My Grandmother Called It the Old Hag, and Now It Visits Me
Grandma had a name and a ritual for the thing that sits on your chest at night. I laughed at her salt and her scissors. I am not laughing anymore. It found my room.
Grandma had a name and a ritual for the thing that sits on your chest at night. I laughed at her salt and her scissors. I am not laughing anymore. It found my room.
For three nights a tall figure in a wide-brimmed hat stood at the foot of my bed while I lay frozen. On the fourth night, my roommate described him before I said a word.
Fresh out of basic and stuck pulling gate guard on the loneliest post on base, I learned that the boring jobs are where you actually find out what you are made of. One frozen night, a stalled car, and a decision I still stand by.
One perfect first date, then total silence. Two weeks later a strange number told me the truth: her phone had been stolen, and a thief had been reading my hopeful texts and saying nothing.
We came home at midnight. She was on the doorstep with her coat on, the door locked behind her, and our children asleep upstairs.
Every night at exactly 2:17, the same number called the roadside line and said nothing but wind and breathing. Then my supervisor pulled the account, and I wish she hadn't.
A routine gallbladder surgery went wrong and my heart quit on the table. I felt myself lifted out, and then every year of my life unfolded at once, and I was asked, kindly, what I had learned.
The landlord keeps the drawings. Four tenants, twenty years, four sheets of paper, one man in a wide-brimmed hat.
The night my grandmother died two states away, her old cat sat facing the front door and cried until dawn. He had never done it before. He never did it again.
A picture flashed into my head of my sister's car spinning on wet road. I called her without knowing why. What she was about to do when the phone rang stops my breath even now.
One ring, at 03:00, twice a year. The rope is tied off. He has been told to ignore it. He does not ignore it.
A volunteer transcribing headstones photographed a name that is not on any record. Two days later a man in an old coat told her the spelling.
I booked a flight to San Ferro. There are two San Ferros, four hundred miles apart. I found out which one I was in when the friend meeting me at arrivals was not there and my phone map showed a coastline that should have been mountains.
My wife and I honeymooned in a tiny remote cabin. Ten years later, choosing a random anniversary getaway from hundreds of listings, we booked one we loved on sight — the same cabin, renamed, re-listed.
I was born with a round pucker on my back and a matching smooth patch on my chest, and I always knew something had gone through me. When I was small I described a snowy road and a truck, and years later a stranger's account matched it word for word.
The dip in the duvet. The weight on the feet. The purring, which my wife heard first and which she did not tell me about for a year.
For three weeks on deployment, I would come back from the midnight radio shift to find my rack made tighter than I ever could and my boots squared away. Nobody would admit to it. The answer, when it came, undid me.
For eighty years my grandmother wore the same gray wool coat and never let anyone take it to the cleaners. When she died we found out why -- there was a letter stitched inside the hem.
For three summers my neighbor cut his grass in the dead of night. I thought he was just unhinged. Then I found out what the engine noise was hiding, and honestly I miss the mowing.