I’m supposed to have a high threshold on the creep-o-meter.  It’s in the job description, and any sign of weakness can have my membership to the horror writers’ association revoked.

But damn, this gave me the “I’m so terrified I might puke” jitters.

It happened Saturday night.  I was at the My Chemical Romance/Muse show in Houston.  Between Muse’s opening set and the first My Chem set (they played two, on as The Black Parade and one as My Chemical Romance), I noticed a little girl standing in front of me with her mother.  Through bits of overheard conversation, I learned said girl was eight years old.  I felt kinda bad for her.  She’s a tiny girl on the floor of an arena show, probably brought by her mother because a babysitter couldn’t be found in time.

That soon changed, and the terror began.

By the time The Black Parade set began, we were infront of the girl and her mother.  I didn’t really think anything of this.  I couldn’t hear the kid complain about her lack of visibility or anything.  All’s cool, right?  Wrong.

My Chem started to play Mama, that delightful little pseudo-polka, and I suddenly felt something wet and warm on my wrist.  I looked down at my arm just in time to see that cute, innocent looking eight-year-old lick my arm from wrist to elbow on one slow, torturous motion.  I stared at the kid in utter horror, and she flashed me a smile.

I dried my arm on my pants leg and positioned myself on the other side of Shawna.  I never saw the kid again, but I’m sure in twelve years or so she’ll pop up in headlines as either a porn star or serial killer.

And I’ll be able to say I knew her when.