The past is never over. In fact, it’s not even past.
Last night I dreamed I was there.
I was standing by the old stone pillars. Walking up the gravel drive.
Up to the house. It seemed to me that there was a light on… In the windows.
Behind the curtains.
A lantern seemed to be lit.
I stood on the porch. Suddenly, as if someone had blown out the flame, the house was dark.
Then, I was standing outside the front gate… It was locked and barred to me. I felt such despair. Sadness. I would not be able to go back there.
Ever again….
This is my story. A true story. At least, what passes for truth in this town.
Not one of those campfire ghost stories that kids tell each other. Just for fun. The kind with an imaginary boogeyman.
My nightmare was real. Not the kind that lurks under the bed or in a dark closet. This monster was dressed like a neighbour… like a person you see everyday. At the market. At the church socials. In the school yard.
If the town had paid attention, recognized what was happening…
If our parents had told the truth. Had courage. We might have been saved.
Instead, evil found a home.
I asked my mother about it when we were small….
One night after reading a bedtime story to my brother and me.
She just laughed.
“Who told you that silly story! Goodness. The ridiculous notions you have. That imagination is going to get you into trouble one day.”
I didn’t tell her.
My brother had told me the story when we were walking home from school that day. He made me promise to never tell a soul.
His mouth against my ear, he whispered in a low voice, “Swear!
Swear you will never tell a soul. If God finds out, he’ll punish us. He has this long arm that can reach out and do horrible things. Punish people, just like in the Old Testament. Just like happened with the Angel of Death.
God killed all the firstborn boy children. I heard that was what happened to Sammy.”
Then, he pinched my arm really hard.
I promised my brother I would never tell. But, that was a lie. The first of many.
Sammy was only 5 when he died.
The summer before.
The victim of an angry God… with a long arm.
According to my brother, Sammy was not the first. There had been others.
I didn’t mind if God came for the first born boys. That would be my brother’s problem. I just wanted to make sure that I was safe.
On that same night, as we were kneeling to say our prayers, I asked my mother if it was true. I wanted reassurance that there was no such thing as “The Hand of God”, as my brother called it.
My brother. His head bent. Hands together in prayer. His bloody, bitten nails.
The Hand of God.
That phrase stuck in my mind and gave me nightmares for years after.
I’m pretty sure it had the same effect on my brother. Maybe that’s why he left home as soon as he could, when he was very young.
And he didn’t come home for years.