A Late Night Visitor...
P.C. Arriaza
I
have always been a spiritual sort of person, even as a child. Prophetic dreams,
intuitive “feelings”, and an astute awareness of all around me: such as these
seemed to affect each and every experience that I ever had. I was sensitive to
the “other-worldly” and I knew it.
That’s
not to say that immediate family members paid much mind to any phenomena I
might have naively, innocently brought to their collective attention,
encouraged by a general familial love of any good ghost tale, as I might have
been – well, except for my mother, that is. She loved to ask my opinion of this
or that situation, or what did I feel about a particular person, place,
or thing. What did this dream mean? She was so very fond of querying me. And I
always had an answer, an opinion, a “feeling” – each that, even at my young
age, seemed to be uncannily quite accurate.
So,
it was quite a shock to me to have the one undeniably paranormal experience
that had the most effect on me be summarily dismissed as a nightmare.
Okay,
I was only 9 or 10 years old at the time. And, given my own personal experiences in parenting, I can almost empathize with her late night instant dismissal
of what was for me a terrifying incident. Although, I do like to think that, in
the same or similar circumstances with a child of my own, I might be just a tad
more open-minded.
It
happened like this:
I
can’t recall whether there were any horror movies or some such that could have
had an influencing effect on my dreams that summer night. I don’t recall what
the prior day’s activities had been or any of that. What I do recall is the
normal routine of preparing for bed, which we – my brothers and I – always
adhered to.
In
any case, it was a warm summer night, the deepest part of night when all of
nature is sleeping as well, as deeply, as we humans are. The house was dark, as
it can only be when the lights are out and the moon is hiding behind scattered
clouds. I was sleeping in my room. My brothers were sound asleep, too, tucked
into their bunks in the room they shared with our grandfather. Mother was
asleep in her own room, just down the hall from mine. We were all deeply asleep,
at that deepest, darkest hour of night.
And,
then, I was roused from my (dreamless?) sleep by a sound. I opened my eyes to
the complete darkness that permeated my bedroom, waited for moments for my
sight to adjust to that darkness. What had awakened me? Was it the family cat
on one of her nocturnal jaunts through the house? And, then I heard it again.
And recognized it, that sound, for what it was. It was a voice. Calling my
name.
I
lay in my bed, frozen. Who was calling me, repeating my name in the middle of
the night? I heard it again, that deep, male voice calling out to me.
I
got up from my bed and silently padded to my bedroom door. I stood there, framed
within the opened doorway, hesitant and unsure. Was it my grandfather? Couldn’t
be Mother – the voice was male.
And
I did what I always did… I went to investigate. I bravely entered the hallway
and padded quietly, slowly toward the kitchen, which is where the voice seemed
to be coming from. I did take a moment to glance into my brothers’ room, by the
way. Both brothers and grandfather were still deeply asleep, the sound of my
grandfather’s snoring almost a comfort to me.
I
continued on down the hall, heard that voice call again. I reached the end of
the hall, the open entrance way of the dining room. I could see (that illusive
moon had come out from hiding by then) through the dining room’s expanse and on
into the kitchen.
I
knew that the lights were still off, and that it was nighttime. I knew that my
family members were all tucked into their beds, dreaming of whatever fancied
them the most. Yet, despite my awareness of reality, I could see that there was
a light on in the kitchen. And, at the table, seated at the far end, right next
to the back door, was a handsome, dark-haired man in a black leather jacket. He
was seated at the table, and he had set before him a bowl of my mother’s best
chili. (Had we had chili for dinner, that night?) The most shocking thing to
me, about this stranger in my house, in my mother’s kitchen and seated at her
table, was that he took on the appearance of my cousin’s husband. I recall
clearly asking my young self what on earth was he doing at our house at that
late hour. And I asked aloud of him the very same thing.
He
responded with a smile and the suggestion that I come closer. I should come, sit with him and share his bowl of
chili. I stood at the hallway entrance, barefoot and wearing my summer PJs, my
hand on the wall next to me. Even now, I can still feel the cool, smooth
texture of that wall beneath my palm. At his smiling, cajoling words I felt my
heart rate double, just galloping along within my thin chest. I knew that
something was terribly wrong with the picture before me. And I was terrified.
Because, somehow, I knew that he wasn’t who he was showing himself to be. Just
who was he? I wondered. His true identity I wasn’t completely sure of, but I
knew that there was no way on the earth that I should believe his friendly,
smiling face and approach him. I knew, without doubt, that he was there to harm
me.
He
spoke again, one last time, angling his head to gesture me over to him.
Did
I scream, then? That I honestly cannot recall. I do know that I whirled around and
pelted down the hallway back toward my room. I dove into the bed and lay there,
covers wrapped about my shaking form. I asked myself: was I dreaming? Couldn’t
be – I was wide-awake! I gathered the courage to get up again, to quickly dart
into my mother’s room. I shook her and shook her. “Mother! Mother, wake up! I
saw someone in the kitchen – he was calling to me!”
I
tried to tell her what I had just experienced. More than annoyed that I had
needlessly awakened her, she wasn’t that receptive to my explanation, let alone
my terror that hadn’t diminished one iota. (I now wonder that she didn’t
immediately get up and check to see if there was, indeed, a real-live intruder
in her house – I most certainly would have checked, if our roles had been
reversed! Dream or not…)
Despite
that she didn’t believe me, that night, I know that it wasn’t just a dream. I wasn’t dreaming, or sleepwalking,
or anything else of that order – I was never one for those sort of nocturnal
adventures. I am convinced, have always been convinced that whatever, whoever,
the apparition was, “he” was up to no good. I do believe with all my heart that
it meant me harm, that it was a truly malicious spirit.
* * * * *
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