Night's Paradox

Moonlight gathers,

influencing

insecurities.

Tears seep through clenched eyelids.

Shadows lengthen,

stealing away

grasped straws.

Despair beckons as hurt bleeds.

Hours expand,

dragging minutes,

increasing fears.

While betrayal lances, worthlessness eats.

Darkness shrouds,

sipping, engulfing

rational perception.

Anger ignites past pressing shame.

Starlight filters,

twinkling, shimmering,

offering hope.

Sleep leaps to consume emotions.

I Will not Forget

This is all true and to the best of my memory.  Even now, when I am alone, I am afraid.   I can almost, only almost, hear her voice if I am still enough.

When I was three years old and my father was working in our basement downstairs.  He was building a dollhouse for me for Christmas and did not want me to see what he was so doing, so when he saw a small child rush into the room and hide in the corner he yelled.

  “Get out!  Out now.”

 The child didn’t respond so he walked over the where she was crouching in the corner. 

“Amy?”  He asked and walked slowly over to the little girl curled in the corner.  He crouched down to look into the face of the child and the child jerked her head up.  My dad staggered back in horror because the child, just my age, my height, was nothing more than a fuzzy, intangible light.  Her eyes lay deep in her skull and she had saggy fuzzy skin of no definite color.  My dad tried to reach out to her after recovering from his shock, but she ran. 

My father caught the ghost again a few days later.  He caught sight of her walking down the hallway.  He followed her into the front room where she was sitting beside me on the couch watching me play paper dolls.  She fingered the dolls I played with and touched my hair while I played indifferent to her touches.  My father approached us timidly so he wouldn’t scare her away but when he got too close, she panicked  and disappeared.    

She played tricks on me all the time.  My brother’s room was upstairs and because he hated me to play in his room, it was my favorite place.  So when he was out with his friends, I would sneak into his room and play with my dolls.  One night, my parents wanted to go out to dinner, so I laid my doll in the lacy bed I had constructed on the edge of my brother’s bed.  She was a special doll to me, one that I kept for almost 30 years of my life.  I threw her out when I realized that she was terrifying my husband.  She is the size of a two year old and her dark eyes shined as though she were real.  He would often walk into a room and I would have her sitting in a window sill, or decorating our bed.  He would scream at first, and then laugh, as most terrified people do, and then yell at me to get rid of that demon doll.  It was this doll the little girl loved to play with the most.  On one summer night I went out to dinner with my family but when I came back, I found my doll at the bottom of the stairs.  Her red hair was flayed and matted and her clothes were ripped off.  I screamed and yelled and stamped my feet.  I hit my brother and ran to my room.  I cried myself to sleep.  No one believed that I had put the doll to bed and that while the house was quiet and empty; she was played with and thrown down the stairs.    

The night that changed everything I found myself unable to sleep.  My bed was shaking, tilting back and forth off the ground.  I can’t sleep because I am irritated at all the movement.  I turn over and over and the shaking gets worse. I feel it come off the ground and then tilt.  It bangs the floor and hits the walls.  I jump off the bed to tell my parents.  I walk, rubbing my eyes, into my parents’ room. 

“Dad, I can’t sleep.  My bed keeps moving.” My mother moans but my dad jumps out of the bed and follows me to my room.  I run to keep up with him but he beats me there.  He stops dead in the doorway to my room.  I come up beside him and watch passively as my bed jumps around spasmodically.  It does not seem so unusual to me. 

I slept in my parents’ room after that.  Every night I listened as little feet walked up and down the hall.  I found consoling comfort in those footsteps.  She paced and paced and sometimes little sobs would escape through the walls.  She missed me in my room.  When father left my mother for another woman and we had to move, I missed those footfalls and in their place had feverish nightmares.

He left when I was six.  He was perched on the edge of the couch with a broken arm.  While he talked about why he had to leave us, I studied the woman sitting in the car outside.  She had deep auburn hair.  She looked forward at all times, never once trying to glimpse at us through the window. He was crying.  I couldn’t hear his words but knew he was leaving so I ran to my room.  I heard him calling me but as quickly as I could I packed a suitcase with all of my favorite toys and ran back into the front room. 

“I’m coming with you, daddy.”  I said.  My mother who was standing by the couch cold and untouched unfolded her arms and walked out of the room. 

“Harriett!  Harriett, come back here.  You can’t come, Amelia.  You can’t.” 

“I am ready.”  I said.  He got up and even though I ran after him, grabbed his ankles and legs, he shook me off.  He left.  He got into the car with the red headed woman and drove off.  I didn’t see him for many years after that.  A week later, a violent thunderstorm shook our house.  Our dog went mad in the front yard, running back and forth, yelping and crying.  My brother sat on the floor with my sister playing cards and I sat at mom’s roll top desk pretending to be a secretary.  A bolt of white hot lightening shot straight through our front window, just in between the space that separated my brother and sister from me.  I remember clearly, the white hot electricity that singed our skin and hair.  All three of us ran into the kitchen where my mom was and overwhelmed her with our fear.   

The red headed woman became my step-mother.  She died when she was only 43 in a car accident.  On the way to the funeral, I sat next to Tonya, her college friend.  Tonya was driving and had some trouble finding a parking spot at the gravesite.  She ended up parking a quarter of a mile away from where my step-mother was buried.  We sat silent for a moment, feeling the weight of the death.  Out of nowhere, the radio turned on and the car was flooded with static.  My hand flew up to my mouth but Tonya reached over and quickly turned it off.  She hastily got out of the car but I stayed a moment trying to figure what had just happened.  I saw Tonya quickly descending the hill to where my step-mother’s grave lay and was afraid I would be lost so I got of the car and followed her.  All the while my head swam. 

I was 30 years old and hadn’t thought about that house for years.  But for sure she reached out to me.  I heard my name whispered in the white noise of the radio.  It was a little girl’s voice, my childhood friend that I had forgotten.  Panic ceased me and then left me numb. 

“I’ll go see the house.”  I said aloud.  I caught up with Tonya who was standing by my father.  The preacher said a solemn prayer.  I will never forget the dead, I thought.  For some reason, they need us to remember them. 

Only in the night

Since my story is struggling and I desperately need to post, I am going to add a poem that I wrote this summer during another, and seemingly common, harrowing experience.  These last two years have been tumultuous at best.  So much had happened that I doubt anyone would really believe it all had I the guts to tell it. Anyway, this is about my ex-forever-ex-boss. 

In the night I wake
In viscuous sweat.
My hands tremble fastidiously, and I feel
There is a presence coalescing
in the room.
I know it is him again
Peeling away the fine, loose wounds
To reveal what I have done;

Even while strumming the pages
of the precious books
He gave to me. 
All the while stripping the hardened
Skin off my fingertips
with the knife
held fisted behind my back
Wavering, churning, fondling,
Waiting to plunge. 

The Dreams We Dream

     Amy chose the subject for our initial posting. When we threw out examples of our dreams I thought, Yikes. Amy's were full of beginnings, middles, and ends, while mine were basically vivid and detailed pictures. While brainstorming a way to combine my pictures into something that would resemble a story I remembered a dream that actually linked in a semblance of a narrative. Of course I had to change things up a bit--there are some dreams so bizarre you don't want to share with others--but I give you my results.

                                                      Moon Island

     The shipwrecked man loosed himself from his huddled sleep. An eerie feeling had leached into his soul while the fog seeped through his clothes as he slept. Stretching to relieve the tension, he stepped from the mangled boat onto the rocky beach. As the fog slowly lifted, he saw a village just off the shore.
     “Where am I?” said Dean, more to hear a human voice than in anticipation of an answer. “I guess I’ll head toward that village to find out.” Dean grabbed his backpack from under the debris inside the boat and headed off in search of answers. After being at sea long enough to watch the quarter moon wax almost full he was hoping for some friendly company. He began doubting he’d find it in such an unwelcoming place.
     “You there!” A young woman emerged from the small jungle surrounding the village. “Go back!” She ran toward him with shooing motions as if to sweep him off the island. “You mustn’t stay here. You must leave at once.”
     Dean stopped; his momentum causing him to sway. He eyed the woman—younger than her mannerisms suggested—then pointedly stared at his boat. In the previous night’s storm, the rocks close to shore tore great gashes in the sides of the boat. The mast had been felled by the giant storm’s waves, mocking the boat’s struggle to reach safety. The sail lay in tatters on the beach.
     He turned back to the woman, noticing the fear in her eyes past the anger on her face. “As much as I’d love to follow your kindly worded instructions, Ma’am, I’m afraid it’s impossible.”
     She looked past him and her frame drooped in defeat at the sight of his boat. Dean watched her come to his understanding of the situation.
     “I’ll have to fix my boat before I can leave here.” Dean gestured toward the village. “Where is here anyway? It came out of nowhere in the storm. I’m lucky to be alive after my eruption onto these shores. Is there no lighthouse on this island?”
     The woman motioned vaguely to a ruin that might once have been a beacon of safety to seamen. “It was destroyed long ago for the safety of travelers.”
     “Safety? How so?”
     “Never mind that. Just trust it is so.” Gathering her skirts, she started towards a cabin Dean hadn’t seen before due to its remoteness from the village. “Follow me, quickly.”
     Might as well, Dean thought as he trudged after the woman.
                                                            ***
     Arriving at the cabin, the young woman suddenly turned, “I share this home with my father and brother. With any luck you’ll be on your way before you meet them or anyone else on this island. The less you know about this place the better.”
     “Uh, it’ll take a while to repair my boat, Ma’am.” Dean looked confusedly at her. “I’ll have to go to town for the materials and to find a place to stay.”
     The woman earnestly made eye contact with Dean. “Please, call me Ruth.” She lowered her voice speaking in rushed sentences, “I have some sturdy fabric and heavy stitching we can use to patch your sail. I’ll show you a place you can find the wood you need. You can use the tools in the shed out back.”
She dashed around the side of the cabin clearly expecting Dean to follow. He found her in a rundown shed a few yards away.
     “There are hammers, nails, and saws in here.” She waved in the direction of the tools. “Grab some and follow me.”
     Dean browsed the offered tools. “Might I ask why you’re in such a hurry for me to be gone, Ma’am, er, Ruth?” He spoke slowly in an effort to soothe her undefined fears.
     “I told you, the less you know and the sooner you’re gone, the safer you’ll be.”
     “It’ll take some time to fix the boat. I’m stuck here at least a few days. I’ll need a place to stay.” While he gathered his needed supplies, Dean asked, “Are you in some kind of trouble, Ruth?”
     “I’m in no trouble, Sir. But you will be if you’re not off this island three nights from now.” Ruth once again raced off. “I’ll show you where the wood is kept.”
     Dean clutched an armful of tools as he tried to keep up with Ruth. “I don’t see how we won’t be noticed while fixing the boat. The shore is only hidden by the trees surrounding the village from what I can see.”
Ruth waved him on in a near-frantic manner, ignoring his comment. “Here’s some lumber you can use for the boat and a wheelbarrow for hauling. As for the mast, perhaps you can cut down one of those smaller trees. Will that work?”
     “Well, I guess it’ll do until I can reach my destination, as long as the weather holds up and I’m not too far away.” Dean looked to the sea, “Where are we anyway?”
     “You’re not in a place found on any map, Sir. Once you get back out to sea, you’ll find your bearings.” Ruth made as if to leave him there.
     “Hey, Ruth, I still don’t have a place to stay and it will take us at least two days working full out to get the boat in shape if you’re willing to help me.”
     “I’ve got some room in my cellar. You can stay there at night as long as you’re quiet and don’t disturb my father and brother. I’ll even supply you some meals. Just work as fast as you can and get off this island.” With a stern look Ruth headed back to the cabin calling behind her, “I’ll get that fabric and thread. Please hurry.”
     Dean shook his head in bemusement. “I guess I’ll quickly gather some wood before I search for a makeshift mast.” The sound of his own voice helped mask the eerie island feel. “It appears I’m in a hurry.”
After loading the wheelbarrow with lumber, Dean grabbed the saw and headed to the group of trees Ruth had indicated. As he walked through the copse outline, the nagging eeriness faded. An insistent desire to remain in this grove crept over him. Strange. Not liking his preternatural awareness of the island, Dean sped his search.
     He passed trees too thick, too thin, too crooked, too short, and came across a ring of trees all perfect for a mast. The urging desire strengthened, pushing him toward the trees. Within the circle of trees he found nothing. Just another clearing.
     Frustration replaced the desire and he hurried to cut down one of the trees. Nothing happened. The saw wouldn’t bite into any trees in the circle. Creepy.
     Dean found a nearby tree outside the circle. It wasn’t perfect, but close enough. He decided to follow Ruth’s recommendation to leave the island as soon as possible. He swiftly cut down the tree and dragged it behind him ignoring the overwhelming desire to remain in the trees.
     Once out of the grove, the eeriness stole back into his consciousness. Uneasy with this island, Dean sprinted toward the lumber, threw his pack and the saw on top, and tucked the sapling under his arm. Awkwardly he managed to push the wheelbarrow while pulling the tree behind him. He headed to the cabin and met up with Ruth.
     “Here’s that fabric and I made some sandwiches for you. Hurry this way before my father and brother get home for lunch.” She led him back to shore sending wary glances toward the village.
     Dean followed behind, anxious to start working.
                                                             ***
     With each moonset, Dean and Ruth worked full out taking only short breaks for the food and drink Ruth provided. Dean spent the nights quiet as a church mouse in her cellar. Overheard conversations through the floorboards taught Dean that Ruth’s family wasn’t worth meeting. Her father ruled the night with menace while her brother enveloped her with insolence. Each night seemed worse than the last.
     He also gleaned an understanding of village circumstances. Women were scarce on the island and were exploited rather than revered. They were expected to provide for the men’s needs while remaining silent and secluded. This was definitely an island to depart without drawing attention.
     Furthermore, the eerie feelings, now bordering on sinister, increased with time along with Ruth’s anxiety. Each morning he arrived to work—leaving the cellar only after Ruth’s family had gone—to find a part of the previous day’s work undone overnight. When Dean questioned the troubles, Ruth mumbled something about curses and began vigorously repairing the sail again. What should have taken only two moon rises had now run over to a third. Ruth neared a state of panic in her concern for him to leave the island.
                                                              ***
     Clouds moved in as the afternoon waned. Ruth glanced to the skies for the umpteenth time.
     “It’ll never work.” Near frenzied, she grabbed Dean’s arm and pulled him toward her home. “The cellar can’t keep you safe, but there is no other place to hide you.”
     Dean’s edginess increased with Ruth’s panic. He reclaimed his arm, but followed close behind.
     “This is ridiculous, Ruth. Can’t you tell me now why you’re so anxious for me to leave the island?”
     “You’ll find out soon enough.” She glanced to the sky again, “The moon will rise shortly.”
     “Okay, now you sound like we’re in a horror film. Will we be hearing werewolves when the moon rises?”
     “I know not of which you speak, but what you will soon hear is the sound of the island’s curse. Now, please hurry!”
     As they made it to the cellar, Ruth urged him down, this time following behind. Grabbing some boards, she secured the door from the inside.
     “I’m not sure that will hold them, but we’ll know soon enough. They’ll head this way first, at least my family will. I’m usually safe in here, but once they pick up your scent, I can’t be sure what will happen.”
     Dean lit the lantern hanging by the stairs before the moon traded places with the sun.
     “Woman! What are you talking about?” Dean dragged her down the stairs and planted her on a heap of potato sacks. Hands on hips, he stood inches from her waiting for an explanation.
     “Dim the light!” Ruth’s harsh voice startled him. “The less we do to draw their attention the better.”
     Dean obeyed Ruth’s command then turned back to her. “Who are they?”
     In response to his question, they heard a yowl from the direction of the village. It sounded like a cross between a pit-bull and a hyena. An answering call seemed closer.
     Ruth’s voice dissolved all emotion, “Ages ago, a woman was shipwrecked much the same as you. She came to the village seeking aid from some men to restore her boat. Unfortunately, the men she enlisted weren’t trustworthy gentlemen. They took advantage of her solitary state. After they were finished with her, they destroyed what remained of her boat, leaving her on the rocks to face the coming storm.
     “The storm raged and wracked her body, throwing her against the rocks only to pick her up and repeat the assault. When it finally ebbed, she lay fractured on the shore. As the full moon broke through the clouds, she used her last strength to curse this island and its people. At every full moon, the island men would take the form of the dogs they really were. The women of the island would suffer the same fate as she until there were no more inhabitants of the island. The witch commanded lightening to strike the lighthouse so no wayward traveler would suffer as she did.”
     Ruth absently turned toward the small cellar window searching for the moon.
     “Many women were lost in the first cycle of the curse. Since then the remaining women found hiding places like this cellar to keep the men out.” She turned back to stare at Dean. “Anyone so unfortunate as to stumble upon this island never sees past its shores. I did my best to save you from this cursed fate. I’m truly sorry for not succeeding.”
     Howls of delight sailed back with the wind from the beach. The beasts had picked up Dean’s scent.
Thinking quickly, Dean grabbed Ruth’s hand, threw open the cellar door, and pulled her out into the night. Instead of heading for the beach, he dragged her toward the shed. Passing that, he plunged into the grove, searching for the mysterious circle of trees he discovered his first day on the island.
     The excited bark-laughter of the island men increased in number and volume as they communicated the whereabouts of their prey.
     “Where are we going?” Ruth stumbled in fear behind Dean.
     “To the circle of trees.” Dean stopped only long enough to throw Ruth over his shoulder; then continued his flight.
     “What are you talking about?”
     “You have to have seen it.”
     “No. I’ve never been this far into the woods.”
     The men-dogs were closing in.
     “I found them while looking for a mast. They dispelled the eerie island feel. I think we’ll be safe there.” He quickly explained about the impenetrable quality of the trees as he followed a pathway designed by the moon. Ruth remained quiet. Too quiet.
     Dean stole a glance behind and saw the beasts only yards away. They had stopped racing and began stalking. Dean rushed through a few more feet of woods before finding the circle of trees giving off a welcoming glow in the moonlight. Ruth screamed as a paw raked its claws down her back. Dean dove into the circle seconds before steel jaws clamped onto her neck.
     A flash of light registered with their passage into the circle. Dean rested Ruth on her side and looked to the trees. The moon created a solid band of white which radiated from tree to tree shielding them in safety. The beasts encircled the ring probing for weakness; finding none. Their hollers filled the night sky, throwing waves of fury at the moon.
     Dean gathered Ruth close to wait out the moon’s journey across the sky. The howling continued until the glowing orb slept. The band of light faded as the sun winked in the east. Looking past the trees, Dean saw the beasts—now men—slink toward the village. He vowed to set sail today with Ruth by his side.