Isolee
EZine Article Of The Day
The Witching Hour
The old white plastic AM clock radio flipped to 11:07 pm. Huddled under the covers in the corner of my darkened childhood bedroom, I braced myself for the sounds of evil. The creaking door, that harbinger of impending doom, was reinforced with bass, oboe, and muted high-pitched trumpet, shrill as a woman's shriek. It was time for E.G. Marshall and the CBS Mystery Theater. It was time to be frightened, maybe even scared, and there wasn't an adult on Earth who could save you from it.
The old white plastic AM clock radio flipped to 11:07 pm. Huddled under the covers in the corner of my darkened childhood bedroom, I braced myself for the sounds of evil. The creaking door, that harbinger of impending doom, was reinforced with bass, oboe, and muted high-pitched trumpet, shrill as a woman's shriek. It was time for E.G. Marshall and the CBS Mystery Theater. It was time to be frightened, maybe even scared, and there wasn't an adult on Earth who could save you from it.
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