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| Poe, impressed by my scary story. |
It was all Hallow’s afternoon and despite the intentionally
menacing way I started this sentence, it was actually not creepy out at all.
The weather was pleasant, I was wearing a fun costume, and on my way to lunch
with some of my favorite people. But don’t horrifying stories always start out
semi-innocent?
Keep reading, if you dare.
As I open the door to the backseat of my vehicle, a lunatic
frog maniacally lunges at me.
“Ahhh!” I scream, then jump back, because that’s what you do
when frogs try to touch you. The frog, because it is a mentally deranged kind
of frog, doesn’t jump out into the fresh air, but instead hops further into the
car and under some cup holder compartment that’s impossible to see into.
Everyone decides that our hunger is enough to give us the
courage to ride in what has become a mobile haunted house. There’s danger lurking
somewhere in the shadows and you know it will jump out on your face and once
this happens, you know you will crash the car and die.
This luckily doesn’t go down at lunch. The frog stays
hidden. It is clearly just here to torture me.
So now I’m left alone to deal with the frog on my way home. Once I get to my car later that
afternoon, I fling open the door dramatically and stomp randomly around the
vehicle.
But, it doesn’t come out. So I climb inside and shut the
door, looking out the window pleadingly like people in horror movies who just
entered some weirdo’s house and they know in their hearts life will
never be the same for them.
Plagued with paranoia, the entire way home I think
everything is the frog.
“OH MY GOD, WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT? WAS THAT THE FROG FLYING
THROUGH THE AIR TOWARD MY FACE?!”
No. It was the reflection of a leaf blowing past the window
in my peripheral vision.
“WHAT’S THAT RUSTLING? THE FUCKING FROG AND ITS FROG LEGS
READY TO JUMP ON MY FACE?!”
No. It was my purse strap gently grazing my coffee thermos.
“WHAT’S THAT ON MY LEG?? THE FUCKING FROG AND ITS FROG FEET
STURDYING ITS FROG BODY FOR WHEN IT LEAPS INTO THE AIR AND JUMPS ON MY FACE?!”
No. It was a Starbucks straw wrapper that got caught on my
tights.
In my lunacy, my senses have been heightened to superhero
levels.
I think about relaxing—maybe listen to some music because riding in silence is making me
crazy--but I just know it will only be for the worst. There’s nothing more
ridiculous than when you see someone in horror movies acting carefree one
second then screaming psychotically the next. I imagine it:
“La la la singing along to my favorite song, la la la, OH MY
GOD THERE’S A FUCKING FROG ON MY FACE AHHH I’M SO GROSSED OUT AND I CAN’T PAY
ATTENTION TO THE ROAD!! I KNEW I SHOULDN’T HAVE RELAXED! FROGS ARE SO WEIRD!”
But none of that happens. I make it home alive and feel
confident the frog will die overnight. I do not feel guilty about this, since
the frog has chosen this fate.
THE NEXT DAY (AKA, TODAY)
After work, my coworker Jennifer offers to see if she can
get the frog out since there was no sight of it all day. She is not a baby like
me. I assume this will just be a mission to find the frog’s remains and then
lay them to rest in the office’s shrubbery.
Until…
“Oh, there he is! He’s a squirmy one,” I hear Jennifer say
as she crawls half way into the backseat.
UH, WHAT?
It’s alive. And I catch a glimpse of its weird pale, gross,
weak but still alive, zombie looking self for a second before it leaps under
the passenger seat. I scream and start giggling like a kid who’s scared but
then also sort of excited by the prospect of adventure. I run around to the
passenger side with Jennifer and while she’s peering into the backseat, I look
under the front.
And there it is, staring at me. At my face. Like he wants to
jump on it. For a moment, I’m almost sad and just wish he would jump out and be
free. But then he moves a little and it’s “death to the frog” again.
“Jennifer!” I yell and jump back because, again, that’s what
you do when frogs try to touch you.
She runs to the front, but the frog has disappeared. This
time, under the floorboard.
She can’t reach it at all and it looks like it seriously can't get out. So I turn to Jennifer and say goodbye and climb into my car.
It is hopeless.
I didn’t want the frog to die from starvation because it was
trapped—I just wanted it to never jump on my face.
As I'm driving, I think I hear the frog under the floor
trying to get out. It’s scary and sad and horrifying.
I get home and hurry into the house. And even here, from my
desk, I can still hear the faint whisper of a frog with its frog legs trying to
get out and jump on my face. The thumping against the floorboard seems to
syncopate in time with the flicker of candlelight near the windowsill. A dog
howls in the distance and I realize I will forever be haunted by the events of
this autumnal afternoon. I shiver and wrap my shawl tightly around my
shoulders, then blow the candle out. A second before the room goes dark, I see
the reflection of a frog’s—this frog’s—haunting gaze. I jump back, startled,
and when I light the candle again all I see is the frosted windowpane.
(Not really, but that seemed like an appropriate way to wrap
this story up. But seriously, let’s hope he finds out how to vacate the vehicle
tonight. Or sadly, just dies.)
