I was quite the story-teller as a kid. I could spin a tale from anything that I would see and share it with friends with convincing conviction. Here’s an example:
There was a house in my neighbourhood. It was a small, kind of Eerie house that stood almost hidden in the shrubs (or trees). This house appeared out of nowhere into our world and just stood there, almost certainly hidden, ready for me to spin a tale.
Well, one day we had this new babysitter. Just to let you know, both my brother and I were always well-behaved children and a joy to any babysitter – old or new. So let’s call this new babysitter M. She was huge (maybe she wasn’t, but everybody seems huge to a five year old). I don’t know why but I wanted to scare this HUGE woman. I wanted to see if I could actually scare a HUGE woman. After our initial awkwardness had passed, I asked M if she had seen that Eerie house on her way.
M: Yes, I did.
I: Did you know that house had a man who hanged himself?
M: Really? [not believing a five-year old]
I: Yep, and he poisoned his wife to death.
M: Who… how… who told you all this?
I: Did you see the windows?
I: Of course you didn’t. The window panes are all smeared with blood so they don’t look like windows.
M: Shut up and go to bed.
Growing up in the neighbourhood, I did feel guilty whenever I passed that house. It may never have been an “Eerie” house after all. People actually lived there. Maybe it was just one summer when it was ignored… But for me to concoct a horror tale of a man who hanged himself after poisoning his wife and still have blood smeared all over the windows… Seriously!!!
[p.s. I assume I was five years old because when the tale was told I was still attending preschool.]