Sleeping in the cellar

It’s down there in the dark. I can hear the wet, staccato whisper emanating from its fetid mouth. It’s breathing. Or is it laughing? A sickening giggle that alternates between that of a small child and that of an old man. I stand at the top of the stairs gazing down into the pitch black. Dread fills me as I see the yellow-orange eyes round the corner and peer up at me from the dark. There is nothing human in those eyes. It’s here with me…inside the house

On the day I left home to study at the university my parents and I stood in the driveway next to my car. As we said our goodbyes my father told me, “you can always come home but it will never be the same when you come back.” I am sure he meant well. Perhaps it was some bit of wisdom that his own father had imparted to him when he left home. Yet I fixated on that one little sentence for years afterwards, and in the process, I shouldered myself with an abundance of emotional distress. I loved my home. I struggled for decades to find home again and regain my moorings. Continue reading