Nightmares

When I was a child I lived in a haunted house. It was a cute little bungalow style home in Falls Church, Virginia. It had bay windows, a fireplace and a big back yard full of huge old oak trees, one of which had a small tree house built into it. We moved in when I was nine years old, and left when I was twelve. We came from an apartment in South Arlington, so moving into a real house like this was really something for an urban latch key kid like me.

Something used to sit down on the edge of my bed at night. Just as I was drifting off I would occasionally feel the distinct weight shifting as something sat and settled. Turning on the lights revealed nothing. Other things happened too, but nothing too dramatic. It seems it was a benevolent spirit, and although I never liked the basement in the house (which should have been a kids paradise), surprisingly none of the events seem to have troubled me much.

I have always loved horror stories. A good scare is certainly a visceral experience! I can remember Saturday nights spent watching horror movies on TV with my mother, a rare treat to staty up late, curled up under an afghan and peeking out at the screen through the holes in the fabric during the scary parts. As a teen I fell in love with the dark fantasies of Stephen King, Dean Koontz and a host of other modern horror masters. I guess I was imprinted from an early age.

These images are my shadowy channelings; my realized nightmares. Some are constructs in that I intentionally crafted them to be what they are. Others are accidents or manipulations that yielded something darker than was perhaps intended. All of them quietly whisper some dark secret to me.