I never want to be killed by a serial killer

I shouldn’t watch TV crime shows.

I use to have a husband that forbade me to watch horror shows or sad shows. Before you jump on him, he was doing it for my good. He knew my fears…my self provoked nightmares by choices I made. Now, I have to govern myself and I am not good at that. Sure I can tell myself to go to bed before midnight, but will I listen and do it? Yes, I am warned by TV ratings that cruelty and violence will be shown, but I am defiant.

I have a good imagination. I can dream up the smell of cigar smoke wafting through my house. I can feel the slight breeze across my face as if a silent someone is passing by. I can see a door handle turn when it isn’t. And I look up every time The China Cat looks up at the ceiling. (I think she does that for kicks.)

I often wonder why doors are open, when I thought I had closed them. Or how the milk container ends up in the pantry instead of back in the refrigerator- oh wait that’s me.

I rarely look in mirrors at night or in the blackened windows that look outside. The reflections might not be what I want to see, if you know what I mean. Na Na Na Na

The other night I was in one room, but thought I heard footsteps in another. You know… the creaking of floors, the popping of leg bones and a swish of I don’t know what.

I can’t depend on The China Cat for protection; she isn’t a good watch cat. In fact, she would try to love and make friends with an intruder or if they made noise like a stormy night- run and hide.

The other night, after I checked out the rooms in question and the door locks, I turned ever so slowly around feeling a bit frozen in place. I decided right then and there, I would not want to be killed by a serial killer.

Country girls growing up must have a good imagination, my Journaling Friends. They can spin yarns as good as anyone.