Whether or not scary things that happened to me along the way have influenced my writing, I’m not sure—but I have a hunch they may have.
Then I called my dad. Of course by the time he got dressed and came to the house, there was no one around. What the policeman said when he got home, I can’t remember. (This was long before 9-1-1.)
My folks were at the evening service at church and I got a ride home. I went into the house and straight to the bathroom. I left the door open and was looking in the mirror and saw someone run by. I followed, stomping my feet and yelling, “I’m coming after you.” My weapon this time, a hair brush. Whoever it was ran out the back door, the same way they got in. Now this is really dumb—I sat out on the front porch until my folks came home.
Once as a teen, I was riding on the street car and while looking out the window, saw a dead body on the sidewalk and someone hosing off the blood. What happened, I’ll never know.
One New Year’s Eve, when hubby was overseas, I had all the neighborhood kids over so their parents could go out. Since I had five of my own it was quite a group. Everyone was in the living room except my youngest who was in bed in my room with the sliding glass door. We were all playing a game, when my little boy came out and said, “There’s a man in my bedroom.”
I grabbed a baseball bat and started hollering, “I’m coming to get you!” I got there in time to see a leg exiting through the open door.
This one was only scary at first—then funny. I came home from a college class to find the three kids who were still at home huddled together in the living room. I asked what was wrong, the answer, “Someone is in your bedroom.” Sure enough when I tried the door it was locked. It had a drop down latch and the only way to lock or unlock it was from the inside of the room. I called the police. When the officer arrived, he tried the door, shouted, etc. Then said, all he could do was kick the door in. I knew hubby wouldn’t be pleased. Had an idea. Went outside and looked through a slim crack of the curtain. Oh, my, the answer was clear. There was the cat on the dresser, batting at the lock. I showed the officer. He said, “I better knock the door in anyway, how else will you get in?” I told him my husband would figure it out. And he did. He took the hinges off the door, the cat ran out, then he put the door back as it should be.
Because I’ve been around for a long time, there have been many such occasions. Now, if someone tried to get in probably neither hubby nor I would hear them. Fortunately, our grown son lives on the property—we’ll let him worry about intruders. Oh, and we do still have cats, but no door with drop-down latches.
© 2013 Marilyn Meredith
http://fictionforyou.com
http://marilynmeredith.blogspot.com/
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