…What if?

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So I promised to write a little somthing about that creepypasta I stumbled across, called “The blanket monster”. Not so much about the creepypasta, but more about what it made me think of.

Alright so what is fear? What are you afraid of? Quite simple it’s the what if’s that is the most frightening. We all know that shapeshifters doesn’t exist, but what if they do? It’s easy to doubt your logic when you are walking down a dark wooded area.

And really it’s the same with more logical things like terrorists, if they’d only call in advance and let you know that they were gonna hijack that plane, or bomb that building, things would be fine, right? But they don’t, and we’re back to the what if’s, because what if it’s your plane? What if it’s today at your office?

That is what fear is made of, uncertainty about when something bad is gonna happen, wether they have a rifle or 3 rows of teeth.

And what is it in this creepypasta that works so well? Maybe I am all alone in thinking it’s scary? I don’t know. But have you even lain in bed and wondered if the person next to you, is the person you think it is? Or wondered if it’s really your mom in the basement, or if the familiar noises are just there to ease you down there? Or maybe felt something lay down at the footend of your cover, not wanthing to open your eyes, because what if your dog still laying on the floor?

That is what is working so well in this creepypasta, that childhood fear that we never really rid ourselves from, the fear of something “normal” suddenly becomming alien and frightening. When I was a kid I had a room upstairs, but I was afraid of staying upstairs alone, so I would make my fosterdad stand there at the bottom of the stairs while I sprintet upstairs to get some toys, he would always make fun of me and make ghost noises and growling noises to mess with me. And that was not what scared me really, what scared me was the thought of, what if it was not my fosterdad making those noises? What if that growling noise from the bottom of the stairs were suddenly mirrored right behind me? Needless to day I fucking hated fetching toys upstairs.

And when I grew older and got home late from the local youthclub, I’d have to take my bike into the garage, now my fosterparents garage was pretty oldschool, you’d have to jimmy your hand in between the door and the wall to reach the lightswitch, and flip the lock of the door to make it swing open. It was a reoccouring nightmare to me, I still remember having to stick my hand in there in the dark to turn on the lights, and on top of that it was one of those old “timed” switches, so the light would go out after a specific amount of time, like you have on the staircases of large estate buildings. So I’d wait for the lights to flicker on, it was those long tubes so it took some time for them to stop flickering, and you really did not have time to wait because then the light would go out whlie you were in there. The garage door was a huge door that was mostly like an overgrown yard door, so it swung up sideways, but because it was so big and heavy it was not held up properly and would get stuck midway. You have no idea how scared I was going into that garage, every goddamn weekend, and sometimes on weekdays. So what I did was to swing the door open before I turned on the lights, and the moment I turned on the lights I’d go in and look behind the half open garage door to see if anyone was hiding behind it, and the take my bike in, and as quick as possible, preferbly before the lights went off, slammed the garage door behind me, but if you slammed too hard, the latch would not click down, and you’d have to do that manually, ergo stick your hand into the darkness to lock it in place.

My fosterdad sometimes thought it was hillarious, if he was in the garden by night (yeah so he liked to piss in the garden by night – don’t ask) and/or was waiting for the dog to finish up outside before going to bed, to do the same thing as with the stairs when I was younger, the whole ghost/growl thing. Luckily he was never so cruel as to hide behind the garage door, or grab my hand as I stuck it in between the door and the wall. Had he done that I’m sure i’d had a hearattack, seriously.

I know it’s a theme here on this blog, the ‘what if’ things aren’t as I think they are? Very matrix’ish really. And nothing of course ever happened while i fetched toys from upstairs, or parked my bike in the garage – but what if that one time I forget to be afraid and on guard, is the time that it strikes? I might still have my childhood imagination, and I’m not sure that I as an adult would actually be brave enough to do the garage routine differently if I had to.

Cause you just never know…

And none for the little boy 
who cries down the lane

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I read an article today about this mother who was found pushing her dead toddler in a swing. Someone called the police because this lady had been pushing this swing for over 12 hours, and someone found that odd. The police got there, found the kid dead but with no trauma to it, the article says that they had to cut the toddler out of the swing, and that the mother is at a mental facility now.

It must be the saddest thing I ever read, but it still leaves me with more questions than facts, cause some witnesses say that they had seen this lady on the playground earlier that day, but it says nothing about of she was pushing her dead kid in a swing them, or of the child was alive. Also that is some seriously fast rigor mortis if they have to cut the swing down to get the kid out, assuming that the kid wasn’t dead when put in the swing.

Think I’m making this up? Read the article here & another here. & a news report here.

 But if we ignore the mothers personal trauma and tragedy for a moment, and look at the actual act. Imagine the scary story it will without a doubt turn into.  Because it really IS creepy ain’t it? Dead kids are always creepy, dead kids and playgrounds even worse, and a mother driven insane by grief is the icing on the cake.