Nova Walsh

5 Totally Free Ghost Story Collections That Will Scare the Bejeezus Out of You

October 11, 2019 by admin Leave a Comment

It’s that time of year again when even little old ladies who wouldn’t hurt a fly are apt to pick up a book about death, destruction, mayhem and fear. Sure, you could find any number of modern ghost stories or brand-spanking-new ghoulish movies to scare the shit out of you this Halloween season, but there’s something special about ghost stories from the past.

Not only are the following collections scary as hell, they are totally free on the internet and available to anyone via Project Gutenberg. So grab yourself one of these bygone reads and settle in for some ghostly visitations (in book form at least).

1. Famous Modern Ghost Stories – Dorothy Scarborough (Editor)

Despite the name, this book was published in 1921 and is full of delightful stories written by some famous authors such as Algernon Blackwood, Edgar Allen Poe, and Ambrose Bierce. With titles like “The Shadow on the Wall” and “The Beast With Five Fingers” this collection will have you quaking in your boots.

Our intrusion had stirred the powers of the place into activity. It was we who were the cause of the disturbance, and my brain filled to bursting with stories and legends of the spirits and deities of places that have been acknowledged and worshiped by men in all ages of the world’s history. But, before I could arrive at any possible explanation, something impelled me to go farther out, and I crept forward on to the sand and stood upright.
The willows, algernon blackwood, from FAMOUS MODERN GHOST STORIES

2. The Phantom ‘Rickshaw and Other Tales – Rudyard Kipling

Tales of madness and death abound in this work by the author of The Jungle Book. The stories all have a foreign feel as most of them are set in India and Pakistan where Kipling spent much of his life.

There are, in this land, ghosts who take the form of fat, cold, pobby corpses, and hide in trees near the roadside till a traveler passes. Then they drop upon his neck and remain. There are also terrible ghosts of women who have died in child-bed. These wander along the pathways at dusk, or hide in the crops near a village, and call seductively. But to answer their call is death in this world and the next.
from my own true ghost story, by rudyard kipling, the phantom rickshaw and other stories

3. Visible and Invisible – E.F. Benson

Twelve terrifying tales make up this collection of stories by E.F. Benson. Stories like “Negotium Perambulates” and “Mr. Tilly’s Seance” feature strange experiments with the dead and efforts to contact souls on the other side.

“Not a sign of returning vitality,” he said, “and I’ve done all I can. There’s nothing more possible that can be devised to restore her.”
As he spoke the zeal of the unrivalled surgeon relaxed, and with a sigh and a shrug he rose to his feet and mopped his face. Then suddenly the fire and eagerness blazed there again. “The gramophone!” he said. “The speech centre is close to where I’ve been working, and it is quite uninjured. Good heavens, what a wonderful opportunity. She served me well living, and she shall serve me dead. And I can stimulate the motor nerve-centre, too, with the second battery. We may see a new wonder to-night.”
Some qualm of horror shook me.
“No, don’t!” I said. “It’s terrible: she’s just dead. I shall go if you do.”
and the dead spake–, E.F. Benson, visible and invisible

4. Twenty-Five Ghost Stories – W. Bob Holland (Editor)

Another collection featuring multiple authors, this book also includes some astounding artwork within the text. Some stories like Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Black Cat” may be familiar, but there are a number of forgotten but fantastic works by lesser known authors to keep your knees shaking too.

S-t-t! Out went the lights in the twinkling of an eye—as I sat, gaping in my astonishment, from out of the pitchy darkness of the room came the most dreary, horrible, blood-curdling groan imaginable. As I sat paralyzed, not daring to breathe, doubting my senses for a moment, and then thinking indignantly that it was some trick of that wretched cashier, I felt long, thin, icy fingers passing gently over my face. Malgame Dios! what a sensation! At first I was afraid to move. Then I nervously tried to brush the icy, bony things away.
The ghost of the count, w. Bob holland Twenty-Five Ghost Stories

5. Ghost Stories of an Antiquary – M.R. James

cover of Ghost Stories of an Antiquary by M.R. James

This collection scared the shit out of my brothers and I when we were kids. We used to spend the weekend up at my aunt’s creepy house in the woods and stay up too late and scare each other senseless reading these tales of terror. Each story is short enough to finish in an evening so you can scare yourself every night of October!

The Project Gutenberg version includes both volume one and two of M.R. James’ stories.

At first you saw only a mass of coarse, matted black hair; presently it was seen that this covered a body of fearful thinness, almost a skeleton, but with the muscles standing out like wires. The hands were of a dusky pallor, covered, like the body, with long, coarse hairs, and hideously taloned. The eyes, touched in with a burning yellow, had intensely black pupils, and were fixed upon the throned King with a look of beast-like hate.
CANON ALBERIC’S SCRAP-BOOK, M.R. James, Ghost stories of an antiquary

Patience Pays Off at the Bottom of the Tree

September 30, 2019 by admin Leave a Comment

Patience Pays Off at the Bottom of the Tree

“Hey! I thought you wanted to see!” Leon protested, pulling away from the old tree, sitting back on his haunches.

“See what, dork? There’s nothin’ to see but your mama’s underwear.”

Reggie laughed, high and grating, the two other boys did the same before grabbing their bikes and heading down the dirt road.

Leon bent back to the hole in the tree, defeated. He’d lost his chance. If this secret wasn’t enough to get the bigger, cooler kids to accept him, nothing was.

“Where are you?” He whined to the tree, then hit the base with the heel of his hand, knowing instantly it was wrong. “Sorry,” he whispered.

Two green eyes glowed then and Leon’s heart skipped up into his throat.

“That’s it, come out, I won’t hurt you.”

He sat cross-legged on the dead grass and waited patiently, quietly.

The tongue darted out of the hole, its long purple loop tasting the air, once, twice, then again. Leon pressed himself down into the grass, as calm as his twelve year old body would allow.

Eventually the creature made its cautious way out of the hole. The massive paws reminded Leon of his Labrador Stella when she’d been young, big and bulky, although these were more catlike and covered in a dark green fur. Leon waited for what seemed an eternity before it finally came all the way out, its head slinking, its ears down.

“Come on, buddy,” Leon whispered and patted his lap. “It’ okay.”

The weight of it felt good when the creature finally turned a loop and dropped into Leon’s lap. He brushed his hand down the coat and watched in wonder as it turned a deep purple.

“Who needs those guys, anyway?” he whispered.

The creature purred in reply.

Artistic Fish to Fry

September 27, 2019 by admin Leave a Comment

**The Tribuna of the Uffizi (1772-78), by Johann Zoffany**.
Image Courtesy of Public Domain Review

Art is an image-using system. In order to create, we draw from our inner well. This inner well, an artistic reservoir, is ideally like a well-stocked trout pond. We’ve got big fish, little fish, fat fish, skinny fish– an abundance of artistic fish to fry. As artists, we must realize that we have to maintain this artistic ecosystem.”
julia cameron, filling the well

Any creative act is an act of emptying oneself. Words, dance moves, delicately plated dishes, paint, beats of a drum–all of it drains the creator in big and small ways. And so we must fill our wells in order to continue our output, to expand our understanding, to strengthen our creations, and to find new inspiration for new work.

Just like every creation, every creator is unique. Some of us need this inspiration more in the beginning when we’re searching for subjects. Some find themselves dry toward the end when the inevitable culling, editing, stitching together is required. Others need it to fill in the middle of the work, when energy has been drained for a long period already and there is still more work to do.

What I write at the moment turns too much in a tightened circle. I am feeding off my own substance, and do not renew myself.
gerard de nerval, letter to george bell

Understanding when one needs this type of encouragement and finding the best sources for renewal is one of the many important tasks each creator faces in his or her own journey. A painter might benefit from pouring over poetry, a musician might find inspiration in classic film, a chef may be best served by a day wandering the beach. A writer may rush to the page after watching a child paint or in the midst of a concert.

I’m not suggesting a creative could or should find one source of inspiration and draw on that single thing forever. Every creation needs a multitude of sources, and the artist will need to grow and expand these sources as the creative acts change him or her.

For nearly five years, [John] Lennon’s guitar had hung, unstrummed, on a wall above the couple’s bed. He canceled his subscription to Billboard, learned how to bake bread, and became a househusband and stay-at-home dad for Sean.
In Bermuda, an assistant dragged the reclusive ex-Beatle to Disco 40. Upstairs, a DJ was spinning the club’s namesake musical genre. But the downstairs bar was dedicated to New Wave, where “Rock Lobster” by The B-52’s was playing.
richard l. eldredge – A Beatle, a Rock Lobster, and how John Lennon got his mojo back

For the frustrated poet Edward Thomas, a train ride served the purpose of recharging his creative batteries and resulted in one of England’s iconic poems.

Edward Thomas, aged 36 and bereft of inspiration, dutifully jotted the details of this fleeting non-event [a train stop in Adlestrop] into his notebook, and from them fashioned a poem that has become not only one of the nation’s favourites, but also an authentic literary mystery.
William Langley, Adlestrop: a lost station, but words that still beguile

Thomas, blocked creatively, unsure of his talents, plagued by depression, took a train ride one day that happened to make an unscheduled stop in the tiny town of Adlestrop. No one came or went from the train and Thomas sketched some unenthusiastic but dutiful notes. But a while later that small event, just a few jotted observations, turned into a beautiful and much loved poem.

Yes, I remember Adlestrop –
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop – only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

  - Thomas Edwards, Adelstop

Amazing what exposure to something new can do for a creative soul.

But Thomas’ fuel didn’t come from travel alone. Like many creatives, the poet found a deep source of creative waters from a friendship with the fellow poet Robert Frost.

The Frost-Thomas friendship, intense, fertile, and brief (1913-1917) bloomed fully in 1914-‘our year,’ Frost called it. During this time the families of both men were often together at Little Iddens in rural Dymock where the two poets explored the countryside and talked deeply about their feelings and about poetry-Frost had ignited the poetic force in his closest friend
William R. Evans – Robert Frost and Helen Thomas: Five Revealing Letters

I know as well as anyone that it’s tempting to put oneself into a creative bubble, especially once a project really gets going. But in pulling away from other humans, a creative may just be cutting off an important source of renewal, of artistic fish to fry.

Besides, at the end of the day what is any form of art that we take in but a conversation with another creative?

Part of our journey in the act of creation must be to continuously seek out new sources for our artistic ecosystems. It is important that we explore, that we keep ourselves open, and that we continue to experiment with our own creative lives so that this well will ever be filled.

By Ferdinand Georg Waldmüller
Image via Wikimedia Commons

The Misty Realms of Darkness

September 23, 2019 by admin Leave a Comment

…Otherwise known as the Autumn Equinox…

Today is that day of the year which for most people signals the beginning of fall (unless you live in Texas where it means there’s probably only another month of torturous heat in store.) In honor of the occasion, first a mythic story, and then a microfiction of my reimagining of said event.

Heading for the Misty Realms of Darkness

He [Zeus] assented that your daughter, every time the season comes round,
            would spend a third portion of the year in the realms of dark mist underneath, and the other two thirds in your company and that of the other immortals.
            He has assented to all this with the nod of his head.
            So come, my child! Obey! Do not be too stubborn in your anger at the dark-clouded son of Kronos. Straightaway make the harvest grow, that life-bringer for humans.”
       So she spoke, and Demeter, she with the beautiful garlands in her hair, did not disobey.
            Straightaway she sent up the harvest from the land with its rich clods of earth.
            And all the wide earth with leaves and blossoms was laden.
Homeric Hymn to demeter

Poor Persephone. All she wanted to do was sniff the flowers. But Hades had other plans for her. And so he intoxicated her with the smell of narcissus, then dragged her down to the underworld with him. Persephone definitely needs her #metoo moment.

Persephone’s mother, Demeter, was distraught at losing her daughter. Demeter, who is in charge of providing crops to us poor sad sops called humans, was so upset over the theft of Persephone that she stopped growing crops and went on a tear around the world and even up to the clouds where Zeus and his ilk reveled. She demanded the return of sweet Persephone or nobody would be eating anytime soon.

Trouble for both Gods and mortals, it seems.

So Zeus told Hades to behave, and Hades said, sure bro, no problem. But before he sent Persephone back to her grieving mother and put an end to the death of the crops, Hades pulled a mean trick and gave Persephone pomegranates from the underworld. So now every year for three months poor Persephone must return to the underworld and her unchosen lover, so that we all might have pumpkin spiced lattes and bonfires. Or so the crops can lie fallow, your choice.

And now, a microfiction, my reimagining of part of the story. Enjoy!

Autumn Born

“What are you looking at?” The stranger asks.

“Nothing. Everything.”

She barely notices him until his knees hit the dirt beside her. Once she looks, she can’t look away. Clouds skitter over his pupils, the only sign of that internal darkness pulsing within.

“I hear they smell exceedingly sweet.”

She bends her head, firmly under his suggestion, already lost, sniffing deep the yellow petals. Is it his eyes? The scent?

No matter. What’s done is done.

Flower abandoned, an eternal cycle is set in motion, the barren world once again awaits the pomegranate daughter’s return.

Image Source Post Header

That Time We Moved to Tucson for the Weekend

April 19, 2019 by admin Leave a Comment

We moved around a lot when I was a kid. I wasn’t a military brat, I just had parents who were restless and poor at sticking with decisions. But one of these moves stands out more than the rest…the time we moved our household of six for one weekend.

When I was in my early teens we lived in Los Alamos, New Mexico. It was an okay place as far as places go. We’d been there for a couple of years already, so in retrospect the move shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise.

Still, all of us (especially my mom) were a little upset when my dad came home from work one afternoon and announced that we would be moving to Tucson. He was already on the phone with the moving company by the time my mom finally figured out that he hadn’t gotten a job in Tucson, he simply had an interview for a job in Tucson.

“Listen, Nikki,” I can imagine him saying. “I’ve already got the job. So-and-so said that he was very interested. It’s a done deal.”

I have no idea what kind of conversations my parents had after that. All I know is that the U-Haul was picked up a couple of days later, several guys packed all our stuff up and loaded it into the U-Haul, and my brothers and I said semi-tearful goodbyes to the few friends we’d managed to make on this leg of our childhood journey.

The trip down went about as poorly as it could have possibly gone. The U-Haul air conditioner went out, leaving half of us to sweat it out on the black vinyl seat as we made our way through the desert. After our first night in the hotel it was decided that we needed to change rooms because something was very very wrong with ours (as a kid I didn’t know what was going on but looking back I can hazard a guess that someone in the other room was having loud sex). I’m not sure what happened with the interview but my dad was angry afterward and his bad mood infected all of us. We drove around looking for houses to rent and there was something wrong with every one of them. Too much cactus was a popular complaint. And then at the end of a very frustrating day, my dad went into the gas station to get us some drinks and the place got robbed as he was waiting in line to pay. He came out alive eventually and with several Sprites that nobody wanted anymore.

And that’s when shit got real.

The entire horrible strange weekend journey all came down to this–the six of us sitting in the cramped cab of the U-Haul with undrunk Sprites, us kids watching as our parents played rock, paper, scissors to decide our fate. If my dad won we would stay in Tucson. If my mom won we would go back to Los Alamos.

This taught me many good life lessons, as you can imagine.

So after being gone for one weekend, we drove the van and the car back up to Los Alamos, to the great amusement (disappointment) of our neighbors. They thought they’d finally gotten rid of us. They’d have to wait another year for that to happen.

I feel like we had the U-Haul sitting outside our house for a while. My memory might be faulty (or biased…) but I want to say that it was left up to my brothers and I to get most of the stuff back into the house. Another good life lesson–child labor rules don’t apply to one’s own children.

The Yard Water Level is at 127%

October 19, 2018 by admin 2 Comments

It’s been raining a lot in Austin lately. Days and days of it after a summer of serious drought. I like the rain, and it’s a welcome change. But the dog…

The dog is terrified of the rain. A couple of days into the onslaught I start really worrying about her. I watch her as she sits in the sink shivering, wondering what I should do. I think it’s been maybe 24 hours since she’s gone out to pee and the only way I finally entice her out of the house is to let her out the front door to chase the deer that run amok in the neighborhood.

I wait until there’s a break in the rain. It’s cold and wet but nothing murderous is attacking her from above. There aren’t any deer out this evening but thankfully Pepper follows me out anyway. She’s nervous though. She keeps eyeing me like, you better not leave me out here to die, bitch!

Does she pee? No, she does not.

She’s taking her sweet time as it starts to drizzle again, suddenly unafraid and intensely curious about what the squirrels have been up to in her absence. Until now I’ve been encouraging. “Go potty, Pepper. Come on, go potty, please!”

But it’s cold and I’m getting wet and I really just want to get back inside to see what the boy is up to. He’s been quiet too long.

And this is when I realize my preschooler has followed us out into the yard. He doesn’t seem to mind the cold drizzle. He’s watching me yell at the dog with what can only be described as glee.

“Pee, Pepper! Go potty you stupid animal! Pee, damn you!” I’m really getting into it now. I’ve had enough and I’m cold. She’s still sniffing pecan carcasses like they hold the secrets of the universe.

Something catches my eye. Until now I haven’t realized that while I’ve been yelling at the dog to pee my son has whipped it out and is whizzing with wild abandon in the front yard in the rain, a look of sheer joy on his face.

I really wonder sometimes what our neighbors think about us. But that is another post for another day…

My instant reaction is to yell, but after a minute of fuming I start to laugh.

Probably the wrong reaction because now he’s laughing too and I can see how his little mind is working… peeing in the yard makes Mama laugh. I should pee in the yard every day!

I look over and Pepper is going now, too. At least the yard got plenty of water this week.

12 Rules For Life: An Antidote to Hating Yourself Upon Waking

October 15, 2018 by admin 2 Comments

*before we begin…I actually enjoyed (some) of Jordan Peterson’s book, 12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos and thought I’d take a crack at it myself. This post is meant (mostly) for entertainment purposes and I cannot guarantee you’ll hate yourself less by following my or anyone else’s advice. See rule 12 for more.

Rule One – Don’t weigh yourself more than once a month

You’ll either see a good number and get a false sense of comfort and elation and stuff yourself with Cheetos, or you’ll see you’ve gained weight and give up on what tiny shred of self-control you had and eat Cheetos because, what the heck?

Rule Two – Unplug the internet if you plan on doing any serious drinking

When you wake up with that monster hangover in the morning, you’ll thank yourself that you don’t have to damage control the overly enthusiastic and idiotic comments to friends’ Facebook posts, the messages to ex-boyfriends, the ill-advised and blurry selfies that seemed to really capture your soul when you took them.

Rule Three – Get enough sleep at night

This might mean you have to kick the children and the husband and the dog and the remotes out of the bed but remind everyone that even if they have to sleep in the bathtub, it’s worth it so Mommy doesn’t have a meltdown the next day. Because we all know what happens when Mommy has a meltdown…

Rule Four – No fad diets.

Fad diets are the devil. I probably don’t need to say anything else on this subject, but I’m going to anyway. I’ll bitch about fad diets all day if you get me going. Paleo isn’t really the way paleo people ate. Keto is for children with epilepsy. Spicy lemonade is not something any human should live off of. And let’s not even mention the tapeworm diet. You don’t even need an internet connection to know that that one is going to lead to regrets.

Rule Five – Volunteer for nothing

There will be a time when you get sucked into volunteering for something–resist this at all costs! It may be your idea to begin with (or as I recently found out, it very well may not be your idea at all. You are simply incapable of saying no under pressure).

I’ll feel better about myself, you may think. Or, I might make a difference/friend/community. But those will probably be lies. Very likely what you will feel is existential dread (should I be spending my precious time on this? I could die tomorrow…), exhaustion (they want me to do what?), and hesitance to get out of bed on days you have volunteer work to do.

Rule Six – Don’t throw your work away

Being the control-freak perfectionist that I am, I’ve thrown any number of papers, notebooks, nearly-finished book projects, blog posts, hell—even whole blogs, into virtual and real trashcans. 99% of the time I want the thing the next day or the next week. And I vow I’ll never throw anything away again. At least until next time…

Rule Seven – Don’t swear in front of your kids

This one is counter-intuitive for me. Before I was a mom I was like, “let the little fucker say whatever he wants. He needs to know the power of language.” Well, the power of language is all well and good until you hear your toddler say, “Holy shit, Grandma! Look at that big fucking bug!”

Rule Eight – Bullshitting is a good tactic if you are lost

Don’t know what to write next? Make it up. You’ll find your way. Don’t know the answer to life’s big questions? Stop worrying about it. Let bullshit be your guide and move forward. In all likelihood the answer you choose doesn’t really matter anyways. Also, bullshitting is storytelling at its best. If nothing else, by bullshitting you are perfecting the craft of telling a fine story.

Are you actually physically lost? Then you’re really up shit creek! If you are truly able to get lost with all the technology and overly-helpful strangers running rampant in this day and age, then no amount of advice will help you. (And also why are you reading my stupid ramblings on life? Shouldn’t you be trying to find your way somewhere?)

Rule Nine – Don’t wear high heels to parties

If you are like me and don’t spend the majority of your waking hours in heels, it’s very likely that you will fall, especially if alcohol is involved. You may get lucky and fall on your ass. Or you may find yourself toothless upon waking, a truly regrettable situation.

And for what? So your calves look sexy? Give me a break, nobody’s even looking. But I guarantee they’ll be looking as you bite it in front of everybody. This is a health hazard. I’m thinking about starting a movement to ban all heels at social gatherings for the good of everyone.

Rule Ten – Comfort over style

This may seem the same as rule nine on the surface, but it’s not. This is all about how you feel on a regular basis. It’s hard to focus on creating something or playing with your kids or enjoying your dinner or the latest episode of Ozark when your pants are too tight or you’re worried about splattering mud on your cashmere sweater.

A caveat here. Don’t go anywhere in your pajamas. I don’t care if it’s Wal-Mart or the Taco Bell drive-thru. Have some self respect. Comfort is different than slobbery. Don’t be a slob.

Also, when you are uncomfortable, you’re much less likely to follow the next rule…

Rule Eleven – Try everything once

Definitely there are exceptions to this rule. Like probably don’t try robbing a bank to see how that feels, or snort cocaine because you’ve never tried it before. But for the most part, you don’t know what you are going to like unless you try it.

This rule applies to all sorts of situations, but adventures with food is the most important in my book. I don’t care how foreign it is. You will very likely not die, and you may find something you love, or at the very least get street-cred for eating ants off trees or downing stinky tofu right in front of the vat of bubbling green sludge they pulled it from.

When in doubt, give it a try (unless it’s going to kill you or land you in jail).

Rule Twelve – Don’t take advice

Doesn’t matter who’s making the 12 rules or the 14 rules or the 48 rules. Those people aren’t you and don’t live the life you’re living. This goes for all sorts of rules, from writing rules to wardrobe rules to parenting rules to power rules. It’s fine to read the missives of other people and consider what they have to say but at the end of the day, you are the only one who knows what’s good for you.

So don’t listen to me. Go make your own rules to live by, or at least a few rules to keep you from hating yourself upon waking.

Shotgun Shells, Oh Hell!

February 5, 2016 by admin 4 Comments

I guess I could make a long meaningless excuse for why I haven’t blogged in six months. But I don’t want to, and I don’t think you want me to either. Instead, I’m just going to say that shit got real for a while, and I’m presently working my way out of an extended period of sloth-like mediocrity and toward something new, as evidenced by such things as the complete redesign of this blog and the (hopefully) different slant my writing takes henceforth.

So why not get right to it? I’m going to do a series of posts about our recent experience with corporate housing. Forgive me if you’ve already heard these stories. I’ll shamelessly complain about The Apartment to anyone who will listen.

This week, we’ll begin with my personal favorite of all time, wherein I am nearly shot…

A bit of a preface first – When we lived in Austin, we lived way way south, on the edge of the city limits. Just about every afternoon a neighbor shot guns, probably practicing for the glorious day when Texas would finally cede from the nation. Or perhaps honing skills for the fast approaching zombie apocalypse, who knows? Whatever the reason, the great echoing booms scared the shit out of our dogs. It got so bad, they wouldn’t even go outside in the afternoon, gunshots or no. So when we moved to Portland, one of the things I promised them was that there wouldn’t be anymore gunshots. Ha. Ha.

Our Oregon apartment was a tiny cookie cutter sort of thing where you could hear everything from all the apartments around you. We were blessed to be on the second floor where we got to hear the blaring t.v. and late night parties of the downstairs neighbors and the stampeding children running in circles from the neighbors above. Lucky us.

It’s eight thirty on a Sunday night sometime in November. The baby’s in bed, Dan is watching t.v. and I’m in the kitchen doing the dishes in my nightgown. Pepper Potts is right beside me. She has a habit of finding a “safe spot” everywhere we live, where she can go in times of trouble – and for some reason she’s chosen the tiny kitchen, between the fridge and the dishwasher, in this place.

So we’re in the kitchen together, me loading the dishwasher, her looking at me with mild disdain. And all of a sudden there’s a huge thud and the floor kind of vibrates. It’s almost as if the disposal has fallen out of the sink or something. Dan hears it too and comes over to inspect.

Pepper, of course, hightails it out of the kitchen in search of a better safe spot and we try to figure out what’s happened with no luck. I let it go because everything seems fine and I’ve got dishes to do.

A few minutes later…

I’m in the bedroom and hear a knock on the door. Dan answers and then comes in with a frown on his face.

“Do you want me to tell you what that noise was? Because I’m not sure you want to know.”

Hmm. Of course I had to know. Of course I did.

“It was the downstairs neighbor. I guess he was cleaning his shotgun and it accidentally went off.”

Blank stare. It might take me a few minutes to process this information in its entirety.

“He claimed it was an ‘unintentional discharge event’.”

Still processing…

“We should probably keep an eye on the pipes and the dishwasher, make sure there aren’t any leaks or anything.”

I think even now, four months later, I’m still processing the fact that our neighbor “unintentionally discharged” a gun into our floor right where I was standing.

Dan helpfully pointed out that we were lucky he hadn’t been cleaning a rifle.

And poor Pepper Potts. She went from being traumatized by the sounds of our neighbors’ guns, to almost being shot by a neighbor’s gun. I way oversold Portland to her, and she still hasn’t forgiven me.