Death of a Marriage

You readers are simply frightening.

It’s spooky how many of you--5,626 to be exact--have bizarre enough imaginations to submit entries to our fifth annual Halloween scary story contest. And, yes, blood-draining as it was, we closely eyeballed each and every one.

Oh, the gore, the guts, the annoying sisters who meet deservedly bitter ends, the green zombies who masquerade as elementary schoolteachers, the outer space guys who turn little boys into ground meat (yes, bones and all).

Martha Stewart moves to our house!

Christmas season presents Tickle Me Donny Osmond dolls!

Marv Albert asks, “Do you have that in a 40 short?”

Stop, stop, stop. Life in Southern California is scary enough.

Well, here are the winners--four adults and four children in the writing category, and an adult and a child in the drawing category. These lucky 10 each win four tickets to Disneyland.

Here are a few samples from those who didn’t make it:

Understatement of the Pile: “Two years ago there was a boy named Max. He was not very nice. He robbed an old lady. He felt bad. So did the old lady.”

Best Last Line: “It’s been a year since Scott’s death. I’m sad about this tragedy, but at least I’m popular.”

Call David Letterman: “It would be a scary Halloween this year when . . . your mother generously volunteered to provide entertainment (defined as singing and doing the polka) at the annual school dance.”

Take me to Funkytown: “The Boogie Man wore a white polyester suit and a gold chain around his neck. . . . Gerald could feel the life drain out of him as he was compelled to do the Disco Duck and then the Hustle.”

And now the winners:

I didn’t follow my fellow commuters into the left turn lane and onto the freeway. Not on that dark morning. No, I didn’t care if I was late. I’d blame it on the rain. My windshield wipers beat time and I turned off the radio. No need for traffic every six minutes. The sky was low and the brackish clouds kept feeding the streets a steady diet of water.

I guess I just wanted to spend a little time thinking. The long dead days of the past came to mind unbidden, and, like all good corpses, they brought forth dread and panic. Memories of my dead wife sat heavily next to me in the passenger seat of my car.

I drove toward the old neighborhood. I had avoided the place since my wife had died because I was convinced our old house was now ruled by ghosts. My wife had died in that house, but, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember exactly how. Today, I would remember.

Our street. We grew up together on it. Neither of us had siblings, and, as kids, we lived only five houses apart. When her family moved to town in the autumn of that fateful year, she was only 11 years old. I loved her so much for so long.

The house itself meant a lot to us. Her parents gave it to us as a wedding present. The week of our honeymoon, they moved to Virginia to be closer to her dying grandmother, and, on our return from Hawaii, I carried my bride over the threshold of our house.

Around the last corner, the house and its two front windows glared at me with nostalgic malice. My jaw ached from the terror of it.

As I stepped from the car, a moaning roll of thunder shook me from my shoulders to my toes. Rain like bullets fell upon me in a fusillade. It was as if the house could command the weather. Undaunted, I bent my shoulder into the force of the gale and bolted across the lawn.

I peered into the first bay window and saw nothing but darkness. I trudged onward around the corner. In the next room, I saw only silhouettes of some antique chairs. As I turned, I heard faint music emerge from deep inside the house.

I raced to the next window. Suddenly, roaring flames from the fireplace within lit up the scene before me. The specter of a man squeezed at the ghostly throat of my long dead wife. She thrust out her arms and a wine glass shook within her fingers.

This couldn’t be happening. No! I just couldn’t lose her. Not again! I pounded my fists on the glass that separated us. Inside, she screamed. The wine glass fell, and a pool of blood erupted at her feet. I turned for the front door.

Then, blackness. I never made it to the door. I never even made it to the corner. Everything went black when I slipped and slammed headfirst into a fence post. I awoke cradled in the arms of my dead wife.

But she wasn’t dead. She was asking me questions. Was I OK? Was I crazy? What on earth did I think I was doing? Her new husband looked down at us with barely controlled rage. He was proof that my ex-wife was very much alive to the rest of the world. The truth? The horrible, horrible truth was that someone whom I once cherished so much was now dead to me.

*

* Freeman, 28, is an auditor for the state of California. He lives in Chino.