Tracy Cram Perkins writing career began with a magic marker on the wall of her bedroom at the bold age of three. Proper spelling via stick figure cats and choice of medium—the writer’s cave wall—could have been responsible for the disappearance of all pens on surfaces below three feet high. But that’s just a theory.

Her love of suspense and the macabre can be traced back to the outdoor slumber party, slug invasion of ‘76. Tracy, roused from her sleep by the call of nature, could see a weird shadow on the tent flap in front of her face. She turned on her flashlight with the beam landing on her sleeping bag. Four dark brown slugs faced her, glistening in the light. She aimed the beam onto the tent flap. A six-inch long slug clung to the tent flap four inches from her nose. The high-pitched scream of an eleven-year-old ignited six more little girls’ in a scream-fest at 3 a.m.

Tracy’s quick thinking “besty” came to the rescue using Pringles potato chips as single use slug-scoops. Terror of stepping on slugs in the dark prevent the group from running inside for safety.

When the sun rose, Tracy peaked out of the tent. She looked for a safe path into the house through the slug carnage. Pringles dotted the landscape. The largest slug wrapped himself around a Pringle. He feasted on the chip laying on the dew-covered lawn. Despite a desperate need to use the bathroom, the group waited for an adult to escort them into the house.

With this in mind, fast forward a few years where she learned to drive a stick shift in the local cemetery so the only thing she could kill was an engine. Boredom sets in like cobwebs in the attic when she drives the family automatic.

As a result, she’s a serious Halloween fanatic who creates humorous tombstones like “Viagra the Fifth Hour” for her display. Despite what her neighbors think, the only bodies in her graveyard at Halloween are the moles who insist her front yard is a mole recycling center. Try as she might she can’t convince them to go into the light.

On the other hand, she not so secretly wants to lead as many people as possible in singing the wrong words to Bear in Tennis Shoes because it’s naughty but nice. Her personal record stands at 42—in a bus stranded north of the arctic circle.

Tracy and her husband reside on Washington State’s Olympic Peninsula. They share a home with assorted fish and two cats who demand their obedience between naps.