I had the brilliant idea of getting all my sleeping for the weekend out of the way tonight. That, um, didn't end so well. You see, it kind of started like this.

I was in World Geography, and the class is usually pretty boring so I just read something else and try and absorb whatever the teacher is talking about by osmosis. It's been working so far, so I think I'll keep it up. Anyways, I found myself reading ghost stories. Specifically, stories about a specific breed of ghost, the skinwalker.

From what I read, apparently they are pissed off Native American spirits, who like to eat babies and cats and dogs and just generally fuck with people. They're usually found in rural areas, where Native Americans used to live. Frequently, they take the form of a man wearing a coyote skin, but sometimes they take form as just something hellish and unreal. A common thread in a lot of the stories was the drumming. The people would be out in the middle of nowhere, and all of a sudden they would hear drumming. Then some crazy shit would go down. It was always the drumming they heard first though.

I drank a bottle of wine last night, it seemed appropriate, although halfway through I forgot why I was drinking. I decided maybe I would find my answer on the other side of the bottle, so I went ahead and finished it off, and stumbled to bed. Around 3:30, I get woken up by a sound. I can't place it at first, and then I realize what it is.


We live on a big old empty lot in what used to be Indian country. I'm drunk and tired, and I hear fucking drumming. I pull my kitty close, and tell her, "You're sleeping right next to me." She, of course, gets up and leaves, wanting nothing to do with this haunting business or even making me feel a little safer. I sit in bed, paralyzed for a while, checking the window at my back every few seconds. Eventually, I feel the need to pee, so I get up, grab a knife, and head to the bathroom.In hindsight, I'm really not sure what the knife was for, can you even stab a ghost?

I come back to my bed and the drumming is still going on, but I notice another sound I hadn't noticed before...guitar.

In my drunken state, I might have bought the pissed off Indian story. There was no fucking way I was going to believe that I was being haunted by the ghost of Jimi Hendrix. As the classic rock droned on, I eventually slipped off to sleep.

I woke up this morning and looked around my room anyways, knowing full well how ridiculous last night was, but wanting to make sure there were no claw marks on my window or other ghost shit. The only thing I noticed was that my calendar is still turned to January, which reminded me why I was drinking in the first place.

I need to stop living in the past.