I have an overactive imagination.
But more so, I have an imagination that believes I will be murdered at some point in my life by a chainsaw-wielding madman, or a madwoman; I don’t believe gender plays a role in murderess minds, just sayin’.
Either way, I am constantly on high alert. Preparing myself for the moment, some Ed Gein, coverall-wearing, rotten-tooth-crazy springs from behind a rusted out pick-up truck to pursue me with his blood-thirsty chainsaw. For this reason and numerous others. I will not stop on an isolated road looking for directions in the middle of the country.
And neither should you!
Okay, I know my brain runs a little crazed with these thoughts. And I get it; you think I am exaggerating my fears. I AM NOT. My mind has derived every gross and disturbing way; I could be turned into a fun afternoon for a sick minded, “Wanna play a game?” torture session.
Just one more reason clown masks should be outlawed, by the way.
He and his gang of demented freaks give added incentive as to why I will not stop on the side of the road. In a small town. At a decaying motel. For Snacks. Ever.
I know you have seen the dilapidated farm house on that long country road, we all have.
That’s the house where they keep the bodies. In the basement. Full of eerie and rusty farming chains.
Every time I pass a farmhouse, on an old dirt road, I see rusty chains, hanging randomly throughout the yard. That’s weird. Amirite?
WHY ARE THERE SO MANY RUSTY CHAINS. WITH HOOKS? What are farming chains? Who needs those? There aren’t any animals on this farm, it’s a wheat farm, they don’t need chains, and certainly not with enormous scary meat hooks on the end of them! Hooks of death, rusty skin piercing hooks-of-death. GROSS.
In my convoluted brain, this is where Mr. My-Mom-Had-Sex-With-Her-Cousin-And-It-Turned-Me-Into-A-Psychopath-Humanskin-Mask-Maker lives. Moreover, he has run out of parchment to make his body suit.
I will NOT be stopping there, nope, no thank you, Sir.
The last ten to fifty-two young woman looking for a telephone, (because they had no cell service, and their car broke down), didn’t fare so well at this farm. How else can you explain all the cars just sitting in that field? No one human being can go through that many cars in a lifetime. These are the cars of women whose skin is now worn as a mask. Mr. Mask-Guy needed to upgrade his meat suit and these dummies stopped.
Don’t stop, DO NOT GO IN THERE.
If you go in there, (just like the others), you will be terrorized for hours, maybe even days, while his Mother makes tea with your best friends blood. Clearly, you will have to watch, (because you are now tied to a chair. In a dark kitchen. With creepy dolls sitting on the shelves), as her son sharpens his teeth on the bones of the squirrels he practiced skinning as a young child.
If you do find a way to get loose from your soon-to-be-demise. Do not, I repeat, do not go to the basement.
Why do you all go in the cellar? The rusty chain-filled bunker where to EVERYONE’S surprise (not mine), you find a boiler room. Dude, you don’t go to the chamber with a body-burner-machine in it, you just don’t.
But if for some unforeseen circumstance, the basement is your only option of escape. I suggest you do not hide in a corner, whimpering like a toddler who’s just been told he can’t have candy. GET UP! Find yourself a weapon. Look around. There are a disturbing amount of creepy farm tools on hand.
They are all rusty. Probably from the blood of his victims.
Grab that weird and entirely strange-looking saw-thingy built-in 1924 and DO SOME DAMAGE. We are talking about your skin turning into a mask. Not a pleasant way to go, I am sure of it.
I don’t know why you even went down that long driveway in the first place; this is your fault. I told you not to go in there. I said Mr. Crazy-Cousin-Sex would wear your face like a mask. You should have listened; people die there.
Seriously, these are the exact thoughts that pass through my fucked up mind, as I drive past houses that are either falling apart or made of mere plywood. I imagine being invited in to use the phone, “Hey, wanna come into my plywood house?” WTF, “Nope!”
I understand it’s highly unlikely this is how I will die.
I don’t really understand that. It’s just lip service for the people who will soon believe me to be crazy for writing out these fears.
Come on people you can’t tell me, that anyone thinks this is how they will come to their premature death UNTIL IT IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING.
So, just don’t stop, check your gas gauge, don’t assume your big football playin’ boyfriend can protect you, (he is always the first to go). Don’t run to the BASEMENT, ugh, please don’t. And first and foremost, STAY IN YOUR CAR.
I don’t want to see your car in that wheat field all rusted out, while I drive right on by. YOU KNOW I’M NOT STOPPING., Nope not for the skin-face guy, no thank you.
Have a predetermined survival plan in case anything goes wrong.
And remember this post, the one where I straight up told you. PEOPLE DIE IN THEM THERE HOUSES.
So, do you wanna watch me, watch scary movies? Where people die for the exact things I just told you not to do. Maybe you will stay in your car, and you WON’T GO IN THE HOUSES WHERE – THE PEOPLE DIE.
I HATE SCARY MOVIES and DILAPIDATED ANYTHING.
Here is proof.