October in the Chair

October was in the chair, so it was chilly that evening, and the leaves were red and orange and tumbled from the trees that circled the grove.*

The thing about living in The South is that you experience seasons differently than most other parts of the country. Everything comes later, if at all. This evening was a lovely hint of autumn - breezy but not cold, and people were out grilling all over the neighborhood. So we took a little bike ride, checking out people's Halloween decorations (which I am sadly deficient in myself...), and realized it's only a couple of weeks until Daylight Savings shortens our evenings to almost nothing. I love this time of year, but I could really do without the time change.

I took the dog out for a walk after dark, and the maple trees at the park are starting to drop their leaves. They crunch under your feet, but are lacking the brilliant colors of leaf-drop in more northern states. The trees just turn muted brown, although this is Florida's gardening prime when the weather is nice and mild. I know there are people who get really depressed when the weather starts to turn, but I look forward to the feeling of transition, things ending and that seasonal lull before springtime, kept interesting by being overflowing with holidays.

Walking the dog at night is good for not running into a lot of other dog-walkers, and it's quiet. But it's also dark. And I am easily self-spooked. Shadows crowd in under the trees, voices come at you from out of seemingly nowhere, and every other person enjoying their nightly exercise becomes a menacing figure shuffling toward you from the distance. I feel jumpy at night regardless of the season, but in fall and winter the night comes in earlier, and always seems that much darker.

So in honor of this lovely just-on-the-cusp-of-fall night and in the mood for Halloween, here's a quick story, which I cooked up while I was walking in the dark, thinking about things that are seasonal and spooky. (Boo!)

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   Everyone knows there are places that are just imbued with a sense of spookiness that cannot be denied. Empty hotel corridors. Cornfields. Your bedroom closet at night when you're eight and you stayed up late watching scary movies with the lights out. Creepy, creepy, creepy. In part, I blame Hollywood. 

   Think about it; there's actually nothing scary about agriculture, except for maybe the price of fresh strawberries in mid-winter. But take rows of overgrown crops and add evil children summoning demons, and you have a recipe for terror. Of course, there are spaces that have the fright surrounding them even without the power of movies influencing your emotional reaction. Places that make you feel like a shadow is passing over in broad daylight and your soul shivers. 

Like tumble-down barns. And old cemeteries. And cellars.

   The kind of cellars you find in old buildings. Musty-smelling, and dank. Full of odd, unidentifiable little noises and corners so dark no candle or flashlight could cut through the accumulated years of gloom to show you what hides there. As if you even wanted to know.

   When I was about eleven years old, my parents moved us into a converted church. It was kind of funny at first, that we were living with such cliches - the sound of footsteps in the hallways, the doors that refused to stay shut and would open with a slight creak in the middle of the night. It was an old building with old latches, it had architectural quirks, the foundation was just settling. My parents' excuses and justifications grew with my fear. 

   We had two cats, and they never went into the cellar. When they would walk past the open door, they would pause and stare at the darkness for a moment before hurrying away. If the door was closed it was ignored. I took this as a sign that nothing good could be down those steep stone steps. The random noises and self-opening doors went on for about a year. Then one night I was left home alone on a cold fall evening while my parents went down the block to a party.

   I never got to stay home by myself, but the normal sitter got sick the day of the party. It was too last minute to find someone else, and my mom wanted to change their plans. But my dad decided I was old enough to not need a babysitter for just a couple of hours. They were just down the street. Everything would be fine. 

   And I was fine. At first. Then the sun set, and  a breeze began to blow the bare branches from the twisted old tree in the yard into the windows on the side of the house, and the gutters shook a little, rattling in the wind. I was sitting on the couch, watching tv with a blanket, both cats curled up in my lap asleep. I heard a sound from the kitchen. A small sound, like an old hinge as a door is very slowly opened with some care. 

   I tried to tell myself I hadn't heard it. I turned up the volume on the tv. Then came the footsteps. Heavy and deliberate, coming up the cellar stairs, echoing in the emptiness below the house. My heart beat in my chest and my stomach clenched, but I didn't move. Then the sound of more footsteps, slightly softer, on the kitchen linoleum. 

   First Missy, my mom's old tabby, then Friday, my own cat, coal black with lemon yellow eyes, awoke and turned twitching ears toward the kitchen doorway. Then both swiveled their heads, following as an invisible presence traveled across the living room to my left. The lamp at the end of the couch went out, then just as quickly came back on. 

   Friday watched my unseen house-guest walk up the stairs, then jumped off of my lap and followed, stopping at the landing before continuing up to the second floor. Missy stared at the ceiling over our heads, tail twitching furiously. Just below the sound of the wind and the too-loud television I think I heard the sound of one of the bedroom doors closing with a sharp click. I hoped it wasn't mine. Of course, I hoped there wasn't a ghost making nightly walks into my mom and dad's bedroom, either. 

   They found me on the front porch sometime after two in the morning, wrapped in the blanket I'd run out of the house with, shivering with fear, teeth chattering in the cold, flanked by agitated cats. The For Sale sign was in the front yard the next day. 

I still don't trust cellars. I don't think I ever will.

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*October in the Chair, by Neil Gaiman is available in his short story collection Fragile Things. It can also maybe be read online if one knows just the right places to look. And says please.