Sherry is coming back for a visit. There is another Clint Eastwood in the movie theaters and, as is their ritual, she and Lou have planned a weekend around attending it. I do suspect, though, that they are both upset that this is a western – Pale Rider – and not another sleazy Dirty Harry shoot ‘em up adventure. Lou’s enthusiasm for the visit is definitely not a potent as it has been for previous cinematic outings. He sighs a bit when he reminds me of the fact that, as usual, I will be required that Saturday. Still, despite any disappointment, like clockwork, she is here before I know it, with Stevie and Sammy, properly, in tow. These boys, her sons, have been my charges on nights like these for a few years now, and my best way to describe their behavior, over my past few babysitting stints, is a rambunctious if timid obsessiveness.

Two years apart, age wise, they clung to each other, steadfastly, as they learned a series of ghost stories at Camp Turner, the Catholic boys summer program, last July. These tales have seemingly filled their minds every waking moment since then. Their tandem brown heads skittle back and forth, bursting with the gory details of campfires past, all ripe for re-expression. But, as eager as they have been to share these learned audible horrors, each previous visit has brought a compulsive reason not to indulge in a ghastly re-telling – a good movie on TV, tiredness…even, on occasion, admitted fear. Indeed, they’ve definitely been much too frightened the last few times I have sat with them to get more than a couple sentences out. But, as it is June now…the beckoning summer temperatures seem to calm their fears.

Though, in some cruel, cosmic twist of fate, the weather contrarily belies such expected, warm forecasts. This whole weekend has had the air of chill about it. Wind whips through the dried husks of neighboring corn fields. The tarred roads shine from the intermittent rains and lonely branches skitter against the windows of all this lonely lane’s houses. It’s like Halloween has arrived six months ahead of time and I have to laugh that my already nervous puppies, through some weird emotional miscalculation. have decided they are finally ready to share their long-held grotesqueries, picking the perfect night for the macabre.

The house itself seems to swirl with squiggly energy as we go from room to room, leaving most of the lights we find there on. At each outlet, they debate for long moments about whether to turn all illumination off or if it is better, rather, to leave things slightly dimmed. Often, the switches remain untouched. We leave the dazzling orbs as we find them, at the full height of their dazzling luminescence. We finally settle into chairs in the living room, still ablaze with artificial sunshine. They are so jittery that they will not let me adjust the mood one bit more. Born into drama, I suggest turning off a lamp or two. I’d love to create a theatrical shadow for our creative outpourings. Their nerves, already shot, will not even allow me that simple cinematic virtue. I give up, deciding that the damp and dark evening, visible, if barely, through the windows in the kitchen, far off to the left, will have to do. Even before we begin, though, they are stalling, asking me about my school friend, Mary Ellen. They are consumed with gathering details about her as she is the girl that I took to the Homecoming dance. Somehow, in their minds, this has become a grand romance. In reality, Mary Ellen and I are probably much more like chums, sharing an easy relatability – a true joy in each other’s presence. I find this another one of their amusing quirks. The thought of having a girlfriend makes their faces scrunch in a sour squint pucker, but they are endlessly curious about relationships with the opposite sex and are always full of questions about the girls I claim, with a touch of elaborate fiction, to like. Finally, they allow me to begin a story – my earlier suggestion that they begin with one of the favorites having been shrugged aside with quick and firm protestations.

I start my take on The Furry Collar, the much-told urban legend about an escaped maniac & the resourceful roommate-narrator who goes to check on a late-night noise and who, ultimately, discovers that her housemate is missing her head after touching the ruff of her housecoat. I choose this one because its content is the closest to the slasher movies that I love and I can almost imagine myself in the place of the surprised friend, my final girl fantasies brought to some sort of verbally literary life. Unfortunately for all, such imaginings are quickly interrupted.

In the living room of the rectory, there is a pair of mini doors. They are firmly shut, closing off the way to the second floor where the bedrooms are located. Their tiny knobs are secured, tightly, with a shiny latch. When I am barely a minute or two into my story, a chill wind somehow gusts around our feet and the lights in the room suddenly let out a quick spasm. As if in response to these cosmic intrusions, the latch holding the two doors tautly, moves slowly, from its resting place. It dangles upwards, almost whimsically, in the air and then falls to the side. The doors then open at a deliberate pace, all by themselves, pausing to give us a good look at the stairwell contained beyond them. They then, determinedly, slam close once again. The boys have become one with the scratchy fabric of the couch that they are occupying. They chortle out gasps as the latch lifts itself, precisely and determinedly, into the air again and then re-attaches itself over the knobs. As if purposely building suspense, it waits a beat…then, once more, releases itself up into the atmosphere, eventually falling, limp, to the side of the door. The doors swing forth once more, again giving us another look at the flight of steps beckoning upwards. They then close once again. Almost immediately, the latch, as if held by ghostly hands, soars back into the air, hovers a predetermined second and then refastens itself one last time. The lights give off a hearty burp and then all is deafeningly still.

Moments, thick with wavy strands of shock, pass us by. My charges are pure white, their chins jut downward, swinging parallel to their tiny chests. I hop up, shouting loudly, “Who’s there?!?” – knowing, immediately, how nonsensical that question really was. No one is there. At least not physically. Still, I feel like I should check the upper level. If an intruder was really there…if anything was done to hurt these boys, I knew my guilty conscience would never let me sleep again. “Stay here,” I command them, as I jump up and head towards the doors, still vibrating with some sort of ghostly presence. “No!” they wail, clutching for my arms as I make my way forward. “Fine, fine,” I mutter, fright and curiosity mingling equally, “we’ll go up together.”

— to be continued —

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Note: (My first horror movie buddy was a priest named Lou Hendricks. Several years ago, Hendricks was named by the Western New York Catholic diocese as one of their most unrepentant predators in the ’70s and ’80s. Thus, I grew up watching monster movies with a monster – a man who was like an uncle to our family. Over the next few months, I will be sharing some of my stories from that period of time.)