The Case of the Floating Feet

I don’t like horror movies.  It’s not because of the violence, or the rampant gore, or the complete ridiculousness of the plot.  It’s the suspense.  I hate not knowing things, I hate putting off decisions and plans that change 9especially last minute).  I love surprises, but not the kind that scare you.  I’m not sure why, as the suspense of a good mystery I usually find appealing.  Perhaps I just get too worked up and too creeped out.  For example, when I watched the horror movie In the Mouth of Madness recently, it wasn’t any of the weird stuff that happened that had me spooked – it was the little stuff.  That freaky kid riding his bike in the dark with playing cards in the spokes.  El creepo.

But sometimes the creepiest stuff is real.  Take the recent rash of shoes with feet still in them washing up in British Columbia.  I myself am going to the beach tomorrow, and expect to have a grand old time in the sun.  I do NOT expect to discover a foot by itself in the wash.  I mean, a foot is something personal.  It’s almost a hand.  It’s not a random piece of meat that could be anything, nibbled by fishes for who knows how long.  It’s something you don’t just misplace.  And how do you go about finding the owner of a missing foot?  Disturbing, all around.

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