The Stupefying, Bloodcurdling Tale of the Disembodied Hand OR Cressy Tells Another Story

The other night I put my child, Cressy, to bed and she said, "Do you want to hear a scary story?"  (I know.  I know.  She really hasn't seen that movie.  I swear.  I let her watch Raiders of the Lost Ark a while back and she absolutely balked at the snake scene, so I figure really scary movies with all the blood and gore are off limits until, I'm not sure until when.  Maybe when she's thirty-five.  I guess I should be glad she's not going to mess with snakes or spooky archaeological digs in Egypt.)

Of course, when my only child says, "Do you want to hear a scary story?" I have to say, "Sure," because I never know when they're going to be truly blog worthy.  (Far be it for me not to steal material from my onliest offspring.)  And what do you know, this one was.

So here goes:

Once, there was a dark, dark night.

See.  She was talking really pitch black.  I mean, there could be
lions, tigers, and bears about to eat your ass right there and
YOU WOULD NOT KNOW.  Just sayin'.

Okay, it was a really, really dark night, but not that dark.

"And there weren't any red eyes, Mommy," the peanut gallery
just announced.  So much for artistic inventiveness.

So you're asleep, Mommy.  (Apparently, the story got personalized after I stuck my nose into it.  Woe be unto the mommy who interferes with a good plot line.)  And there's something near by.  It's creepy and crawling and inching its way up the bed covers.  (Hopefully it's HIM, but it could also be those stinking meal moths looking for some human tartare.)

There, the creeping, crawling thing from some one's hand.  Somewhere,
someone is going, "Now, where did my hand go?  I mean, I just had it."

So the hand goes up your...arm!

I suspect I have gone away from the original intent of this story, but
I don't care.  Shouldn't this be like some kind of funky
Christmas Story?  I mean, the hand could lick a metal pole or
something?  (Only for Christmas Story fans.)

And the disembodied hand eats your hand, Mommy!  (Why my hand?  Why not HIM's hand?  Why not some random stranger's hand?  I mean, I use my hands to type and write blogs and stuff.  Let it take a foot and be disembodied feet.  That sounds way better.  The Putrefying Attack of the Disembodied Feet - they will give you athlete's foot and dirty up your socks.  Plus, OMG, TOE JAM!  Way scarier than a mobile hand with nibbling habits.)

Cressy actually demonstrated on ME.  Her hand was the disembodied
hand while my hand was the innocent victim.  And I couldn't get away
because I was the designated character to be savagely mauled
by the creepy hand.

Consequently, the disembodied hand bit off your hand, Mommy!  Then your hand became...like the other disembodied hand!

I couldn't put a goatee on one to be the 'evil' one a la Star Trek, so
I settled with blue fingernail polish.  It's the 'new' goatee.

Then they go to other hands in other houses, Mommy.  They bite them off, too!  They become an Army of Disembodied Hands, MOMMY!  (I think the loudness was an indication of how dramatic the story was and also how scared I should be of the creepy, crawly hands.  Wasn't there a movie about disembodied hands with Michael Caine?  Uh-oh, I'm going to have to Google it.  I can't NOT Google it.  I'm compelled.)

I love the evil scientist laugh.

Then, Mommy, Cressy said near the exciting end.  The sun came up and all the hands withered away, because they don't like the sun.  Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha.  (I could make a fortune selling the extra duty, heavy SPF sunblock to all the hands in the Army of Disembodied Hands.)

Blogging is so much fun.

Incidentally, The Hand (1981) does star Michael Caine.  And is directed by...OLIVER FREAKIN' STONE.  Obviously before Platoon.  I swear Cressy has never seen this movie.

And in conclusion, it dawns on me, as often things do, that I've neglected the possible Christmas connotations therein.  (What Christmas connotations you say?)  Here ya go.  (I'm so twisted.)

Happy holidays!