I’ve been known to have an active imagination, veering toward the “something supernatural and spooky is out to get me” direction. When I was five, I swear I saw a green alien wearing a purple vest creeping around my bedroom window in the wee hours of the morning. Turns out there was a peeping tom roaming the neighborhood, but what kind of peeper wears a fancy vest? I maintain ALIEN. Haunted houses and ghost-forward movies are a giant no in my world. At age five or six (probably still reeling from the attempted alien abduction), some thoughtless actor in a mask jumped at me while I was waiting in line for the haunted house at Six Flags. I completely freaked and proceeded to tear him a new one, guilting him for scaring “little children.” Needless to say, I didn’t set foot in that spooky mansion (or any since then), and my parents didn’t press the issue.
As a preteen, I was constantly on alert for ghosts while babysitting in other people’s homes. They were all haunted until proven otherwise. One night, I heard sounds that prompted me to call the restaurant where the poor parents were out for a much-needed date. They sent the police and left their half-eaten surf-and-turf meals to come home and rescue me. Another time, I was ten and babysitting an infant (as we were wont to do as feral Gen X children). When the baby went to sleep, I decided to listen to “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” 45 record and swore I heard demonic, hidden messages coming through it. This was during the Satanic Panic of the early ’80s, so why wouldn’t Charlie Daniels and his diabolic fiddle be out to steal my soul?
Folks, those are just mere samples of the many ways I’ve spooked myself over the years. I wish I could say I’ve relaxed a little, but I’d be misleading you. In fact, just this month, there was an occurrence. I enjoy listening to meditations while I fall asleep at night. Also, I occasionally occupy my insomniac mind by queueing up an episode of Gilmore Girls on my phone. I adore my Apple earbuds, but I can’t lie on my side while wearing them. I found some inexpensive, flat buds that are “side-sleeper approved,” so I ordered them. I’ve been wearing them for two weeks, and am overall impressed with their functionality . . . BUT, I’d sometimes fall asleep and wake up several hours to a robotic female voice saying Karen through the buds. It was crystal clear and completely freaked me out. My brain immediately imagined a “Carol Anne speaking through the TV” Poltergeist situation. I ripped the things out of my ears, but tried again the next night, because my desire to listen to Rory Gilmore’s ongoing dating drama outweighed the ghost robot beckoning “Karen.” I wouldn’t hear it for a few nights, but then it would happen again! Two nights ago, I’d had enough. I searched online to see if anyone else had reported their same-brand earbuds randomly whispering “Karen” into their ear holes. Nada. Maybe I was dreaming the whole thing? Probably.
Yesterday afternoon, I unplugged the buds from their charger, opened the lid and heard it: Karen. I closed the case, opened it, and heard it again! I wanted to throw the haunted electronics right out the window, but instead I put on a brave face and further investigated. I cautiously held the case to my ear and opened the lid. I heard something, all right. The haunted robotic lady’s voice was saying, PAIRING, as in “pairing with your device.” My ear buds must sometimes become unpaired in the middle of the night (remember, they were cheap), and then they’d loudly re-pair, which to me sounded like, “Karen,” instead of “pairing.” My discovery made me feel better, and now I call the buds by the name it whispered into my ears in dark of night. Haunted earbuds could happen, though—just not this pair. So far.
Don’t let this solved mystery lead you to believe I’m over my fears and am sitting down to watch Hereditary with a box of Junior Mints. Nope. I haven’t listened to “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” since my own run-in with Charlie Daniels-infused Satanic Panic. I will not look into a mirror when I get up to pee at night, just in case I’d accidentally summoned Bloody Mary. And please don’t invite me on a haunted hayride where people with masks and chainsaws jump out of wooded areas. This is not fun. Listen, I will watch serial killer documentaries all night long, but I flat-out refuse to enter the janky haunted house at the state fair. I know that probably makes no sense, but as far as I can see, I’m the one who’s still poltergeist- and demon-free and aliens haven’t probed any of my holes (that I know of). That’s good enough for me.
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