They’re Watching You

At the end of a workday, I feel like my mind is ready to leak out through my ears and puddle together onto the floor in front of me. I write and I write web content for hours and hours, do keyword research, and regular research on the various topics I have to write about, and various odd jobs and errands. All I really want to do when I get home is collapsed onto my bed, or living room couch if I can’t make it to the bedroom, and pass out. I realize I have to wake up at some point the next morning to go back to work, but I would prefer to remain unconscious for several days and stay undisturbed. But there’s always something else I have to do. I have to get my mail and pay my bills. I have to fix dinner. Some days, I go to the gym. Other days, my girlfriend bothers me and I have to go and spend time with her. I never get the twelve hours of sleep that I really need. I long for a two- hour workday. The next best thing is this book I read about a four-hour workweek. That would be the life.

While Tara and I were out walking the grounds of the Bed and Breakfast that first night we were sure we heard some screams. Or we thought we were sure. We were in town to see the Detroit Pistons play and were excited about that. We thought that maybe other people were too, so they were partying and screaming and wooping it up. We couldn’t have been more wrong. The night had turned foggy and we had gotten ourselves lost on the the 20 or so acres that the Bed and Breakfast sat on. It was no big deal, I thought. But in the back of my mind I was wondering about those screams. They didn’t sound like party screams. I also told myself that I was jumping to conclusions, and that my imagination was running away with me. Tara didn’t say much, and was very quiet as we walked one path and then another trying to find our way back to the old house. The house was build in the 1800’s, and was rumored to be haunted, but I never worried about ghosts – I worried about the live ones. Still, we were in a remote setting outside of Ann Arbor. We finally found our way back to the old house and it was empty. Jim and Sue, as well as Oscar and Mr. Callahan were missing. Tara and I looked at each other and thought about every bad ripper type horror flick we had seen, and this one seemed to be real. We called out. No answer. Then the big front door slammed shut and locked us in.

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