An imagination can be a very scary thing!

I'm home, the door is double locked and I ain't answering it to anyone til the sun comes up!

I worked a late shift today, which (due to my self imposed taxi ban) means walking home through quiet Lancaster streets at night. Shortly after setting off, I was approached by an elderly man. He explained that he was looking for the road out of Lancaster toward Kendal. Being a non-driver I did my best to explain what I thought was the best route, but he didn't seem to get it. We bid eachother a good night and I continued on my way.

Ten minutes later a car pulls up beside me. It's the old man again. This time he asks if I can get in the car with him and direct him. Now I would never get into a strangers car. Not even a young, attractive strangers car. Not even if they offered me sweeties or to show me some cute puppies. So I made another (brief) attempt at giving directions, before making a feeble excuse along the lines of 'but I'm not going that way, sorry!'. I was, but thought it best not to let on.

I then crossed the road, taking a short detour along a road I didn't really have to go down, so that it looked like I really wasn't going his way. There I saw a very petite lady, walking two very big dogs (or possibly bears - it was dark). One of them growled and lunged at me, the very frail looking petite lady barely able to restrain it. I ran, a little, then composed myself and walked at a more leisurely, less panicked girly pace.

As I progressed the streets seemed deserted and quiet. Too quiet. Then I passed St. Peters Road. I went to a house party there once. The house had a creepy stone cellar. A 'Hammer Horror' cellar. A 'Hammer Horror' cellar that looked like it should contain medeaval instruments of torture, or kinky bondage, or a blood splattered pentagram daubed across the floor, or all three. I started to walk like a panicked girly again.

Without thinking clearly, I crossed the road into Canal Walk. Quiet, deserted canalside Canal Walk, with the cleverly altered sign that now said something rude. The stretch of canal that I suddenly remembered was the site of two recent muggings. My panicked girly walk became a panicked girly jog. Ahead of me I saw two hoodies walk onto the bridge at the end of the path. I don't think they noticed me, thankfully.

A few minutes later I'm back on my own street, home only a few short minutes away. What's that? Distant footsteps. Whispered indecipherable syllables. I turn my head to look behind me. There's no one there. I continue. Again more footsteps, more whispers, closer now. I look again, no one there, silence. I half run into the door, turn the key, enter the dark lobby at my block of flats. The lights are flickering.

As I get onto my corridor I am hit by a dank, chemical odour eminating from an open door. Rationally, I think it's only paint fumes. The neighbours are decorating. Irrationally, I imagine the neighbour has killed his girlfriend and dumped her in a bath full of acid. The scent of her eroded body filling the air. Quickly, I pace up to my door, then I hear a loud creak. The fire door beside me swings open. I just barely pull myself together and greet the neighbours girlfriend, coming in through a haze of cigarette smoke. Phew!

...and that's the story of how I was nearly mugged by hoodies, molested by an old perv in a satanic dungeon and mauled by rabid bears (and a ghost) before discovering a grisly murder.

I think I need some stronger medication!

Sleep well! x