Letters from the Farm
"Sometimes they’re in the corner, sometimes they’re by the door, sometimes they’re all a-standin’ in the middle uv the floor." (From "Seein’ Things" by Eugene Field, 1850-95) Seeing scary things in the black velvet world between dusk and dawn isn’t just for small children, such as the boy in Field’s poem. When it’s dark, you’re not wearing your glasses and you’re in a strange place, it’s easy to imagine seeing things. That’s only a partial list of possible reasons for adults who continue to experience eerie visions at night. I should know. I’m one of them. Washington Post subscribers must have laughed when they read the following item in a police blotter column this spring — "Mount Olivet Road N.E., 1200 block, March 30. An animal control officer responding to a call about a snake in a bathroom reported that the snake was actually a hair band." Had it not been for my own encounter with gigantic, menacing, one-eyed snails during a vacation with my husband only a few weeks before the D.C. snake report, I might have laughed, too. My excuses might have included jet lag, replacing frigid weather from home with tropical heat and humidity, or lack of sleep. "Sometimes they are a-sittin’ down, sometimes they’re walkin’ round so softly and so creepy-like they never make a sound!" (Ibid) We had arrived at the hotel only a few hours before bedtime and there hadn’t been much time to familiarize ourselves with our surroundings. During a middle-of-the-night trip to the bathroom, I cautiously worked my way across the room, which was partially illuminated by the full moon outside. I was fully aware that toes can only be stubbed, broken or slammed into furniture a limited number of times before they resemble limp flags on windless days. After years of midnight mishaps, mine were already dangling at half-mast. With my arms held straight out in front of me, I must have resembled one of the zombies in George A. Romero’s classic, "Night of the Living Dead." Not even that movie could have prepared me for what waited on the bathroom floor. The bathroom was also dimly lit by the tropical moon, but the two one-eyed snails, gray and black against the white tile floor, sitting perfectly still and staring up at me, were as clear as day. With terror-drenched courage I reached down and lightly touched the top of the one closest to the door, and the snail felt cold and damp. It quivered slightly. Screaming my husband’s name, I literally flew to the bed where he lay sound asleep. "Wake up! Wake up," I shouted and shook him awake. "What I’m going to show you is really going to gross you out!" "Wha? Wha?" he murmured as he was pushed ahead of me to the bathroom. I don’t know how I found the strength to push him, but I’ve read somewhere that people under great stress are miraculously granted remarkable powers. I flipped on the bathroom light and warned him, "Watch your step! They could be anyplace!" Instead of stomping on the creatures with his bare feet and defending my life, my husband began to laugh. "They’re only doorstops, Carole." That’s all they were. "Sometimes they’re as black as ink, an’ other times they’re white — but color ain’t no difference when you see things at night!" (Ibid)
