Hungry Hair in a Haunted Hotel

Once again, I am travelling with a large group of friends — rugged backpackers and mountaineers, teachers and social activists — and we’re in a rustic wooden hotel that is haunted as heck. The hallways are dark, cold and menacing and despite knowing there are malicious spirits around, i have to keep going in order to enter our room. My roommates are all asleep. I’m not even sure if they’re really there or if I’m all alone. Unsure whether the mounds underneath the blankets have slumbering friends under them or vengeful spirits. The darkness is thick and frosted with mildew and despair.

Something touches my shoulders. A quick glance and I realize my hair is growing by leaps and bounds. Like Sadako in The Ring, it’s blossoming from my scalp and quickly covering my back, my face, my torso, then my feet.

It’s now several meters long and seems to be burrowing into the floor underneath me, trapping me, keeping me rooted to the spot. I cannot move. And the tangles of hair begin to choke me. My hair has a life of its own. And it is hungry.

In the moldy darkness of this room which reminds me of a Haruki Murakami novel , I silently pray for death.

*

In this video clip is the sort of hair I dreamed about. This is the original Japanese version of The Ring before Hollywood cast Naomi Watts in the English remake.

I blame a post over at FemThreads where blogger Lindsay cut her hair short and donated it to charity for reminding me about this recurring dream I’ve had over several years on and off.

Photo Credits: The Wardrobe Creatures2 by Gabriela Camerotti on Flickr.

The Gossip at My Own Funeral

I am a fly. On the wall. Below me is a casket. I am in the open casket, caked in embalmer’s make-up and dressed in a suit that I wouldn’t have been caught dead in had I been alive. What are the people saying?

Photo Credits: Stupid Spoiled Whore

I hear someone whispering:

“Pucci was a bad bad boy. Did you know he used to peep through our windows? Elena and I would be dancing naked in the laundry room, and outside in the itchy bushes would be our neighbor’s ten-year-old son Pucci, beating his one-eyed monkey to the tune of the Macarena.”

Off in the corner, I hear a woman sobbing:

“Why did he die anyway? He was supposed to take out the garbage next Thursday!”

And right below me, I hear:

“Pucci had one eye on the world, and one eye on porn. No wonder he died blind and blistered.”