Do you like scary stories?

I do. I love them. Especially the ones about serial killers, the ones about the girl who is home alone and then the phone calls, but it’s coming from inside the house.

Can you imagine that? How scary would it be, to realize that death, which you thought was so far away, was right behind you. Your spine tingles. Your heart pounds. There is one last moment of dread as you slowly turn, palms sweating, praying that it’s just another moment of the heeby-jeebies.

Then you realize it’s not.

The worst part of those stories, I think, is that the victim always sees it coming. They always turn around. They don’t get even the small mercy of ignorance. They experience their death head on in all its terror.

It’s never a clean death, either. It usually involves knives. They die bloodily, screaming all the way.

I’ve stopped reading those stories, recently. Why? Well, you know how jokes about cancer aren’t as funny after someone you know gets leukemia?

Yeah. Just like that.