Member-only story
My Weird Day with Hammock Cults and Stalker Walkers
Or, how I live in a Stephen King story
Recently, I’ve come to realize that I live in a Stephen King novel. I’ve always had my suspicions — but figured the clown calling me from a neighborhood sewer was just an odd coincidence.
When I dreamt of a wise, elderly lady beckoning me to Boulder, Colorado, I just assumed it was my subconscious reminding me to take the 90-minute drive from Colorado Springs to Boulder. One day, I stumbled across a crude graveyard on a nearby trail, and a sign that read:
Here Lies Fluffy. She was a good cat. I hope she comes back.
My heart smiled and I stopped to snap a photo, but completely forgot about Pet Sematary. The sudden tempest that whipped through my hair and pelted me with golfball size hail?
“Just the extreme Colorado weather,” I thought. “Not a foreboding omen.”
When an extremely pale, scarred toddler wearing a suit approached and told me he wanted to play with me, I thought it was weird, but told him to go find his mommy. He laughed and waddled away, chanting, “We’ll have an awful good time.” Huh.
The town of Castle Rock, Colorado, 40 miles to my north, should’ve been my first sign that I’m just a side character in a King novel. Yet my life…
