The Continuing Story of Foxwood

September 1997


Yesterday when I woke up this dream was still planted in my brain like some off the wall movie I didn’t quite understand. I witnessed myself staring through different eyes. A common day in the life of reality, only better.

I can remember these care-free days of sitting around the television involved in an intense game of Street Fighter. Before passing over the control we interrupt the tournament for a smoke break outside. Conversation went into overtime on that pitch black porch, but the ending comments were usually about how cold it was until we ventured back indoors. In a few months we will be complaining about the heat. The fighting continues as we laugh at common mistakes and realize how enjoyable it is to play the fool.

Later that night separate groups have been formed by you, me, her, and him causing a temptation for practical jokes. The opposite party bangs on a closed metal door as the perpetrator runs away. Water is poured out of the second story window causing the sound of splashing water to sound like an outside intruder to the downstairs party. We loved to be scared. The early morning hours creep into this sacred bond of nightly rituals but goes unnoticed as stories about ghostly figures seen by the human eye in this very house echo in your ears over a great game of Canasta. You catch your opponent cheating and sock them in the arm. A frogging match breaks out but the winner will be discovered the next morning by who has the biggest bruises. A sound is heard in the vacant room across the hall causing speculation to rise to a maximum high leaving us in a state of wondering what the possibilities are of a well-known spook making chaos. Now the garage is making noises. Blood streaks still remain on the mechanical door, but it is still a mystery of how they got there. We notice them after the boxes are unpacked and it was then that the legend of Foxwood was born. This house still exists but long ago abandoned by the likes of our company. We still drive by but it looks like a stranger now, as we do too.

Author: Lindsay Niemann

Writer | Graphic Artist