Brick Marlin

Twisting the doorknob and carefully peeking behind a few doors in my mind (As a writer, I have learned the hard way by “things” jumping out at me in the past; so, yes, I am very cautious!), I remember my parents dragging me off to different haunted houses. Whether it was witches holding skillets filled with human eyeballs inches away from my nose, stepping into a room where a mad doctor is severing the leg away from a woman whose guttural screams scurried down my spine, or perhaps walking along a five-foot wide path, people dressed in rags behind prison…