It's now time for just the terror with Nick Guerra. My life in a funeral home.

I'm a female in my late 20s.

My parents, a charming lesbian couple, own a funeral home and

cemetery in a village on the outskirts of the Alaskan Tundra. It was a small business that had been

passed down from my mother, Agatha's father, who had inherited it from his father and so on.

Katie, my other mother, was terrified of the whole situation from the beginning.

She was positive that someone would get possessed with us living so close to a field of corpses,

her words.

Over time, exactly eight years after they moved there,

she grew to respect the land as well as the tenants resting in peace there.

I was born shortly after her change of heart, but she still limited my access to the cemetery.

And while no one was ever possessed, we still had our fair share of terrifying experiences

at our home and throughout the property.

I went to a tiny schoolhouse every weekday from the time I could walk. Only 30 or so children

lived in our town. So we were all educated in one room by a small group of teachers.

Katie and her twin sister Gloria with two of the teachers. Katie and her twin sister Gloria would two of the teachers. The three of us would walk to and from town every day, while Aga and her brother Cal took care of the property. This is a 20-minute trek, but on the occasional day without freezes, we got to take our bikes and that was generally the highlight of my life.

However, on this particular day in December, we had to walk.

We were only at school until about 4 o'clock that afternoon, but the sun usually

set around 3.30, so we were shrouded mostly in darkness by the time we got to the dirt road leading

up to our property.

I was about six or seven at the time,

and I still used my clumsiness as an excuse

...