There is that certain corner of the mind that readily seizes upon morbid death scenes and vividly imagines awful, tragic things happening to my loved ones. Surely, I'm not the only one who struggles with such thoughts. Surely.

I first recognized this tilt toward the macabre when I married my first and current wife, Laura. Later, when the pitter of tiny feet and the patter of tiny hands emerged in my life, my obsession with the ghastly and grim only intensified, despite my best efforts to banish such thoughts. Perhaps it is part of a natural survival mechanism that drives us to be especially protective and aware of our family's vulnerabilities, needs, etc.

Through the toddler years, I would live in constant fear, partly because of normal dangers that most parents of toddlers are concerned about --sharp corners on furniture, open stairwells, eating rat poison -- and partly because of my macabre mind that always imagined the worst things happening, for no apparent reason and completely without provocation.

For example, just today I was sitting at my computer and it suddenly occurred to me: I haven't heard any noise in the last few minutes. Surely a serial killer has sneaked into my home and brutally murdered my entire family, and right this second is slicing their lifeless carcasses into manageable chunks for convenient disposal! Of course, the reasonable part of my mind rolled its eyes and calmly intervened, saying, "Just stop it. You're not being reasonable."

I wish I could say that I responded to that voice of reason and realized how ridiculous my macabre musings were. But no, instead I got up from my desk and went to investigate. "What are you guys doing? Why are you so quiet?" And, of course, everyone was just fine, deeply absorbed in their respective quiet activities.

Usually, and especially when I come from work late at night when the whole family is already in bed, my mind goes through the standard regimen of what if your whole family has been tragically murdered and all their bodies are in a heap in the upstairs shower? And instead of saying shut up, that's ridiculous I go through the routine of checking on the wife, checking on each kid, making sure they're all warm, listening for their breathing. And always the result is the same: Excellent! No one is dead or chopped up into convenient manageable chunks for easy disposal.

Just a week ago, as I pulled into the driveway and made my way to the front door, the irrational voice of the brain macabre was strangely quiet. I walked through the front door and hung my keys on the hook. I then walked to my office and dropped off my bag and papers.

But instead of checking on the family, I proceeded to the kitchen to see if there was anything to snack on.

As I stood looking into the refrigerator, I noticed several strands of long hair -- my wife's hair -- hanging down from the freezer door above. That's when the brain macabre took its cue. "Laura's severed head is obviously in the freezer. Better brace yourself."

The rational brain proffered a reasonable counter-explanation, "Laura probably was leaning into the refrigerator when her hair caught on one of the screws in the upper door jamb of the refrigerator opening. It only appears like the hair is hanging down from inside the freezer."

The rational brain soon realized its disadvantage and that it was not even being acknowledged. So it simply said, "OK, well maybe you'll want to close your eyes when you open that freezer." Good idea!

As I opened the freezer with my eyes closed, there was a sudden shifting of its contents. Something heavy tumbled forward and wedged against the partially opened door! Heart pounding, eyes clenched tight, I opened the freezer even farther. The heavy object cleared the door and hit the floor at my feet with a dull thud.

Did I dare open my eyes? Would I see the blank dead stare of my wife's frozen head looking up at me? I couldn't risk the horror. So I knelt down, eyes still closed, hands reaching to feel what was now on the floor at my feet.

I groped around and finally found the cold, heavy object. I picked it up in both hands; felt its familiar shape, its mass, its frozen solidity.

That's when the rational part of my brain said, "How about that? The killer obviously cut off your wife's head and decided to beat her skull into the shape of an ice cream container! Clearly, a rather talented serial killer, don'tcha think? Seems to be good with his hands, ya know? Make sure you tell this stuff to the police when they arrive."

OK, I get it. Enough already.

For the past week, coming home from work hasn't been the same. And apparently I'll never live this down. Ever since that heart-pounding experience a week ago, the rational mind has been beating the brain macabre to the punch, but only to ridicule me. I'm not three steps in the door when the rational mind will say: "Hey, you might want to check the freezer before you do anything. You never know if your wife's severed head might be in there, beaten perfectly into the shape of an ice cream container. Hurry up. Come on. Let's go check."

OK, I get it. You're a real crack-up. Shut up already.

Although I don't understand what exactly triggers these battles between the macabre and the rational, I nevertheless take comfort from knowing that this strange mind of mine has spawned an effective albeit bizarre way to concentrate my attention on my family's well-being and safety.