There is a certain difference to the blackness of night in October. In September, the night is still optimistic — there is a residual, lingering hopefulness and life. In November, everything is sleeping or dead, only awaiting the shroud of snow to bed it down.
October is the time for the dying to complete itself.
The sun goes down, and even with moonrise, the dusk is pensive. The stillness is not natural. The land feels like it is waiting for the cross-over, a steady but almost imperceptible slide into death and silence. You can sense the energies wafting invisibly past — the spirits whose time is pressing closer, until the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest and they may make their best efforts to contact living beings. The October dark is the calm before some kind of storm…the tension before essential news is delivered…the closed curtain on a quiet stage before the drama is unleashed.
I think I had a visitor last night.
I remember distinctly waking up, but not opening my eyes. It was the same feeling I have when my daughter comes padding in because she can’t sleep, that eerie sensation of being watched. But normally, when she comes in, if I pretend to be asleep she will whisper my name to wake me up.
Last night, I felt watched, but heard nothing.
I kept expecting to hear my daughter say “Mommy” to wake me up so I could take her to the bathroom, but there was nothing. To say that it was creepy is a bit of an understatement. I was scared to open my eyes. I wanted to look, but at the same time, not knowing what I would see, I just couldn’t do it. I felt silly. There was probably nothing there. If I had been brave enough to look, I know there was probably nothing there.
But that certainty still lingers in me.
I felt it again earlier, when I let the dog out in the back yard and felt that oppressive, October dark. It was not evil, or good, in any Hollywood sense of the term. Simply…something.