Got news for you pal, just because you decide to stop talking to the dead won’t stop the dead from talking to you. The dead and the living. The dead alive and the living dead. You’ve seen the movie, right? They’re ripping off the siding, banging on the door, busting through the floorboards. Stumbling and leaning all their weight into it, the walls thunder, going thump—thump—thump, like some hard uneven Diddley beat.
Off goes the shoulderbone. Shattering pane. Stuffing their necks through the splinters. Sharp cracking sounds of a split neck doesn’t stop the dead’s head from “Dancing the Screw” into your headspace, where you posture in McGruff defiance.
Really, you’re all bark and no bite. Because you’re shaking. You’ve done everything to protect yourself from this sort of thing happening. You had the place fortified—supernatural-proof, miracle-proof, bird-proof, dead-proof, living-proof. You’ve been living upstate, in a cloaked decoy Adirondack house with a spiral passage that leads into a nuke-proof underground bunker. Now, without warning, they’ve got the place surrounded.
The supernatural forces of the universe are not too concerned with what we want and what we don’t want. It doesn’t really matter if you built your house on sand or in upstate New York in a doomsday prepper underground bunker hidden beneath a decoy Adirondack. They’re coming for you. Twisting and turning their corkscrew broken neck heads, and turning their wide clown eyes and smile towards you, saying, “Let’s talk, baby. Baby, let’s talk.”