A Town at Night has its Own Secrets

“A town at night has its own secrets,” An old woman whispered this into my ear when I was a child.  I recall the late afternoon she came shuffling down the lane by our house in October, while my Daddy was chopping wood for the coming winter.  Dust just swirling up behind her like she was a force of nature, herself…

My vision is lucid of her; they called her Lady Belle, because of the tiny bells hung from her basket of apples, so you could hear her approaching. The jingling of bells played a misfit melody from her hobbled, hunched back walking.

I did not understand why she told me this. Perhaps she thought one day I would grasp her meaning.  I just know it swayed some power over me at that very moment. I just looked at her with wonderment, my blue eyes reflecting a great deal of questions. I stood in my innocence, as she eyed me intently and winked.

“Never forget what I told you, child; there are things that do not sleep in the dark, like you and me. What you are hunting is behind the door that others fear to open. You will see these things in time.” She spoke to me, as if the words were hallowed.

I listened for years; nonetheless I never heard Lady Belle’s jingles again.  She never walked down our dusty path like that long ago autumn.  I would sit upon our porch swing with the darkness, feeling the night breeze rustle the treetops, hoping I would hear the jingle of bells. 

They never came and through the years I just forgot. I started dreaming in my sleep, like all children do, when the night blackened the heavens.

Through the seasons I have grown, and as sunshine makes things look shiny and special, my Daddy says it has done this for me. Gossamer hair and lithe, I have grown into my cotton dress that make the menfolk in town look just a little bit longer.

Another October came and made me remember what I had forgotten. The things Lady Belle whispered to me secretly.

I started noticing that I enjoyed sitting on our porch longer, as dusk drew near. It closed in on the day’s last light, softly, like a book closing itself upon a familiar story. I could see the shadows from the big oak trees dissolve into the dark mist like a growing stain.  The cicada among the trees, make a powerful drone sound hearkening the night’s coming.

I hear the squeaky cadence of our rusty porch swing, as I listen to the tinkling of iced glasses and women’s laughter calling out to children as they slap their bare feet, running home dusty, to newly run baths and bedtime stories. 

I can hear the church clock gears wind in our town square, chiming the hour as a distant storm sounds its approach in the next county.

Old mason jars proudly adorn children’s windowsills, full of lightning bug glow. The town grows sleepy and porch lights are dimmed for the evening.  I can see the red smolder of men’s cigars, as they finish up the last conversations of the day before retiring to their beds.

I start to ponder what the old woman told me long ago.  I think on how long I have been watching into the night; searching for those hidden doors she spoke of.  Keeping all of those secrets inside me through the years, of things I have come to understand about the darkness.

I stare at blackbirds on a fence, watching me too, as I sit upon the swing. I notice the overpowering sound of quietness; broken, only by the rustling of corn fields set in motion by the coming storm.

I often wait until my Daddy is slumbering and sneak off towards town; especially on moonless nights, while the shops are closed and their windows play out a mystery story of motionless mannequins, wild staring dolls, and the mercantile with its sharp glittering bladed things, hanging upon the walls.

The soft light above O’Connor’s butcher shop flickers on and off, reminding me of an evening long ago, in Auntie Rose’s haunted house, that made us look like slow moving apparitions in one of those silent films.

I see the dry, corn husk dolls the church ladies make for the harvest gathering, placed in the corners of the drug store windows. They look primitive with their crooked, red threaded mouths and dark button eyes. They look as if they have been there for years among the hard candy, medicine bottles and dusty paperback books…