Fright Comes to the Cumberlands (Pt. 2)

  When we left off, I had just discovered that the unwelcome bedroom visitor was a squirrel, not a mouse. Okay, the one in my brother's room actually was a mouse, but the squirrel is the topic of this horror story.

  So, to re-set the scene: Dad's in the basement, I'm on the couch, squirrel's on the wall.

  I'm watching this little varmint crawl all over our graduation pictures when Dad reemerges from his lair. To my credit, I didn't start yelling about the squirrel or cause any fuss; rather, I merely pointed, mutely, Chaplin-like, at the wall.

  My dad is like me in that, when riled, his real origins become apparent.

  "Shoot! Dagnabbit! It's a squirrel! Dang it!"

  A series of similar hillbilly curses follow. I haven't seen him this upset since he dropped my camera on the concrete after a Coldplay concert. But then:

  "He's come back to avenge his brother!"

 *needle scratch* Um, what?

  This requires some backstory. Anyone who talks to my dad for more than a half hour will hear at least one of two stories: the one about the old guy at the bottom of the mountain who runs a vegetable stand in his front yard and calls slugs "shrugs" OR, the story of the zombie squirrel.

  A couple years ago, our house was the target of serial rodent home invasions. My dad finally identified the culprit: a flying squirrel. I thought, as undoubtedly many of you did, that these things were not native to our parts or that they all existed under the watchful eye of Jack Hanna; but, as it turns out, there are tons of them lurking in the woods, just waiting to give us typhus.

  My dad ferreted out the intruder and repeatedly removed him from the house. But he kept coming back. Long gruesome story short, Dad was forced to dispatch him with a shovel and buried him in the woods out back. This bought him a few peaceful nights. But not too long afterwards, the signs of the squirrel were heard again. The next morning, Dad went out to examine the grave site.

  It was dug up.

  If I had been there, I probably would have blamed the innumerable dogs or wild animals or possibly feral pigs that inhabit our neighborhood. But not my dad. Oh no. He insisted that the squirrel had come back to life, dug itself out, and once again taken up residence in our house, this time out of ghostly spite.

  The entire process had to be done over, only this time it was even more difficult on account of the squirrel being, you know, undead and all. Eventually it stayed dead -- maybe Dad got it with a toothpick stake through the heart, or shot it with one of those old quarters that actually contained real silver. I didn't really inquire about the details.

  After this ordeal, naturally Dad was very concerned that he might have another battle with supernatural rodents (or at least a relative of one) on his hands. Regardless, he took care of it with a broom and set traps all around the upstairs. But something tells me we haven't seen the last of the zombie squirrels...