It happens when the tendrils of fall close in upon winter. An eerie chill slides up your spine as the thermometers in the room begin to descend. Things that were once a pleasure seem to have been tainted in filth. And what once made you comfortable now makes your skin crawl. It is the time of year that many give thanks and praise for joyous and praiseworthy reasons, but not you. You’ve seen a horror beyond horrors. You’ve seen into the darkness of Beelzebub’s soul. You’ve seen…
The Moustache Man.
Growing up, my brothers used to play mean little tricks on me. They were meant to be lighthearted and fun but I assure you, for me, they were not. One such jest of theirs involved a monster that lived in our basement. The monster, let’s call him Gangor, would come out at night, but only if my feet touched the floor. Once my feet touched the floor he would begin creeping from his basement hiding place, up the stairs to find me, and he would not stop until I was safely in my bed again. This brought nighttime bathroom visits to the same plane as graveyard lantern tours.
After much self-encouragement and a few stretches I would launch off the bed at lightning speed and careen through the hallway. By the time I was crossing over the bathroom threshold my little whippersnapper was out and urination had begun. I cared not for the percentage that made it into the toilet, all I cared for was the wicked creature crawling up our steps with carnivorous desires.
I tore out of the dark bathroom and nearly slipped as the floor was wet with you-know-what and I had not turned on the light for fear of time wastage. Fortunately, I kept my balance and flew through the hallway. As I reached my bedroom, I launched myself a good six feet into my bed, yanking the covers over my head in one smooth motion. I clutched the sheets to my sweat ridden body, praying repeatedly and fervently for God to convince Gangor, who was at this point looming over my bed, to have mercy on this damp and petrified little boy. My prayers were answered for Gangor was never successful in his diabolical aspirations.
Stories like these, combined with our old house and my vivid imagination, created many a restless night for me growing up. So it is only fair that one so stricken with fear at such an early age would begin to do the same in the hearts and minds of other children when he came of age. And so furthermore, from the ominous basements and creaky settling floors of a Colonial Philadelphian farmhouse came a monster so terrible it would make your teeth chatter. The Moustache Man was born.
But before you never let your children out into the world again, find peace that The Moustache Man does not frequent this world daily. He only stalks the land scaring unsuspecting children and adults during the frightful time of November. And lucky for you, November is drawing to an end. So be thankful and pray continuously that you have not met The Moustache Man. Because there lies no tranquility for the one who turns around and finds this man right behind them…