The New Digs

This weekend I’ve finally moved in to the place I will call home for the next year.  It’s a home in the less-populated area of Blacksburg, near the Christiansburg border.  Overall I’m satisfied with the place, but some odd happenings have, uh, happened over the weekend that have me a bit worried.

Last Saturday, I had loaded the last of my belongings into the house.  I plopped down on the couch, exhausted, to watch some television.  Good ol’ TV.  The first thing that appears on the screen is a fishing tournament, which I promptly change.  No big deal, right?  In all honesty, I would not have been able to tell you what was on TV when I first turned it on if the other events of the weekend hadn’t occurred.

I’m sitting at my desk the first night, surfing the Internets and chatting online in silence.  I get a nervous sensation in my stomach, the feeling you get when someone or something is coming to get you and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.  I turn around quickly and hear a loud “VROOM” sound speed by me, fading just as quickly as it appeared.  The wind picked up inside the room, the papers at my desk swirling around.  My hair blows from the air the ghost car pushed by.

I fall asleep with the light on.

I dreamed I was in a 10 by 10 concrete cell, with one door.  I was seated at a chair, looking at the man seated across from me.  It was Dale Earnhardt.  He didn’t say a word.  He only glared at me with contempt.  I tried to look away, to be distracted from his evil eyes and moustache, but I could not.  This went on for eternity.

Finally he slowly got up from his chair and walked toward the door, looking back at me, still.  He bumped into the concrete wall of the cell, startled, collected himself, rolled his eyes, and walked out.

The next thing I knew I was in an arena, being chased by a monster truck painted with a Confederate flag motif.  I saw both NRA and Bush/Cheney 2000 bumper stickers on its rear as I dodged its approach.  While running for my life, I glimpsed up at the stands.  Men with ketchup-stained wifebeaters and missing teeth were hootin’ and hollerin’.  The women, buck-toothed, morbidly obese, and mullet-crowned, were equally as enthralled by my impending doom.

The truck caught up to me, pinning me against the wall.  A man who looked like Cletus from the Simpsons got out of the passenger side of the truck and pointed a shotgun to my head.  The crowd booed and jeered, arms raised, clenched fists, thumbs down.  I was in a hillbilly gladiator arena.

Cletus looked up to a spot in the stands toward his Emperor.  It was Dale Earnhardt.  He held his thumb sideways as the crowd, and I, awaited his decision.  The crowd was chanting “Kill, Kill!” in heavy Alabama accent.

Thumbs down.

I screamed as Cletus pushed hard against my temple and prepared to pull the trigger.  I woke up bolting upright, my sheets drenched with sweat.

Everything came together at that moment, and I knew exactly why these things were happening to me.  The television.  The phantom NASCAR racer.  The horrible, horrible dreams.

The house I’ve moved into was built above an Ancient Redneck Burial Ground.

I don’t know how to appease the apparently angry spirits.  Tonight I’m going to try dumping the contents of a Budweiser six-pack in my backyard.  Hopefully that will work.  If not, then I’ll have to call in professionals:

I hope it doesn’t have to come to that, but if you’re out there Ghostbusters, expect a call from me very soon.