When I was about eleven, my mom bought a large hardbound book from Reader’s Digest. I can’t recall the title, but the subject matter was mysteries of the world. (It may have been The World’s Last Mysteries, but I’m not sure.)
One of the sections had to do with the paranormal and one story in particular had a picture that scared the shit out of me. I found it online and looking at it again gave me goosebumps.
The story was about the Faces of Bélmez, a house in Spain where face supposedly appeared on the basement floor. The photo scared me so bad that I memorized the page it was on, so that I could read the stories before and after it without ever having to see it again.
Still, I couldn’t stop thinking about the stupid thing. It would keep me awake at night. I could picture it in my head, imagining it trying to talk in a raspy, whispery voice. I was afraid it would come out of the book and hover in the air over my bed. (Getting goosebumps again.)
I don’t know how long this went on. Months, probably, but it seemed like years. Finally, I reached a point where I had to look at it again, no matter how much it freaked me out. I had to see it one last time. I picked up the book and flipped to the preceding page. I could feel it under that page, looking at me, knowing I was going to look, waiting to scare me. So I took a deep breath and turned the page….
Okay, this was a bad idea.