props

My friend, Christie, got about a bucket of “blood” “vomited” onto her head by a ceiling-mounted ghoul, and came out looking like Carrie on prom night. I saw it happen, and the moment is frozen for me like a scene from a Dario Argento movie: Christie’s blond locks, suffused by a pale, flickering, blue-green backlight, her mouth slightly open as she looks up, laughing, into the torrent of black, sticky ichor that tumbles, in exaggerated slow motion, onto her face. In my mind’s eye, I can still see my own gaping mouth reflected in a small, spherical droplet of that blood as it spatters across space and time. I think that droplet will be falling, in my memory, for many years to come.