The farm, while the best place on earth to be during the day, took on a foreboding and scary feel at night. You could literally hear the walls whispering evil things...footsteps and small shuffles wafted through the air into our little ears while we lay shivering under the covers.
Winters were the worst because it would get dark so early (even earlier than in the city) and stay dark much longer. I remember one never ventured upstairs alone, it was always done in pairs. And then one poor soul had to reach way up high into the darkened stairwell to pull the string for the hall light to come on. What nerves of steel that took each and every time. If you ever woke up in the middle of the night, may God have mercy on your soul.
It was so bone chillingly dark that you could put your hand in front of your face and not see anything more than an inky blackness that seems to breathe and waver as if alive. It didn’t help at all that the room between the two bedrooms (ours and my parents) was a dark, dank, spooky attic. It was a Jumanji type of attic with shadowy what-nots and unexplained shadows that seemed to quiver and shake as if taunting us. There was one window in this room that was always cobwebby and grimy from years of neglect, giving little light to the spooky attic, but rather making things seem even more scary and treacherous.
There was a single step up to the attic with an old skeleton key that always stayed in the keyhole, but in the locked position on this painted white door. The room was always locked, and I never ever had the courage to ask why. Upon entering this gloomy, spiderwebby room, the floorboards would creak with every footfall, warning whatever monster was deep in the shadowy recesses that you had now entered no-man's land and thus considered "fair game." Even in broad daylight, one never went into the attic alone. It just wasn’t done.
I don’t remember any one particular event that evoked such fear in our hearts and minds, but we were always afraid of that farmhouse at night. Even in adulthood, when the farmhouse was discussed between my brother and me, it was always done in a low voice with deep respect and awe.
My mom claims it’s the stories my Dad told, but I really don’t remember any particular stories at all, until we were much older and already had our fears embedded into our psyche. To this day, I can still feel the sheer terror of spending time alone there. During the summer my cousin was dying, I spent well over a month there alone and refused to sleep upstairs. I just used the pullout couch in the living room, which held a whole new host of "scary" because there was a floor vent pass through that looked directly into the upstairs bedroom. I usually slept with the light on each night.
My grandparents worked hard their whole lives. Even when they should have been retired, they continued to work at the turkey plant near their farm and tend to the animals they raised. Chickens for the eggs and geese (I don’t want to know what for), but my Grandma always told me it was for pets. I have a sneaking suspicion she lied. Especially after one particular Christmas dinner. She cooked all day and then put the goose onto the table. I asked what it was and she told me. I refused to eat it and cried the entire meal. If this isn’t a surefire way to upset a Grandma, I don’t know what is. She never ever served goose again.
I spent one summer helping my Grandma incubate, hatch and raise the goslings from the time they left the shell. I remember that I accidentally spoiled one of the goslings and he would cry at the top of his lungs in the middle of the night. Grandma looked at me and said “You spoiled him; you get up and feed him.” Little did she know I absolutely treasured that time and would have done it anyway. Geese are very smart creatures and are often not given the credit they are due. They are conniving, clever and manipulative. They are also loving and loyal until the day they die. That particular gaggle that I helped raise always remembered me and would run to the fence whenever I came back to the farm.