogen Peroxide on it. I do this for the love of my Minions. FOR MAH MINIONS, I tell you.


. . .We Had Our Cake and We Ate it Too

Cake was a hot topic yesterday, with you guys wanting to know what flavor I made for Chip's birthday. The winning combination was butter yellow cupcakes with vanilla custard filling and milk chocolate frosting. I tied them with brown ribbon and sprinkled white sugar crystals on top. They were yummy. But I hated the frosting tip I used to pipe the frosting and now I'm lusting after a better frosting tip. Like, if I stopped writing right now and just stared into space to daydream, my mind would wander wander wander only to worry helplessly over a Better Frosting Tip. Because I AM CRAZY PERSON.


. . .You Didn't Ask, But You Need to Know

Dudes. I wanted to DIE last night from all the crazy work I did putting Chip's birthday dinner together. The guy requested a TURKEY DINNER. Like, imagine Thanksgiving but on October 29 and with only four hours to do the whole thing including caring for a 19-month-old toddler. I ate exactly one piece of turkey and then I was DONE. A 2-inch piece. Because once you've spent that much time around the turkey, you just don't want to eat it. You're happy to have it OUT OF YOUR OVEN and filling other peoples' bellies. Which, don't get me wrong, Chip is totally worth Death-By-Turkey-Dinner, but I was still really tired.

I am still really tired, and it's several hours later.


. . .Because Yes, I Am Again Writing This Blog Entry the Night Before and Passing It Off As Something I Happened to Write at the Unearthly Hour of 5am.

That sort of said it all, right there.

this guy

It's his birthday today.

There are stories I could tell you about him. Stories about his kindness. Stories about his generosity. Stories about his sense of humor (strange... and AWESOME). Stories about his humanity. Stories about his strength. Stories about his sense of justice. Stories about his integrity. Stories about his smarts.

Lots and lots of stories.

But you'll have to forgive me, today I want to keep them all for myself. Because I'm so happy that he's mine, this wonderful, amazing guy.

And I'm so happy that he was born.

Happy birthday, love.

the beginnings of a creepy story

It started with mushrooms. Or, to be more accurate, a single mushroom. Amy had decided to enjoy the brief break in the rain to take a walk with her nearly-two-year-old daughter Brooke. Normally when they took their walks they followed a small circle through a nearby housing development. It was simple and safe and full of the noise of fellow suburbanites. This afternoon, however, with the chill of October setting into her bones, Amy decided to take a chance and turn down the small dark street before her usual route. Tree limbs stretched over the road until their branches met high above her head. Amy walked deeper into the gloomy shade, listening to the steady drip of leftover rain falling from huge leaves and onto the asphalt.

Amy stopped a minute to peer over the edge of Brooke's stroller. "We're taking a different walk today, Brooke. Isn't that exciting?"

Brooke didn't seem very excited about the detour. She mashed her lips together and pointed back to the entrance to the street, hopeful that Amy would turn back.

Instead, she kept going, pulled forward into the eerie quiet. She could hear the stroller wheels squeak and whine, mingling with the soft pat of her shoes on the mossy sidewalk. In the seconds that passed, as the street grew darker and darker, Amy began to think that Brooke had the right idea all along.

"Stupid adventuring! We should have gone our usual way, right honey?" she said, hoping the sound of her voice would help to cut through the creeping tingle. The houses on the street were very different than those in the surrounding neighborhoods. Wary. Apprehensive. Distinctly unfriendly. Moss grew on most of the rooftops, white siding dirty and muddy gray. No one in sight.

Amy quickened her pace, heading for the bend in the road, knowing it would lead her back to a busy intersection.

Squeak, squeak, squeak. The stroller wheels seemed awfully loud. As did her foot steps: thunk, thunk, thunk.

As Amy passed what seemed to be an open space between two of the shabby houses, a small bit of movement caught her eye, just in time for her foot to catch on a broken piece of the sidewalk and send her sprawling flat.

"Oh! That was... stupid." she grumbled, pushing herself onto her knees. She stood and rubbed her hands on her jeans, wiping off the bits of moldy leaves and dirt.

"Are you alright, my dear?" an ancient voice croaked. Amy looked up into the face of a very old woman. She wore deep black galoshes on her feet and held a pair of very sharp pruning sheers. When she smiled, she showed a mouthful of misshapen teeth, brown with decay.

"I'm fine, ma'am, thank you." Amy answered, stepping forward and stumbling again.

The woman placed a surprisingly firm hand on Amy's arm, "Looks like you're a little unsteady, young lady."

"Looks like it, doesn't it?" Amy laughed, trying to shake the woman's grip on her arm.

The woman held firm and said, "I have something for you." She dipped behind a spongy wooden fence and plucked something from a basket. "This is for your family. Take it home and eat it. It will give you good luck." She was holding a fat white mushroom the size her her hand.

"Oh thank you, but no. I couldn't take that from you..." Amy stammered. She certainly wasn't about to go taking mushrooms from strangers.

"But you can! I have plenty! I grow them in my garden, you see." smiled the woman, her brown teeth gaping. Amy peered around the fence. What she had thought was a break in between the houses was actually a small garden, surrounded by a mossy fence. The garden was a beautiful tangle of flowers and herbs. The sweet aroma of lavender mixed with a deeper, earthier smell.

"You have a beautiful garden, ma'am, but we really should be getting home." Amy smiled down at Brooke, who was patiently kicking her feet at the stroller footrest.

"Take this mushroom. It is delicious. You won't regret it, nor will your beautiful little daughter!" the woman pushed the mushroom into Amy's hand as she looked, nodding, at Brooke.

Amy found herself nodding back, and accepting the mushroom. Wondering what could possible possess her to take strange food from an even stranger woman. "Well thank you, ma'am. Very much."

"Of course! Of course! I'm sure I'll be seeing you and your little girl very soon. Enjoy the mushroom! Put it in a soup--- it will be delicious, I promise." She waved a bony finger at Amy as she pushed past.

And Amy was gone. Walking quickly down the rest of the street, holding a strange mushroom and promising herself that she would throw the nasty thing away at her earliest opportunity. But when she got home, she found herself still holding the mushroom. As Brooke played with a stack of bowls in the kitchen, Amy quickly put herself to work making a soup.

"It's not like I'm going to use the mushroom. Soup just sounds good." she reasoned with herself, knowing that her husband would be home from his business trip soon. She decided that treating him to a bowl of homemade soup would be just the thing.

She threw in several ingredients, each one sounding more delicious than the last--- the smell of the soup starting to rise from the pot. But something was missing... Amy looked in the refrigerator, hoping to find the right ingredient, but walked back to the soup pot empty handed.

Or not. Quite suddenly Amy had the mushroom in her hand, and saw herself washing it and cutting the firm white flesh into thick slices. It seemed to look okay. Like one of the mushrooms she'd normally buy at the grocery store, except bigger. And better. It seemed better. The best mushroom she'd ever seen, in fact.

And the smell! When she added the slices to the pot of soup an aroma seemed to erupt from the pot: every good autumn memory and childhood and being wrapped in the warmest quilt while eating the most wholesome and buttery soup she'd ever eaten - all from the smell. Maybe it wouldn't hurt anything. No, it wouldn't hurt anything, reasoned Amy.

And it didn't hurt anything. It was, in fact, the best soup she'd ever eaten in her life when she took a small spoonful to test it several minutes later. So good that she realized her "small spoonfuls" had become "entire cupfuls" as she took bite after bite of the soup. So good that she ate the entire pot of soup herself. Before her husband had even come home!

They ordered pizza and Amy didn't mention the soup. Or the mushroom.

The next day, she found herself making excuses to go on a walk with Brooke, even though the rain was coming down in drenching sheets. She dressed Brooke in her lavender raincoat and placed her in the stroller. "We'll just be gone a few minutes, baby. I promise!"

Amy approached the darkened street with a quick pace, her heart thumping in her chest. "I'll just ask for another mushroom. Just one. She seemed so excited yesterday, I'm sure she'd give us another mushroom!" The street was even darker than the previous day, the rain tumbling down from the overhanging trees and pulling Amy's hair into her eyes.

When she came upon the old lady's garden, the gate was closed. Amy pushed at the gate, watching it swing inward with a loud CREAK. She had a hard time pushing Brooke's stroller over the brambled pathway, roots and twigs sticking in the wheels. As she approached the dirty porch, the old woman came out of the front door, pulling a ratty shawl around her bony shoulders. "I didn't expect you back quite so soon, young lady." the old woman laughed.

"Well.... I just have to have another one of those mushrooms! It was delicious! Please let me have another one!" Amy gasped. She suddenly felt immensely desperate, almost thirsty for the taste of the delicious mushroom.

"I'll give you another. But if you come back for a third you must know there will be a price. My mushrooms are very precious to me and I don't give them away for nothing." The woman's gaunt face was pulled long by her bleak expression. She stared intently at Brooke's sneakers peeking out from the stroller.

Amy stuttered but held out her hand, "Oh - yes! No problem! Just one more, I'm sure. I'm sure it will be enough."

She took the mushroom and rushed home, pulled the gate quickly closed behind her.

But despite her best efforts to let the soup keep in the refrigerator, to have it last for a few days at least, she gobbled up the entire pot that afternoon.

As full darkness fell that evening, Amy went back for another mushroom.





.... to be continued! By someone else!

If you want to continue this story, post a comment and please include your email address so that I can contact you. I'll pick someone by 2pm PST today - so it's a quick turn around. The winner should first post a link back here for the beginning of the story, and then continue it (on Thursday)--- also ending their story with a cliffhanger and following a similar set-up (commenters, picking someone to finish the story on Friday, etc.). I'll also be linking to parts 2 and 3 here on Thursday and Friday so everyone can follow along.

If this thing is an utter and total bomb then we just won't talk about it tomorrow. AT ALL.

the beginnings of a scary story

It started when we came home from our trip to Eastern Washington last month. While I was unpacking things in the kitchen, Chip was making the rounds outside of the house to check the garbage can and barbeque grill and other manly outdoorsy duties. After some time, he walked into the kitchen and sighed, "There are mushrooms in the backyard."

"A lot of mushrooms?" I asked.

He nodded, "Yes. A lot of mushrooms. And I don't know what we're going to do about them."

I suggested that we just pick them, one by one. Which is exactly what we did. They seemed to disintigrate as I pulled them from the lawn: clammy white things with dark brown tops, bits of them sticking to my fingers and the backs of my hands. One mushroom, two mushrooms, three mushrooms, four, five, counting higher and higher as I tried to rid the yard. After a long session of mushroom irradication I went inside, happy to know the job was done.

But just a few weeks later, they were back: bigger and more plentiful--- spreading in a wide arc through the backyard. Skinny white stalks with ragged tops in dark brownish black and bright orange tiny round buttons and mishapen tan nasty things the size of my fist. Again I bent low to the grass, pulling them into my hands and dropping them singly into the bucket I carried. I tried to grab each one low at the base, as close to the grass as I could reach--- hoping that I could avoid repeating the chore.

And that's when I came up with an idea.

Two ideas, actually.

Idea #1: Ask The Great and Powerful Facebook how one might go about ridding her lawn of Mushroom Infestation 2009. Results: not so great. My commenters were... less than helpful, though funny (I seriously did love the comments... I did). Ranging from suggestions of less rain (yeah, I'll try that) to DON'T EAT THEM - THEY ARE POISONOUS (which, yes, thank you). In the end, I checked the internet. Suggestions there were also a bit varied, but I'm going to try baking soda sprinkled on the areas and then soaked in with water (which the constant rain will certainly help).

which brings us to

Idea #2: (totally unrelated, and you'll see why) LET'S WRITE A HALLOWEEN STORY! I'm going to post the beginning of the story here tomorrow. It starts with (naturally) MUSHROOMS. But I'll not finish the whole story here. I'll leave it with a cliffhanger and then pick a random commenter to pick up the story on Thursday - who will also leave it with a cliffhanger and do the same thing: pick a random commenter to finish the story on Friday. Like when you used to sit around at a sleepover or around a campfire and you'd start a story, but then the person sitting next to you would pick it up after a few sentences and the story would continue around the circle until it ended. Fun, yes? (or no - but I'm not sure if I care that you don't think it will be fun... IT WILL BE FUN BECAUSE I SAY SO).

Now go pick those mushrooms. Or tell me how to get rid of mine.