Have a delicious Halloween, ghouls. I will be spending mine handing out treats to costumed bobbins (if today’s rain doesn’t keep them away) and watching old scary movies. Hopefully, it will be a clown-free holiday. *eeep!*

I like to think of it as “being prepared for anything”, but it’s probably closer to “being a dingbat.” Here’s my confession for today: I have a problem getting rid of stuff (and people, too, but that’s a whole other story…). Sorting things I need from things I don’t need is as difficult for me as it was for that dude who (SPOILER!) had to cut off his own limb at the end of Saw. Deleting emails, even spam, is next to impossible, because I am afraid that once I get rid of it, it’ll magically transform into THE SINGLE MOST IMPORTANT EMAIL EVER SENT TO ME AND I NEED IT IMMEDIATELY OR MY LIFE IS OVER. You have that too, right? It’s not just me. It can’t be. For example:

“AJ, are you looking for something in our science fiction & fantasy books department? If so, you might be interested in these items: Look! Here are two books you wrote, and three books you’ve already purchased! Sincerely, Amazon.”

Clearly, I do not need to save this email. There’s nothing for me to gain by keeping it. I could have happily not even read it, because it offers me only stuff I already have (like <insert shameless self-promotion here, go buy my books>). If I delete this email, no harm will come to me. However… here it stays. I KNOW, it’s a sickness. It’ll be transferred into a file folder called Saved For No Bloody Reason. It’s a weird, modern sort of paranoia…fear of dumping probably-useless digital information. I wish it were my only pack rat quirk.

Other things I’m scared to get rid of:

1. Photographs. I’m irrationally POSITIVE that if I throw someone’s picture in the garbage (or delete it from my phone/computer) it’s the same as metaphorically trashing that person’s essence from existence, as if the Cosmos will take Her cue from me and literally dispose of that person from Her planet. Then they’ll die and it’ll be ALL MY FAULT. This is why I have eight million pictures. You know how some girls burn pictures of ex-boyfriends for closure? I couldn’t possibly do that. What if they actually burst into flames and crisp to death?! I didn’t dislike them that much. There’s really only one ex-boyfriend I would wish that on, and he’s already dead. Hmm…then why haven’t I chucked his pictures? I can’t make him more dead… CAN I?? Holy crapwaffles, my imaginary powers are terrifying. If I throw this picture of my dead ex in a wood chipper, will it come out the other end like bone chips and rotten flesh? I’d better keep these pictures of him just in case. (Probably, I should just stop taking pictures. Or I should only take pictures of my enemies! Ooooh, photo-voodoo. Bwa hahahaha. Hey, what happens if I delete a selfie? OMG!)

2. Notes about Nothing. Something occurs to me just before I slip into dreamland, and I throw a sleepy hand out and grab my night pencil (an actual thing, beside my bed) and scribble the thought down on my night pad (disclaimer: not the Always with Wings night pads) and then I chuckle and fall asleep. In the morning, these notes are nearly illegible, and more importantly, not funny. At least, they’re not funny in this century. BUT WHAT IF HUMOR CHANGES AND THIS IS SUDDENLY, INEXPLICABLY AMUSING to people who are wide awake? There’s a healthy 2% chance that could happen. I’d better put it on my desk for a while to consider its true worth. And then next month, when the crumbs on my desk between all the books and pens and note scraps have reached critical mass and it’s time to clean, I’ll tuck this not-funny note into my idea box. And then at Christmas or so, when I’m procrastinating about holiday shopping, I’ll sort the idea box and maybe move this note to my peg board or into one of the desk drawers, with the eighteen million other notes that aren’t funny, clever, or interesting. Yet. But maybe someday… (Note: that is not my desk. Mine is much, much worse.)

3. Mason jars. I have made jam once. To be precise, I made peach jam, white grape jelly, crab-apple jelly, and strawberry-raspberry jam. It was the sweatiest, most exhausting 3 days of my life, if you don’t count that ill-considered fling I had with my yoga instructor in 1996. Anyways, it was an enormous pain in the ass (the jam, not the yoga instructor), cost a fortune after buying pectin, jars, rings, lids, seals, stickers, canning equipment, cheesecloth, a grinder, etc etc…and in the end, it tasted no different than store bought. The likelihood of my making jam ever again is comparable to the likelihood of my becoming the Empress of Doom on the planet Draconia where the population is largely centaur, and they all worship me more as a goddess, really, because I’m that awesome. What was I saying? Oh, right, jam. Not gonna happen. But any time I have an empty jar, I can’t let go. WHAT IF I NEED TO CAN SOMETHING? Like, it’s the end of the world, and I really need to make pickles? For the future of mankind. Planet-saving pickles. But I can’t, because like a stooge, I threw out all my mason jars. What kind of an idiot risks the fate of humanity by throwing out something like MASON JARS? Not this idiot, I assure you. I have more mason jars than any sane person could ever need. I’m gonna be honest with ya….they’re taking up a lot of space in my pantry doing a whole lot of nothin’. Sometimes, I think I should box them up and put them out in the barn, but then what if I need a mason jar IMMEDIATELY and there isn’t one on hand? Like, there’s a pickle emergency? Could happen. And if it does…. I’m ready. I’m your gal, picklepocalypse survivors.

Are you a pack rat, too? What do you save?

Another Marnie Baranuik “Between The Files” short story is dropping just in time for Hallowe’en, my pretties. Go ahead and dirty your Kindle on Monday, October 21, 2013! It’s a fun little romp with some of your favourite characters, perfect for a one-evening read or a trip on the train. If you like epic fails and big ol’ dirt monsters (what kinda whackadoodle doesn’t?) then you’ve gotta get Dirt Nap! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Jail probably would have been a better place to spend a Thursday afternoon, but when a preternatural expert is needed, there’s no one else who can fill Marnie Baranuik’s Keds. Beset by a rampaging stone monster and a furious quarry owner, trapped between a rock and a hard-ass, Marnie faces her biggest challenge yet, and discovers once and for all if size really does matter.

(Editor’s note: A.J. Aalto is hard at work on the third instalment to the Marnie Baranuik Files, if by “hard at work” you mean lurking in graveyards, eating all the Hallowe’en candy, and lookin’ for trouble.)

So, Saturday morning, in an effort to advance my research for my third book, Last Impressions, I dragged my reluctant friends on a hunt for the local haunted tunnel in Thorold. We found and ventured into the Blue Ghost Tunnel. And I have been SICK EVER SINCE. Fever, tiredness, aches, sore throat, stuffed head… Not that I’m blaming the ghosts, except that I totally am, so what’s up with that, spirits? I was coming to do you a favour, you misty motherfuckers. I was gonna put you in a book. *cough, snarf* But now? I’m still putting you in my book, and boy are you gonna come off like a buncha dead douchebags, which you TOTALLY ARE. (I am not overreacting. *sulk, sniffle, HACK!*)

Allow me to backtrack. Our day started out with a nice hike…and by “nice hike,”  of course I mean “a walk that was waaaay longer than we expected, but before we realized it, we were tired and too far away from the car to sensibly turn back.” And then we ignored this…

In case you can’t read that, it says “wrong fucking turn dumbass.” Clearly, an attempt by the ghosts to dissuade our investigation by the use of foul language and poor punctuation skills. Well played, ghosts, but you’re gonna have to do more than that!

Oh, hey, what’s this? A twenty-five foot drop with a side order of mud, stones, and trees? Well, that’s a bit more troublesome, and I bet you thought I’d turn back, ghosties…But this is field research, yo. I don’t mind getting a bit dirty. And bruise-y. What else ya got?

Ack! … is that a dead mouse? And a dead crayfish? Where the–what? Either there’s a raccoon living nearby, or this is an official Grim Warning From the Great Beyond. Well, NICE TRY, ghosts. I’ve seen dead stuff before, so it isn’t going to work. You’d have to show me something a lot bigger and deader if you want to stop me. (Why did I say that? I shouldn’t have said that! Now there’s definitely going to be a festering corpse in the tunnel with its skin drooling off.) Nope, I’m not turning back. Not for anything. Not for….uh, not…uhmm….

Waaaaaaaait just a toadsucking minute. I have to crawl through that little hole INTO THE DRIPPY DARKNESS?? But I can’t fit sideways! I’m gonna have to go head-first or feet-first. That can’t be smart. That can’t be– *peeks in*– WHOA WHOA WHOA, yammahammafuckno! There’s something moving in there. I heard a thump-rustle. WHAT THUMP-RUSTLED??

Okay. Get it together, Writerghoulie. Deep breath. There’s nothing in the Tunnel of Death waiting to chew your feet off at the ankles, even though it’s so very obviously the Tunnel of Death By Foot Chewage. Likewise, there’s no head-munching mud-monster in the Tunnel of Death by Head Munchery, and also, there’s probably not, like, a pale-white goblin clinging to the ceiling, waiting to drop on your back the instant you clear that hole, even though we both know there HAS TO BE.

Why do I get the feeling that I’m being filmed for one of those “Stupidest Ways to Die” shows? What kind of moron would go into that revolting, slimy little hole not knowing what was on the other side? Oh wait! I have a flash light app on my iPhone. That’ll help, right? Okay, yes, my bravery is restored by way of itty bitty light!

This is (was) my dear friend and fellow writer, Jonesy, flashing his final cocky smile & pose, and sayin’ “See, no ghosts!” seconds before the ghosts ate him. This was the last time anyone saw him (not really, but if only) or heard from him (again, I wish). It was a tough moment, losing Jonesy to a pack of ravenous spirits, but we got over it and pressed onward. He will be missed (sorta…).

Inside the tunnel, it’s horrifyingly dark…and I’m not afraid of the dark. But I was afraid of this dark. I really was. Even with my friends with me, laughing and goofing off. That didn’t really help, because there we were, adults in our late thirties/early forties who do not believe in ghosts, scared anyway. Because this tunnel has a reputation for being full of dead people. And even though ghosts don’t exist, if they did, then it makes sense that nice, happy, smart people don’t become ghosts, because they go to Heaven. BAD, ANGRY, STUPID people stay as ghosts. Ergo, ALL GHOSTS ARE DUMBASS RAGE-FILLED MEANIE-MEANIE EVILPANTSES. Or maybe that’s just me. (I swear, I don’t scare this easily anywhere else.)

Water is constantly dripping in the Blue Ghost Tunnel. The humidity in there is high, and there’s a lot of dust, spores, and crud in the air. (I suppose, since I’m a scientist, I should be using phrases like “respirable suspended particulates,” but it’s fuckin’ crud and we all know it.) This crud explains all the “ghost pictures” of mist and so-called orbs in the tunnel. I’ve never been to a more damp, enclosed spot before. If you have any breathing problems at all, bring your inhaler and maybe a dust mask.

You’re never alone in the BG Tunnel, no. You share the darkness with mice, rats, frogs with weird glowing eyes and, judging by the guano splats, bats…although I didn’t spot any.  Pure white mushrooms sprout everywhere. The footing is rotten wood inter-spaced with slick, knee-twisting, ankle-snapping mud. You could see your breath in the flash light beam, mixed with the swirling mist that is the tunnel’s natural environment. Some wiseass decided to invoke Pennywise the clown by leaving bright plastic kid’s foam letters and red balloons down there. Verrrrrry funny. *jumps!* Fuckers. I hate you so much.

If you venture much further than the opening of the tunnel, daylight is quickly lost, plunging you into a disturbing gloomy zone that lacks light but is full of movement and sensation. Your flash light doesn’t offer much illumination at the midway point, because there’s too much fog and gunk in the air. On the left side (North), there’s a drop-off into some grey, murky-ass water, no idea how deep (I wasn’t going annnnnnywhere near it; I’ve seen those movies where the tentacle lashes out and grabs your foot, and I’m not getting hauled in that shit. Also, my friend Jonesy is the kind of dude who’d go “BAH!” and fake-shove you toward it, and I didn’t feel like peeing my pants again.) At the far (East) end, the tunnel is underwater. It’s probably not deep, but that’s for someone else to find out, not me. You couldn’t pay me enough to even get close to it. Do you remember that episode of X-Files with the grub-like parasite living in the sewers? Of course one of those is lurking in that water. How could you even doubt it?

On the way out, shadows play in the last place you looked, drawing a moment of alarmed attention. Your step quickens, and you’re telling yourself, “okay, been here, done this, I can go now. No looking back.” But you must look back as the dark closes in behind you, and now that your flash light isn’t aimed at that end of the tunnel, it sure seems like there’s more activity. You told your brain to expect that (because you’re not going to escape this place, not without incident or injury! Maybe you’re not going to escape alive! The ghosts won’t let you leave!), and so your imagination happily obliges you with soft thuds, and heavy, swirling air, and WHAT THE FUCK JUST TOUCHED MY HAIR?! Cold mist brushes the back of your neck, things behind you shift and whisper, your foot slips, you lose your balance and reach out for the wall, only to find it slick and icky. It’s no wonder you could quickly jump to otherworldly conclusions, and if I had been there without my trusty team of skeptics, I probably would have. Which is precisely why I need to go alone. *wicked grin* I know, dumb idea, really quite stupid. It’s way out in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. The terrain leading down to the tunnel is dangerously steep and uneven, with jutting rock shards and tangling vines. Inside, the rotten rail-road ties could crumble, plunging me underneath, or trapping me inside. And that’s when Pennywise would…. BLERG. Okay, maybe I won’t go alone. Heh.

On our way out, we discovered this.

Yep. What you see here is the fucking door fucking opening because it wasn’t fucking locked to begin with. Or ghosts did it. But the point is, I crawled head-first into that disgusting little hole to the left when I could have just went through the gate. *nods* Yeah. But I wasn’t the only person who didn’t notice that.

Until next time, this is your intrepid reporter in the field of ridiculous research, Writerghoulie xo

(author’s note: This is me punching a ghost. Because that’s what you do, obviously. I mean, there’s no such things as ghosts, and I totally don’t believe in ghosts at all…but when there are ghosts, you punch them. Hmm, why was I wearing sunglasses in an underground tunnel? Were the ghosts too bright? Hey, does it seem to anyone else like that mist on the left is reaching for me? … Naaaaahhhh.)