Ceres, California

When I was five, my dad had decided that we needed to move from Riverside to Ceres (California cities) where my uncle Shawn lived and worked. I don’t recall the reason for it. Maybe my dad had just lost his job again. Maybe he wanted to be around his big brother. I’m not really sure. So we packed up all of our clothes and mementoes and jumped on a Greyhound bus to Ceres to live with my uncle and his wife. The first thing of note in Ceres were the mosquitos. Even more notable were the bites that they left behind. Hundreds of them. So miserable. Ceres was basically a conglomerate of houses, canals and fields…always a bit humid, a bit hot, and a bit smelly.

We were only at my uncle’s house for a short time (a few months) before we moved on to Modesto, but in that time, something happened that I will never forget.

My uncle’s house was a ranch style rambler. Knickknacks, crocheted doilies, embroidered quilts, more than their fair share of macramé plant hangers. It was busy and colorful. Oversized wooden utensils on the wall. Rooster décor. Potpourri. You get the idea. It was homey…

One night I woke up and needed to go to the bathroom in which I needed to travel through the front room to get to. In the center of the room there was a brown box that was tipped on its side. The box was probably about two foot by two foot by two foot, with its opening facing me. Even though the front room seemed to be lit well enough, I could not see in the box. It was all but black. As I approached the box, I thought that I could hear breathing coming from the box. Nothing too drastic. Just a slight wheezing breathing. To think back it reminds me of my cat Kipper in how he breathes; a little labored, a little airy.

As I drew closer to the box, the breathing somewhat slowed down in accordance to my proximity. As I stood about four feet away, the breathing stopped. From the depths of the box, came a crackly, whispering, high pitched voice with the question “What’s yoourr naaaammee?”

To be cont’d…

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Jeremiah Griffith

Jeremiah Griffith

Jeremiah, as his friends affectionately call him (Jeremy to people that want to unintentionally get under his skin) is a father to four people, a friend to many and nemesis to a few. That’s not his story though, that’s theirs. And by “his”, I mean “mine” and by “theirs”, I still mean “theirs”. Because I am him and they are them.

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  • Becca Lingley

    And now we have to wait until next month?! Good story, so far…

  • Really? You’re going to stop there? And I was so looking forward to crapping myself this morning…

  • Jergrif73

    I just got chills thinking about the rest of the story… You can crap yourself next month! 😀

  • Jergrif73

    Thanks Becca! 🙂