It was about a single mom who worked the graveyard shift (11:00 PM – 7:00 AM) as an ER nurse. Every morning she’d come home around 7:30 AM, just in time to make breakfast for her kids, pack their lunches and get them into the school bus. Then she’d go to sleep.

Often she was still asleep when the kids got home from school. Sometimes they’d let her sleep so they could fool around for a while, but usually they’d wake her to make them something to eat. On one occasion, she told the kids a story of a young boy who had broken his leg while sledding as a cautionary tale. Her daughter took the story as intended but the boy, a bit younger, became fascinated with the gory details, and pressed her for more information. The mother didn’t think much of it and obliged him.

As the weeks wore on, the son would press her for more stories from the ER. Often she would refuse, but on those mornings that followed an especially rough evening, when she was groggy and unclear, she’d reveal more than she would have if fully awake. One such morning was the day after Halloween when a man was brought into the ER horribly disfigured from an accident while trick-or-treating with his kids.

His was one of those families that really embraced the holiday. He and his wife had as much fun walking around in costume as their kids did. That night, a drunk driver hit the man and pinned his body between the car and a chain link fence. The car caught fire, burning the man and actually fusing parts of his costume to his body, so that when he arrived in the ER screaming and wailing, he looked like a horrible human/monster hybrid.

Again, the mother revealed this story in her half-awake state. The boy was riveted and overcome with his imagination’s images of the ruined man. So much so that he actually willed that horrific creature into existence, and (at least in the physical sense) became what he imagined.

That’s the back story. Now, the woman is mother to this vile, wretched thing. It’s bent and misshapen and living underneath the bed in an upstairs room. How could she abandon it? This is her own son. What would she do — or not do — to keep him alive?

To the daughter, who belives her brother has died, he’s the quasi-mythical “boogeyman under the bed.” All kids are afraid of the boogeyman in the dark, and she’s just old enough to begin questioning her childhood superstitions. What happens when she finds him and the truth?

It’s still an idea as you can see and not fleshed out. But it started by asking “What if?” which is my favorite way to start a story. I’ve only revealed it now because the movie “Grace” seems to follow a very similar logic, and I’m a bit bummed. My idea! I think I’ll write the story anyway, and then see “Grace.” I guess great minds scare alike.

This was the woman who give my sister and me a Ouija board as a birthday gift. A devout Catholic whose faith in the occult was just as strong. In my grandmother’s mind, God and ghosts weren’t opposing forces but ingredients in the same recipe. Sometimes malignant, sometimes benign and always real.

When my sister and I were very young, we’d ask her to explain her tarot cards to us. She always used her cards at a folding card table. It had a red vinyl top and white steel legs as thin as the wooden dowels we used to prop up the tomato plants. The three of us would sit around the table, my sister and I with our feet dangling above the floor, and listen to stories about The Fool, The Chariot and so on. I can still see her small, veined hands rapidly sliding the cards in a great heap and hear the sound of them gliding across the vinyl.

At one point I heard the word “Seance” and came to know its meaning. I also knew that a seance was something that my grandmother knew how to do. My next memory is incomplete but what I can recall is clear.

We were sitting in the living room and my grandmother was alone at the card table. Her eyes were closed and she was sliding her hands across the vinyl as she did with the Tarot cards. The room was quiet except for the swish of her sliding palms. Then the table popped up into the air and fell back down. It popped up again and fell back down. This went on for a minute or two.

Then the table popped up and stayed up. Her hands slid wildly and the table undulated as if it were riding the waves of a violent sea. It leapt and dove, rose and fell. All the while, my grandmother’s hands made great circles across its surface.

That’s the last I remember of that scene, though I don’t know if that’s because it ended there or because my sister and I were led away. Later, my grandmother would tell us that “other hands” were moving that table, not hers.

Today, I have an irrational fear of those other hands. Yes, I’m a grown adult. I attended college and graduate school. I have a wife and two wonderful kids. I consider myself to be a man of reason.

But, when I go to sleep, I’ve got to walk 12 or 15 feet from the light switch to my bed. Every night as I move through the dark, I feel the cool air against my ankles. I become very aware of the protruding bones in my feet and the very thin layer of skin that protects them. As I get closer to the bed and finally step up into it, I cringe. Ever so slightly, but I cringe.

I expect a hand, cold and bone white, to reach out from underneath the bed and grab my bony ankle. Grab it and just hold it there, if only to let me feel the pressure and the cold of its grip. As a rational adult, I know this will never happen.

But if it ever does, I won’t be surprised one bit.

I’m picky about horror films. As a teenager, I watched slashers. Friday the 13th, Freddy Kruger and so on. They have their place, but they illustrate the difference between being scared and being startled.

When the bad guy jumps out of the dark with his machete swinging, we’re startled. When the undead little girl emgerges from the well with her black hair covering her face, we’re scared.

I prefer to be scared.

Here’s a list of some of my favorite scary movies, in no particular order, as well as a few I haven’t seen yet. Feel free to add your own.

Before we begin, let me offer a spoiler warning. I’ll reveal significant plot points in each of the following movies, so if you don’t want to know, stop reading now.

The Ring

As a horror film, The Ring is a home run. It’s got everything — abstract, disturbing symbolism, a gradual crescendo of creepiness, a fun mystery to solve and edge-of-you-seat tension. The villain, young Samara, is also the victim of her evil mother, making her more interesting than a one-dimensional killing machine.

Plus, there’s just something extra creepy about demonic kids.

My favorite part is Samara herself. The way she moves is so unnatural; it’s jerky, her body contorts as she scales the well and her vision is unhampered by the black hair that covers her face. Plus, to see a 10-year-old girl, which I consider the epitome of innocence, depicted as a homicidal, undead demon, well … that’s just wrong.

The Haunting

Forget that God-awful remake from 1999. The original 1963 version of The Haunting is fantastic.

By the time insecure, timid Eleanor leaves Boston to take part in the scientific exploration of a haunted house under the direction of a psychologist with an interest in the occult, you’re ready for some action.

There’s no blood in this one, few startling moments and no sex. However, it does have plenty of scares.

Right away, the group of volunteers and Dr. Markway suspect that Elanor’s jumpy nature is responsible for the frightening events she’s reporting. Eventually, they’re all proven wrong.

My favorite part is the climactic scene. Trapped in a large bedroom, the gang cowers as deafening pounding eminates from an unseen source. Finally, the noise stops and the door knob begins to slowly turn. Finding the door locked, the evil on the other side tires to force its way into the room, causing the door and the walls to bulge inward. It’s a great scene. I couldn’t find it on YouTube, but here’s the original trailer.

The Wicker Man (1973)

Again, avoid the unwatchable remake. The original from 1973 is a whole lot of fun.

Christopher Lee is terrific (as usual) as Lord Summerisle, the owner of a small, Scottish island. When a police officer (Sgt. Howie) arrives from the mainland to investigate the disappearance of a young girl, he receives no cooperation from the locals. As the plot progresses, the viewer is deceived right along with Sgt. Howie, who only discovers in his final moments that he’s been sent on a wild goose chase … to his own demise.

The climactic scene is horrifying. The townsfolk murmur a cultist chant as Sgt. Howie is forced, screaming, into the enormous straw man that will be his fiery coffin.

The image of the “wicker man” itself is the best part. It’s faceless, motionless and silent. You know what it’s for as soon as it appears, as does Sgt. Howie. His death is awful and merciless. A great movie.

The Grudge

Another great Japanese export. A young home health aide is sent to care for an old woman who lives in a house with a violent history. Years before, a man murdered his unfaithful wife, young son and family pet in a furious rage. The energy of the assault clings to the house, as do the ghosts of the woman and boy, infecting all who enter.

The back story is revealed gradually and the visuals in The Grudge are great. The deformed ghost of the murdered woman crawling down the stairs on all fours like an animal, uttering a guttural rattle (the result of a crushed larynx) stays with you for days. I’m telling you, that “uhhhhhhhh” noise she makes is impossible to forget.

There’s a great scene in which the woman Sarah is caring for suddenly becomes terrified. Sarah looks around the room, but can’t determine what she’s afraid of. The camera pans to the corner of the wall and the ceiling and reveals a black, swirling visage of a woman with flowing black hair. It’s great, and very creepy.

The Shining

Remember when I said this list was in no particular order? Well, I lied; I saved the best for last.

Kubrick is my all-time favorite director, and The Shining is my 2nd favorite Kubrick film (the first is 2001). So many of the film’s images have become iconic: The twins in the hallway, “Redrum” on the door, Danny talking to his finger. However, not a single moment has lost its punch.

Jack’s descent into madness is so beautifully played by Nicholson and so thoughtfully shot by Kubrick, it’s undeniable. Watch this scene between Jack and Grady in the bathroom. It begins with Jack on the right and Grady on the left. Jack asks if he’s the former caretaker, and Grady answers no. At this point, Grady is the subordinate butler hand-cleaning Jack’s coat.

Jack presses him, and Grady finally confesses his identity. At precisely that moment, the camera switches places to the other side of the room, so that the scene is “flipped.” Now Jack is helpless talking to the ghost of the murderous, former caretaker of the hotel.

Notice the symmetry of the shot as well. The perspective narrows between the urinals on the left and the sinks on the right. Kubrick puts his subjects dead center so our attention is focused directly on them. He did the same with the twins above. The Shining scares me every time I see it, and I’ve seen it many times.

Movies I’d like to see

• Shiver looks pretty good.
• Suspiria has been on my list for a long time.
• Audition is horrifying, from what I gather. Japanese horror rules.
• Dark Water. Yet another Japanese export.

Today, he’s abandoned magic for these silly stunts. As I type this, he’s hanging upside-down in Manhattan for one reason or another. Honestly, I don’t care. And that’s because there’s nothing at stake. The whole thing will culminate in a prime-time TV special, after which they’ll tear down the scaffolding and everyone will go home.

The result of success is no different than the result of failure, so there’s no reason to get emotionally involved. It’s like watching a sporting event between two teams you’ve never heard of.

I wish he’d return to tossing playing cards into beer bottles. At least that was fun.

I clearly remember the anxiety of visiting Santa Claus in the mall. I won’t go into it, because Jean Shepard has already written the definitive description of that experience.

However, I will note that I had one chance to tell Santa what I wanted, to convince him that I was worthy and do just enough schmoozing to ensure a bountiful Christmas morning. One chance.

Last weekend, Santa appeared at two libraries, the mall and the fish pier. Two weeks ago, he made five appearances, one involving a fire truck. For those of you not keeping score, that’s nine appearances in two weeks.

That’s ridiculous.

“Grace, did you tell Santa everything you’d like to get when you saw him in the VFW Lounge?”

“No. I forgot to say ‘Baby Alive.’”

“Don’t worry, sweetie. We can catch him next weekend at the retirement home, the police station, Kate’s Seafood and Lobster Shack, the corner of 4th street and Elm, Bank of America, the dump, The Wellfleet Oyster Festival (between 12:00 and 2:00) and/or Thompson’s Paints and Hardware on Rte. 3!”

“Gee, thanks, Dad! But, when does he have time to make the toys?”

“Go to bed.”

I told my wife, “We’ll see Santa once. That’s it. Can’t the kids tell them apart? I mean, they’ve got the suit, but they’re not identical.”

“Nah,” she says. “They just see the outfit and the beard. Santa is Santa to them.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” I said. “It’s like he’s on a media junket. Britney Spears made fewer public appearances last year.”

“Fine,” she said. So there we were last Sunday, bundled in the car and driving to the Lady’s Free Library to watch Santa and Mrs. Claus read a story, distribute candy canes and scare the living hell out of everyone under two.

Grace walked over and made her wishes known in a clear, matter-of-fact tone that said, “I fully expect to be accommodated.”

William, being two, shrank back in horror before muttering “purple truck.” We got our photos and everyone was happy.

On the way home, the kids were chewing on candy canes and I was fumbling for Christmas music on the iPod.

“There,” I said to my wife. “Wasn’t that nice? One simple visit. The kids were enchanted and we got a decent photo.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Do you think OH MY GOD BUZZ!”

“What?” I asked. She was as white as a sheet, her mouth hanging open. I thought, “Holy cow, she’s having a stroke.”

“Oh my God oh my GOOOOOOODDD,” she repeated.

“What?!”

“The fourth grade turtle. I was supposed to take him home this weekend. He’s been in the school the whole time with his heat lamp turned off. Oh my God, I’ve killed Buzz.”

My wife is a teacher. She thought she’d treat our kids last weekend by bringing home Buzz, the box turtle who lives in the fourth grade classroom.

She didn’t expect to be standing before the school on an icy December afternoon, watching as a police officer unlocked the door so she could “…see if the 4th grade turtle is dead.” Nor did she expect to be at the pet store on Sunday evening buying a box turtle.

If kids can’t tell one Santa from another, how hard could it be to fool them with turtles?

Two police officers met my wife at the school’s front door, their breath white clouds in front of their mouths, a look of impatience on their faces. “I’m sorry,” my wife said as the shorter of the two officers pulled the door open.

“It’s fine, m’am,” he said. She went into the cold building, the cops following behind her, and ran past empty lockers and dark classrooms until she reached the fourth grade.

I’m glad to report that Buzz survived his weekend alone. Despite chilly conditions and little food, he pulled through. A Christmas miracle. We were overjoyed.

We took him home to celebrate the rest of the holiday with us. Grace stuck a red bow on his shell. It’s hard to detect emotion in a turtle, but I’m pretty sure I saw a smile.