A couple of months ago my daughter started reporting the presence of people in her bedroom at night.  She referred to them mostly as pictures, but was insistent that she sees a ghost, and most importantly a witch.  She is afraid.  She expels genuine tears, which are prompted by the knowledge that once I leave the room her visitors will appear to her.  At a loss I probed her with questions such as “where do you see them”, “have you seen them before on TV or in a book” and “are you talking about dreams while you are sleeping?”

She is insistent that she has never seen them before (still, my immediate response is to curse myself for letting her watch that damn Snow White), and she is certain she is awake.  Despite one questionable experience I have had in my home thus far, I am inclined to shy away from suggestion of paranormal activity, and choose instead to dive a little deeper into the mind and eyes of my four year old child. 

While there are specific areas of the room where the ghost and witch appear, she has also reported the presence of faces in her headboard.  This is where it became all too clear for me.  As I ran my fingers over the wood, trying to find the patterns, I had a flash of memory.

Lying in my bedroom in my childhood home, I was crying and pleading with my mother to make the faces go away.  “Look at the faces, they are right there!” I called out from my little twin bed.  I watched my mother run her fingers along the new paneling, trying in earnest to see what she could not.  In the end, my father had to paint the paneling a lovely shade of blue.  I’m not sure if I ever told them, but even with the paint I could still see the faces.  They were, however, less pronounced and I was able to sleep at night without feeling watched.

I saw no pattern in my daughter’s my headboard, but I do not doubt that for her the faces exist.  So here we are in yet another phase of childhood development that I probably should have anticipated, but haven’t bothered to educate myself upon yet beyond memories of my own personal experience.  Thus far my encouragement has been to think happy thoughts, to not look at them, reassurance that they are not real, and to trust in that I am never far away.

I can’t help but wonder if the night light is the problem.  She is too afraid of the dark to go without one, but for this little imaginative child, I believe the shadows from the light are causing more harm than the darkness.  My next steps will involve lying with her before sleep, dissecting the room, giving names to the objects in the shadows, and attempting to bring what is real to the forefront while banishing away the fallacies the mind can create.

I would love to hear if you have experienced this problem with your children, and what were your methods to combat the nighttime fears of preschoolers?  As I reflect upon my task ahead, I am reminded of an old Suzanne Vega song:

I could shelter you

Keep you in light

But I can only teach you

Night vision

With my stomach in my throat and my heart plummeting I burst through the door and peer at the tub. She’s lying there unmoving several inches under water. Her soft curls are floating around her. She looks as peaceful as she did during the many hours of infancy when I watched her sleep.

Yet, she’s cold. Pale. Gone.

I stretch out my arms in a futile race to save my daughter, but before my finger tips can breach the surface of the water I awaken. Gasping for air, shaking, and covered in cold sweat, I find my wits enough to listen to the sounds around me. I can hear the calm, steady breathing of my children through the monitors keeping tabs on their bedrooms. I do my best to clear the horrific images that have crept up from the bowels of my subconscious, and lay there staring at my dark ceiling, waiting for sleep.

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This isn’t the norm for me. I don’t typically have dreams of my children’s demise at the hand of my own incompetency. I don’t ever imagine a time where I would “forget” that one of my children is taking a bath, and just go hang out somewhere else for a while.

But the subconscious mind is a tricky thing. For me, it created an unlikely event to represent a very real fear. As parents, especially of young ones, our days are filled with literally steering our children in the opposite direction of harm. Never could I have imagined while pregnant with my first child that the upcoming years would require such CONSTANT VIGILANCE. That’s exactly what it takes. It’s those split second moments that scare me. It could be a fraction of time when you’re not looking; a sleep deprived error; a new-parent bad decision. There is always a little something inside me that is asking, “Am I doing everything I could do, should do, to keep them safe?”

When my eldest was only a few months old my husband and I took her on our first short family trip out of the house to Babies R Us. It was a cold night and I had her bundled up in her infant seat in a warm jacket and blanket. She was sleeping, and so not to disturb her I pushed her around in her stroller, ogling all the cute baby girl clothing I wanted to buy.

After a while I took a break from my scouring of the racks to look down at my little girl, and saw that her lips had a blue tint to them. I screamed for my husband and we promptly removed her from her coverings and blanket. My husband picked her up and after several attempts to stir her, in what felt like minutes but was surely seconds, she awoke. Her color returned.

It was a stupid mistake. I was so concerned about keeping her warm, I had bundled her too tightly. I didn’t even think about that fact that once inside the store I should have removed her layers. We did not suffer consequences that day, but none the less it was a harsh lesson that had me questioning my capabilities. I was so embarrassed by my failure with our first attempt at emerging from our home with our child that I never told the story to a soul; until now.

I know any mother, and I’m sure fathers too, must have moments when they allow their darkest and deepest fears to creep to the forefront. If you’re like me you allow them their flash of warning and then shake them away. I try to find balance by allowing the thoughts the respect of possibility, but then store them aside where they belong and move on with life. Still, with ever constant vigilance.

In my hands I am holding a poinsettia plant. It is in full bloom; the bright crimson leaves draping in every direction. Gold foil is wrapped around the base of the pot. I move very slowly up the stairs, with purpose. My mother is behind me, silently urging me forward. At the top I round the corner. I can see the full bath down a short hallway to the right. I never go in there. Continuing straight I make my way to the next set of stairs, but pause to peek at the two bedrooms on each side. The doors are always slightly ajar, but there’s no reason to enter. Gripping my poinsettia tighter, I pause at the base of the stairs to note the old empty jars on the second and third steps. Grandma will use them to store her peppers. I glance behind me. Mom is still there; still silent. I take a deep breath and continue my climb.

My grandmother’s attic is by far the strangest I have ever seen. At the top step there is a small landing, with a room directly behind. To the right, there is another step, and two more rooms branch off in awkward, diagonal directions. The rooms are tiny with slanted roofs, but I am short enough and never have to lean. The doors to the two rooms are expected to be closed, but the room at the forefront is always open.

It’s not long before I see it. It has always resided on the floor, leaning upright against one of the many antique trunks, facing the doorway. A black pentagon with a white ghostly face painted on its surface. Its tripod legs are folded behind it; its wooden frame is sturdy. The black felt on the surface is in perfect condition. The word Voodoo is etched below the face. I never tried to play with the antique Ouija board. The stories I had been told as a child of its accurate predictions had sent shivers down my spine. I was fascinated by it, but from a respectful distance.

I keep my eyes on the prize as I continue up the stairs. I do not see him coming until it is too late.

I first glimpse his dark pants and his white muscle shirt; his hair is also white. He is old, but looks strong. His face is hard, angry. His eyes are a clear, deep, crystal blue. He jumps out at me from the landing on the right, blocking my view to the room ahead. His arms are reaching for me, grabbing my shoulders. He is speaking. No, screaming. The words are jumbled. I do not understand him because his ranting is overshadowed by the screeching inside my own head. I do not know this man. I have never seen this face. But, those eyes…

I feel the loss of my own footing on the stairs. His large, wrinkled hands are still on me, pushing me down. My poinsettia has disappeared. I reach out and grab the railing trying to avoid the inevitable fall. Looking behind in desperation, I find my voice and scream to my mother for aid. She is gone. Realizing I am alone with my assailant, I am overcome by the sensation of falling and fade to black.

And begin again, in my grandmother’s foyer with my poinsettia back in hand. My mother behind me, we climb, over, and over. The outcome remains the same.

The house has long been sold. The trunks were emptied. My grandparents have passed on. Many of their possessions were dispersed among the family and good will, others simply thrown away. The cast iron pot, lost. The Ouija board, burned. But the dream has repeated over and over through the years, its message still unclear; a residual haunt breaking free from my subconscious mind with no reason I can find, except to torment me for a spell. Everything exactly as it was.

Perhaps he’s slightly on target. The really vivid dreams I remember in great detail, as well as if they actually happened, and years after they occur. I put a lot of stock in these dreams. I’ve been inclined to believe that the ones that are the most vivid can be foretelling. I’ve had several occasions over the years where something I dreamt had in fact come to pass (others argue déjà vu). And I have also come to believe that the dreams I’ve had with visits from the dead, are just that. I’ve been told by seers before that I have a mostly untapped gift. I have remained of the opinion that perhaps I’m just not ready to fully tap it, if ever.

Most of the time the dreams are just totally out there; random stories that I play for myself night after night. With the exception of the first trimester, one thing that I really loved about being pregnant with my children, and the months that followed in their infancy, was the lack of dreaming. Up numerous times a night (while pregnant to pee, postpartum to feed), and completely exhausted, either I didn’t dream at all or was just way to comatose when I did sleep to recall it. It was a nice change of pace.

The first trimester for each child, but more so for my first, was down right horrific. The nightmares were unbelievable. Blood, gore, body parts, Dark-Age, apocalyptic shit. I went to my OBGYN convinced that I was about to bare the spawn of the Devil. And I don’t even believe in the Devil. She assured me that I was not in fact carrying a demon child, but was one of a small percentage of women who get a form of pregnancy insomnia that often come chock full with nightmares, and it would pass. Thank Goddess she was right.

Now that Dominic has started to sleep through the night on a fairly consistent basis, so have I. Bring on the weird!!! Dreams have most certainly come back in full force. Last night’s installment included a lovely trip back to Vampire’s Grave out in Western Coventry (I think), with a pit stop on the way past Hell’s Gate (another cemetery I believe on private land) that housed the Hounds of Hell. I haven’t thought about these places in ages.

For those who are wondering what the hell I’m talking about, Vampire’s Grave was a gravestone that created quite the buzz over the years for the young generations. I believe the teenage girl who died in the late 1800’s was named Nellie Vaughn, and her epithet stated “I’m waiting and watching for you.” Rumors circulated that this young girl was a vampire, and as a result she had many visitors over the 1970’s and 80’s. Paul and I used to drive out there, back in my historic cemetery phase, to visit Nellie and read all the stones. We had this great plan (OK, maybe it was my plan) to map out the entire family tree of the cemetery, until we got lazy and figured that someone had probably already done it anyway. Unfortunately, quite a few of Nellie’s visitors were rather disrespectful, and her resting place had fallen prey to vandalism. The tablet has since been removed, which is such a shame. It was a beautiful piece of history.