It’s Friday the 13th.
“Hey,” said a clear male voice, obviously of college age, like me. “Who’s this?”
Are you ready to get scared?
“Mommy, how old are you?” “32.” “Oh. That’s a good age to die, I suppose.”
As someone who is trained in the sciences, I cannot prove that what happened to me was objectively real, but I can swear that what I experienced was genuine horror. A fear which in my life, I’m glad to say, has never been equalled.
I was sitting in my bed at 2:00 AM, morose and contemplating my station in life, when, big surprise, the shouting started.
My mother was raised on the Navajo reservation by her grandfather (a Navajo medicine man) and would always tell me stories about her childhood. However, most fascinating to me were her stories of skinwalkers, which she was always very hesitant to talk about — let alone write about.
Fear is a terribly fascinating thing.
“It felt like somebody pressed a button to switch me off.”
“My real mom and dad were killed when the bad men came.”