Until we moved, it had kind of been lost on me on how many horror films feature families moving into a new, presumably haunted as fuck house, and then get all these unexplained bumps and bruises and cuts and shit.
Okay, right? For the first ten months I got deja vu every single time I went upstairs. Especially the shower. They don’t put that in horror films, because it’s probably neurological and peculiar to like… me. I am a different sort of horror movie.
But it is funny how much more often I managed to bruise and get cut up and get bitten by random shit. (Guess who still sucks at recognizing poison ivy and sumac, and apparently has a yard full of poison ivy and sumac?) I am clumsy. I am wicked clumsy. In fact, the neurologist thought I probably fell under the diagnostic guidelines way back when of having something called “Clumsy Child Syndrome”… it supposedly doesn’t get worse, but as someone in England, where they actually considered it something worth looking at and considering doing something about to help perpetually fucked up moving children, “it isn’t as if anyone moves better over the age of forty.” So I am used to mystery abrasions.
But it happened a lot, and I happened to get on a streak of then watching all these horror/haunted house movies and laughed because it was like, “You suckos, you just bought a new to you house and three owners back someone was left handed and installed all that shit backwards!” Or maybe someone was just an asshole and installed it all backwards. I mean, someone was an asshole and installed the cabinet doors upside down and so that was fucking awesome, because it matters.
My mid forearm area is right where the doorknobs hit, by the way.