I’m supposed to have a high threshold on the creep-o-meter.Â 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.Â I was at the My Chemical Romance/Muse show in Houston.Â 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.Â Through bits of overheard conversation, I learned said girl was eight years old.Â I felt kinda bad for her.Â 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.Â I didn’t really think anything of this.Â I couldn’t hear the kid complain about her lack of visibility or anything.Â All’s cool, right?Â Wrong.
My Chem started to play Mama, that delightful little pseudo-polka, and I suddenly felt something wet and warm on my wrist.Â 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.Â 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.Â 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 ableÂ to say I knew her when.