31 Oct--A Halloween Story

There are times when we all feel a little less than alone. It may be standing in your empty lounge in the middle of the day when you get the slightest sensation something else is there, too. Or you may walk into the garage at night and, upon discovering the light bulb blown, your ears feel thick with pressure, and you quickly dart through the door into the warm light. These tiny flirtations with fright are usually laughed off and replaced with a wholesome dose of logic.

Yet there are some moments when the fright is more than a tingle up the spine. There some moments when you cannot chuckle away the thought of running for your life. There are some moments when you are terrified not because of the unknown, but because you are face to face with something wholly unnatural; something, that should not be there.

If you are lucky (and if your mental faculties are relatively stable) your mind will bury it, and it will be a faint pigment staining your otherwise glossy memory: a repression kept from your consciousness for the sake of your sanity. However, it is difficult to repress the same memory twice. Sometimes, the lucky become the haunted.

Ever since he was young, Jamie had experienced what his mother called a healthy fear of the dark. She explained to him once while busily mashing potatoes that "all people have a slight fear of the dark. It's evolutionary. It's what kept our species alive for tens of thousands of years." She continued, adding milk and spices, "The dark is a dangerous place. It's safer not to be alone."

Such advice did little to quell Jamie's anxiety. For years, Jamie felt his throat close up when he so much as walked past a dark room. He wouldn't enter. Not if it was dark, and never if he was alone. He also never turned the light off in the basement before he was upstairs. At his house growing up, there was a switch at the bottom of the stairs, and one at the top. Once when called up for dinner, he accidentally flicked the bottom switch as he walked by. It was an unconscious act, and it happened so quickly that were he to stop and turn it back on he would have to reverse his momentum. He would have to walk back into the darkness. Alone.

He ran like he was running for his life, taking three stairs in a stride. He was on his hands and knees by the time he reached the top. But even then he didn't turn around. He dared not.

Into his adult life, Jamie regularly avoided dark rooms, but by this time the act of doing so was not in the forefront of his mind. It was a reaction as natural as moving your hand off a hot stove or jumping when someone shouts "boo!" He had forgotten why he was afraid. One night, though, when he lived a long way from home, he was reminded.

* * *


Jamie lived in Ireland between 2002 and 2003. A land of ghost stories and haunted castles, Ireland produces a textbook fright, something Jamie found amusing. The sensation of being frightened was as quick and enjoyable as a loud sneeze. You jump, your blood, as if electrified, suddenly surges in all directions. Then it's over. And you look around for someone to laugh with.

Terror, on the other hand--true terror--is the cunning theft of your breath. And when you look around, you are alone. The is nobody. There is only the dark.

In summer, Jamie was helping friends for a week as they replanted a garden in the Abbey outside Limerick. It was hard labour, consisting mainly of clearing invasive weeds and burning them in great piles. The work started early, but ended by 3:00. Everyone would gather at a nearby cabin, share a few beers, and putter away the rest of the day. Many drove back to Limerick, but Jamie and a couple, Aidan and Mary, would stay.

One evening, when everyone had gone, the three of them sat outside the cabin drinking large bottles of Tiger beer, their chairs tilted back to rest against the wall. Aidan and Mary decided to go for a walk, but Jamie stayed behind, content to finish his beer--and perhaps another cigarette.

Some time passed, and Jamie leaned his head back and closed his eyes. But as he was just about to shut them, a figure appeared near the bracken by the far end of the drive. Jamie slowly opened one lid. The sun had almost completely set. In the long shadows of the glen, there stood a tall, black shape. Jamie opened his other eye. The figure was some distance away. It didn't move. It just stood there. Jamie squinted, thinking maybe it was a shadow, or just his mind playing tricks. And just when he thought he'd figured it out, it moved--fast, and directly toward him. In seconds, Jamie could see it more clearly. But what was there to see? It was just black: A cape, a hood, and then nothing. It advanced at an unnatural pace--flew, even--until it was upon Jamie, surrounding him; isolating him; stealing his breath. He sucked in, but he couldn't exhale. And as he gasped, he knew where he'd seen it before: it was in every closet, every dark basement corner, every empty room.

And then it was gone.

Jamie breathed out, panting heavily. His beer pooled at his feet, half of a damp cigarette in the puddle. Aidan and Mary were heading up the driveway. When they asked what happened, Jamie replied simply, "I sneezed."

That night he slept with the light on.

The next morning, as they left with the shovels for work, Jamie looked back at the cabin--at the darkness inside--and picked up his pace. It's never too old to be afraid of the dark.



Happy Halloween.