I spent this weekend at the Ghoulish Book Festival in San Antonio, Texas. This annual literary shindig is organized and hosted by Max and Lori Booth. In addition to running the publishing company Ghoulish Books, they own and operate a physical bookstore in Selma, Texas, called (you guessed it!) Ghoulish Books.
I’ve been to my fair share of comic book conventions, film festivals, and other assorted hootenannies, but this was my first legit literary event. I do believe I might have been irrevocably spoiled. Max and Lori organized a fun weekend full of panels, readings, and signings. The general atmosphere of the event was laidback and friendly, and I had a blast meeting some fellow authors from all corners of the continent. Even if I don’t have a chance to vend at the Ghoulish Book Festival again, I will certainly return as a guest. It was a fantastic time.
Plus, I bought a ton of books.
Max emceed a scary campfire story contest on the second night of the festival. Without properly thinking things through, I had volunteered as a participant when it was first announced. That afternoon, I spent about ten minutes brainstorming my story before promptly forgetting about the contest for the next month. It wasn’t until I arrived at the festival and realized I was duty-bound to participate that the full extent of what I had signed up for sunk in. The assignment was to tell a spooky (and entertaining) story in under five minutes in front of an audience consisting of fellow horror writers and the most devout genre readers. Participants were encouraged to memorize their story (but it was not required).
I didn’t even have a story.
Shit.
I had thought about repurposing something I had previously written for a few hours, but nothing perfectly fit the bill. When I first volunteered, I had brainstormed a nugget of an idea with my partner Lucía, but that story was a shaggy, unfocused mess. So I did what anybody in my position would: I put the task off until the very last minute.
On Saturday night, an hour before I was scheduled to compete, I sat down on a stoop in downtown San Antonio and proceeded to workshop the story into submission. I ran through it several times, timing myself with my phone’s stopwatch. I realized I was going way over the five-minute mark (a worry I did not need to have, considering other participants completely disregarded the idea of a time limit. As people walked by me - probably assuming I was a crazy person talking to myself (which, to be honest, I was a crazy person talking to myself) - the story started to form itself into something I could conceivably tell on stage. I went upstairs to the room where the storytelling would be happening and, as soon as I sat down, realized my brain was going to shit the bed as soon as I started my story.
It was too late to write the story out and read it from a sheet of paper, but I needed to outline the story to wrangle my thoughts into some kind of physical manifestation. So, in a frenzy, I did precisely that.
As you can see above, my outline was a mess of chicken scratch and half-thoughts, but the very act of writing it out helped give me the clarity and confidence to go on stage and tell my story. People seemed to dig it - there were a few laughs at least - but I’m just proud of myself for doing the damn thing.
I didn’t want to let the story escape into the ether, so here’s a transcription, as best as I can remember and newly enhanced now that I’m not trying to recite it from memory, of what I performed at the Ghoulish Book Festival’s Spooky Campfire Storyteller’s Horror Storytelling Contest™:
At the beginning of the year, my partner Lucía and I made two significant changes to our lives: we moved into a new house and adopted a new dog.
I like the house a little more than I like the dog. Don’t get me wrong, Bingo’s a good dog when she wants to be. The problem is that, more often than not, Bingo wants to be a stubborn dog who chews everything she can get her teeth around and poop and pee in every room of the house. The annoying part is that she has no reason to do her business indoors. We live right across the street from a dog park - a dog park I am constantly taking her to throughout the day.
The dog park is also the source of one of my only arguments with Lucía. I constantly forget to lock the front door when I take Bingo out. Lucía tells me she’d feel safer if I locked the door - especially if she’s sleeping or taking a shower - and I get that. But, as I’m quick to point out, I’m right across the street the entire time - my eyes trained on that front door as if I were a hawk in search of prey. Still, she reminds me every time, and still, I forget to lock the door every time.
I guess I’m as stubborn as my dog.
Five nights ago, at 11 PM, I took Bingo out to do her business. I was tired and ready to go to bed, but I was forced to wait as Bingo sniffed every corner of the dog park in search of the perfect corner to relieve herself. I admit, as I watched Bingo saunter around the park, not a care in the world, I may have taken my hawk-like eyes off the front door—for a second, if that.
But then, out of the corner of my eyes, I saw what looked like a watermelon-sized black balloon slowly drifting up from the shrubs in front of the house. But balloons - black and watermelon-sized as they might be - don’t have legs, and this one had eight of them - long, spindly things that ferried the creature up the front stoop of the house and halfway up the door. I watched, mouth agape, as the giant spider proceeded to open the door and let itself in.
Quicker than a hungry dog when you open a can of wet food, I ran out of the park and toward the house. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that Lucía hates spiders, especially black watermelon-sized ones that can open doors.
Like a crazed man, I swung open the door to the house and scanned the living room … no sign of the spider. As Lucía watched me from the couch, a look of curiosity awash her face, I opened every closet, every cabinet, every stray Amazon box that I promised I would take out to the recyclable bin earlier that afternoon - there was no sign of the giant spider. Had I hallucinated it? Should I have skipped that second Old Fashioned earlier in the evening? No! I saw what I saw! I was about to squeeze myself under the bed with a flashlight when Lucía asked the million-dollar question: “Where’s Bingo?”
Where was Bingo?
Oh, no.
I had forgotten her in the dog park. Just as fast as I had run into the house, I ran back out - sprinting across the street to the dog park. There was no sign of her. Did somebody let her out? Had she made her own escape? Feet clad in Crocs, I jogged up and down the street, calling out for the stubbornest dog who had ever lived to return to my waiting leash. After fifteen minutes, I knew I’d have to confess what happened. It was, of course, my fault - if I had locked the door, none of this would have happened. So, I walked back inside the house with a heavy heart and a heavier conscience. And who was sitting there on the couch next to Lucía, not a care on her dang dumb doggy face? Bingo.
I eyed Bingo suspiciously. I had strong doubts that this was my dog. I had seen what I had seen with that spider thing. Could this be the creature, shape changed to replace the family pooch? Possibly, but as suspicious as I might have been, I was even more tired. And so I put this dog that was probably not my dog into her kennel and went to bed.
I was awoken in the middle of the night by a whisper. I lay in bed for a bit, willing the sound to disappear, but it kept going: “Kill yourself,” the whisper said. “Kill yourself.” Over and over, it repeated itself, again and again. I looked over at Lucía, and she was fast asleep. I sat up in bed and looked towards the kennel - the only possible source of the whisper as far as I could tell - and there was Bingo, staring directly at me, whispering, “Kill yourself.”
“Shut up,” I told the dog that was definitely not my dog and rolled over to go back to sleep.
I awoke the following day, and the Bingo imposter sat in the kennel, waiting for me. I carefully bent over and let her out. She strolled out of the kennel and headed straight to her food bowl as if nothing was amiss. For the rest of the morning, I studied Bingo, searching for evidence that this dog was up to something more sinister than nocturnal bullying, but she acted like any average dog. In fact, she acted better than an average dog. This false Bingo was well-behaved. No chewed shoes. No puddles of doggy pee. She behaved herself and listened to every command.
Night came, and it was time to put “Bingo” back in her kennel. At 11 PM, without being told, Bingo walked to the front door, nuzzled her leash, and then led me outside so she could immediately do her business. As soon as she was done, she led me back to the house, went into her kennel, and curled up to sleep. Maybe this was just some prolonged hallucination after all. And, if it wasn’t, perhaps it was worth having a dog that whispered weird shit at night but behaved all day.
And whispering weird shit at night is precisely what Bingo proceeded to do. On the second night, it was “Put your head into the oven.” On the third night, it was “Swallow too many sleeping pills.” Last night, it was “Don’t report your book sales on your taxes.” Like I said, weird shit. But - during the day - Bingo couldn’t have behaved better. And, well, I can sleep through pretty much anything, including a whispering dog.
I’m worried, though. Tonight’s the first night I’m away from home. Lucía has told me she’s a light sleeper when I’m not home, and I can’t bear the thought of her waking up and hearing Bingo whispering to her. I can’t bear the thought of Lucía learning what happened to our dog, and I can’t bear the thought of what Bingo might say.
I can’t bear the thought of losing… another goddang argument about locking the goddang door.