Bloody Mary

So, when I was twelve, my parents sent me to summer daycare. Perhaps they were a little overprotective, but details. The point of this blog is that although I was a good kid, I had a mischievous streak, and have always been a skeptic.

When the kids decided that Bloody Mary was living in the girls' restroom, I led a few investigations. There was nothing, of course. There was no blood on any mirror, there was no blue toilet water (because we tested Baby Boy Blue too, while we were at it), and no one came out of anywhere to attack anyone at all.

The whole "good kid" thing is important because I was trying to disprove a theory after little girls started wetting themselves rather than go to the bathroom, since they weren't allowed to use the adult bathroom.

I failed anyway. Kids wanted to believe, for the same reason people like a good ghost story. It's exciting.

There were some girls who claimed they had seen Bloody Mary, and who are you going to believe? A twelve year old, or a group of ten year olds? Well, neither probably, but on with the story.

A group of girls went into the bathroom with a few they were trying to scare, and I volunteered to hold the door open so they could escape when Bloody Mary arrived. So they did their chanting and turning around in circles and flicking water at the mirrors and flushing all the toilets, and when the first girl screamed that the trash can had moved, WHOOMP! The bathroom door sealed closed.

I can't get the door open! *it opens half an inch, then slams shut again* I'm pulling!

I even pretended to pull so the kids outside the bathroom could see that I was innocent. Somehow Bloody Mary had skipped the stabbings and gone straight for holding the door shut, which doesn't sound like much, except that group hysteria is a powerful thing.

During the struggle to open the door and free the girls, someone saw Bloody Mary in a flash on a mirror, someone saw a single drop of blood, someone saw her fly out of the mirror, then disappear, someone saw the trashcan jump, though within three retellings the trashcan had lifted a full foot off the ground and moved across the floor.

I did eventually let go of the door—I mean, I managed to pry it open, against a strong and mysterious force—and a wall of screaming girls fell out and scattered, still squealing, to the winds. Or to five feet away from the bathroom, to relive the terror.

Things kind of faded out after that. I like to think that everyone was so terrified they stopped talking about Bloody Mary, and since no one was talking about it, girls started going to the bathroom again.

That's the end, you can go now. Or go play on Snopes or something, that's always fun.

Dear DIY Ancestors,

Doing it yourself is not always the correct choice. You may realize that now, as you're sitting up in Heaven in that pink hotel room that you allegedly described to Aunt Martyr that one time on the Ouija board. If, however, you are above all that nonsense, I would like to draw your attention to one tiny little detail down here that you've likely forgotten.

Remember in the 80's when my great-grandmother's allergies were killing her, and you nailed all the windows in the house shut? And when having closed windows didn't help, you then caulked all the seams and painted over everything? And how when it still didn't work you moved to Arizona?

Well, I happen to be living here now, due to unforeseen circumstances, and the window a/c which was bought secondhand 28 years ago has now officially died, and I would like to open a window.

Perhaps I shouldn't address this to my ancestor at all (and, by the way, I know exactly which one of you did this. I think we knew each other well enough for me to be honest). Perhaps I should address this to people who are still among the living, who jury-rig things because it's easier than doing it right.

Now, I'm not criticizing those who read up or take someone's advice on home repair. I'm certainly not criticizing those who simply can't afford a big fix and need something to last them until a better fix is available. We're all in that spot from time to time.

I also realize that twenty-some years ago, people didn't understand things like fire safety, and the need to be able to escape through a window that doesn't open up over the hole that goes to the basement. That was sarcasm, sorry. But I've been told you're the one who made these odd renovations, and not for lack of money. Of course, that money is gone now, but that's another story entirely.

I suppose the point of this letter is to say that it's about 90 degrees Fahrenheit in here, with 70% humidity, and I've considered just breaking the window to get some air. I will get through these windows. Even if it takes a good, hefty rock.

Sincerely,
The Quiet One