I am, apparently, a city girl. At heart. Deep, deep down, in my core. And I’m beginning to think that I will never shake that. Sure, I will adjust to life in this mountain town. I will not freak out every time I hear a twig snap, at 1:30 in the morning, while out with the dogs for the last time of the evening. I will not constantly check my doors and windows at night, before turning in, making sure that we are hermetically sealed in this house. I will not continue to pull out of the driveway, hit the ‘close’ button on the garage remote, and leave, only to return within two minutes to make sure that I really, really did close the garage door. I will not…

Oh, who am I kidding? That’s me. My essence. I am someone who compulsively checks door and window locks. Who turns her head so quickly at the sound of what I presume can only be a 1-pound chipmunk-looking thing entering a crevasse in our retaining wall that I get whiplash. Someone who… cannot differentiate between the sounds of a moose… and… a… serial killer… making creepy ghost sounds… outside of my bedroom window… on this lonely stretch of isolated mountain road… at 1 in the morning…

Yes, my name is Melissa. And I am a horror-movie addict. Seriously. No, really. Seriously. Although I have not seen one since “Vacancy” in 2007. That film really did a number on me, on my psyche. If you enjoy the adrenaline rush of true fear? Rent this movie. And I wish you luck. Because that film? It ruined the scary movie business for me. Used to be all that I had to worry me at night were the mythical and totally unbelievable characters in ’slasher’ films. But “Vacancy?” This one was so real, so creepy, so suspenseful. Reminded me of an old Alfred Hitchcock movie. Only terrifying. So I swore those horror movies off. For life. But this? This is… well… serious. My very own horror movie, I was certain, unfolding right before my eyes…

Last Thursday. My husband was out-of-town on business. I was alone with the girls. No big deal. I’ve done it a million times. But this time? Something was different. Strange. Creepy.

It was about 11:30 in the evening. I was outside on our back patio. Atticus and Lola? Running around, peeing and eating fox pooh. Same old, same old. And then? From the left side of the house? A sound. Unlike any I had ever heard. The only way I can describe it? A ghost. Well, a person acting like a ghost. Making ghostly wails into the night. Getting closer. And closer still. I called the dogs. They did not return. I clapped my hands, called even louder, in my “I mean business!” voice. Still, no dogs. I screamed, cursed, yelled out, “this is your last chance, you mutts! I’m going in. Fight it out, run and hide, I am out of here!“

And then? They came running in. One at a time. Lola? Hit the patio, squeezed through the back door into the dining room. Looked up at me with her amber puppy eyes, as if to say, “what? Why are you holding that big old wooden thing that we use to lock the glass door? What are you doing? You look like you are in “hey batter-batter stance.” Didn’t last long. She saw a remnant of a bully stick. And she was off.

Atticus? Rounded the corner as fast as you’d expect the World’s Largest Border Collie to round a corner. And he stopped. Dead in his tracks. And then? The fur on his back? Stood on end. And his teeth? Were bared, in full-on growling warning. And then? The barking. But not just any barking. It was a warning bark. The kind that I’ve not heard too much. And it made the hair on my own neck stand on end. And I had no idea, until that point, that I even had hair on the back of my neck that was even capable of standing on end. And I thought, as I dragged him in by his collar, “this is how it ends.”

I turned off the lights. Locked the door. And stood there for what must have been 30 minutes, my nose pressed against the cold glass of the back door. Looking for what? Jason? Michael Myers? Freddy Krueger?

And? Nothing. So I did what any half-sane person would do. I checked all of the door locks. And the windows. Three times. I checked on the girls. Three times. I looked out the windows. All of them. Three times. And then, I crawled into my bed. It was about 1:00 in the morning. I was exhausted. My heart was racing. But I told myself, “self? It’s over. It was nothing. A coyote. Or the people two houses up, whooping it up in their backyard. Or some stupid kids, trying to be funny.” Or, as my husband asked, when I called him in Las Vegas to tell him that there was a mass murderer outside of our home making ghost noises, “are you sure it isn’t the wind? Sometimes when the wind really gets going, it can sound like a person…”

Uh, are you for real? I’ve spent about 150 more days in this house then you have. It’s not the wind. Trust me. I wish it was. But it’s not…

And so, as I turned out the lights and settled in, I heard it again. And now? It’s getting closer. And closer. The dogs start making weird whining sounds, then they both go into full-on barking. The kind that makes your ears ring. Lola, no longer settled in her kennel for the night, was barking against the metal door. Atticus, he’d jumped off the bed, ran to the window, got up on his back paws, resting his two front paws on the window sill, and went at it . And that’s when I knew. I just knew. This was something. And this something? It was right under my window. Oh holy hell. Oh my God. This is how it ends…

I called my husband, in a panic. “I’m not ready to go. I don’t like pain. What do I do? Get on a plane home. Now. Get back here. I am not kidding you. Oh, really? It will be too late? THEN TELE-TRANSPORT YOURSELF TO YOUR HOME AND PROTECT YOUR PEOPLE.”

Instead? After explaining to me that the Concorde does not fly between Las Vegas and Salt Lake City, and that it was a moot point in the first place, since it was out-of-commission forever, and that I’d really look like an ass if my husband called the local Sheriff… from 450 miles away… to report these ‘ghost-like Halloween sounds,” he insisted that I call the Sheriff. And so I did. All the while? He’s still yammering on. Trying to comfort me, I’m sure. Telling me it was an animal. A dying animal. Or an animal in heat. Or an animal who couldn’t find it’s baby. Or…

A moose.

What?

After a call to Dispatch, who ever-so-kindly insisted that I was not crazy, that that’s what they are here for, and that she’d have done the same thing IF HER HUSBAND HAD DARED TO LEAVE HER HOME ALONE ON AN ISOLATED STRETCH OF MOUNTAIN ROAD, I started to feel that there just might be hope for me, after all.

Four police cruisers showed up. Two cops in each. Lights whirling above. A slow night, perhaps? Who cares! A total of eight cops, shining their flashlights. In the woods across the street. In the under-construction house to our right. In the abandoned house one more up. In the empty house to our left.

Nothing. Not a thing. And as the ‘lead’ cop told me, a distinct air of contempt and disappointment in his voice, “ma’am? Don’t hesitate to call us again if the sound does not cease. But I think you’ll be all right.”

Think? You think I’ll be all right? That’s just too reassuring. Really. It is. Thanks.

And then? “Ma’am? Did you know that it’s rutting season for the elk? They are in heat. And it sounds God-awful…”

What the hell is rutting season? And what’s a freaking elk? And just how awful is God-awful?

Well, rutting season is The Season of Love for Moose, lasting through September and October. And elk? A European word for moose. And God-awful? Sounds a lot like a ghost. Or rather, a person trying to sound like a ghost. Whilst under your bedroom window.

Yes, that’s right. After googling dozens of audio clip variations on “creepy moose sounds of lust,” I am now convinced that it was a female moose, making the God-awful wail that a woman makes, when she does not want her man, any man, to touch her…

The most infuriating thing about this whole mishap? Having to admit that my husband, Mr. Know-It-All, really did know it all…

“The Lonely Moose.” Awesome kid’s book. Buy it. Check it out at the library. I don’t care. Just read it to your kid… It’s a near-perfect children’s book.