Dear Solitary Reader:
This is my first real post since the move to the new house and there’s a good reason for it. You see, Solitary Reader, I’m fairly certain that my garage is haunted.
In a super world my garage would be haunted by the spirit of someone who knew something about cars. Then it wouldn’t have cost me so much for that transmission fluid change at Mr. Lube yesterday. I would make friends with said spirit by putting a TV in there and leaving it on all night and then inviting neighbourhood children in so that the spirit could reach through the TV and eat them. If there’s one thing I learned from watching Ghost Whisperer its that spirits like Poltergeist.
However, as its not a super world I am certain the spirit in the garage is not that of the Michelin man, not even the Fountain Tire guy, but instead this spirit is of a holiday bent. How do I know so, you might ask?
Let me recount to you then a tale of woe with a twist ending worthy of a film by M. Night Shamalan (that is to say, it starts with a good idea but ends up being poorly executed with a twist ending that doesn’t make up for the sense of disappointment in the experience).
It was a hot and sultry day in the burbs of Maple Ridge. I had just finished putting up a ceiling fan and knew the world was off because I had a) installed the fan correctly and b) had not been electrocuted , lighting myself up like a Christmas tree. I brought the dregs of my home improvement project downstairs with the intention of placing the empty box, along with the carcass of the old light fixture, in the garage. I opened the door and sensed right away the oddity.
It was cool in here, not the cool of a ground floor garage on a hot summer day, nor even the cool of Arthur Fonzarelli, (okay, maybe it was that); my breath frosted in the air, and everything I learned watching Supernatural told me that there was a ghost in the garage – and me without my rock salt. The door swept shut behind me (not completely, we have to replace the door so that it will close all the way as they’re supposed to do, next home improvement project) and then I heard the voice.
“Frosty the snowman, was a happy jolly soul… Frosty the snowman…” In fear, I dropped the box containing the old light fixture. Being environmentally conscious I still turned off the light and I left the room.
Twist ending: I twisted my ankle on the slight step back into the house – I told you you would be disappointed.
Okay so the garage isn’t really haunted, there’s a musical Christmas card in there somewhere that sings “Frosty” whenever the wall shakes.
But here’s the true scary thing: I have no idea where that card is! Every time I go in the garage a tinny female voice will yelling “Frosty the Snowman” will welcome me… until I can find it and shut off that evil for good.
Now that’s a twisted ending.