Shadow Child
The doorbell rang while I napped, sleeping away my depression. Was my son, Christopher,
already home from kindergarten? My watch read 1:15 — way too soon for the school bus to drop
him off. Hurrying down our curved staircase to the first floor, I gripped the banister, fighting my
reawakened fear of heights. My therapist warned this might happen—the revival of old anxieties,
irrational fears, and diving into sleep to avoid thinking about last month’s decision.
I opened the front door, shading my eyes against the early afternoon sun. A stiff breeze
from the West, the beginnings of a predicted Santa Ana wind, tried to carry crinkled autumn
leaves into the house. In the swirl of dried oak debris stood a two-foot high, totally black something. When I took an involuntary step backward, its paper-thin body turned and ran away down the walk, rounding the corner of the attached garage.
Somehow, I wasn’t afraid, and I sped after it. By the time I skidded to the end of the path, the visitor had disappeared. I searched all around the property, including the upper half-acre of orange trees, the legacy of a long-ago commercial venture, but with no luck—I was alone among the garled, fruit-laden trunks.
Since then, I’ve spent days doing a lot of Google research, reading accounts of people
visited by shadow beings, humanoid figures the believers in the paranormal or supernatural
interpret as some kind of spirit. The more scientific-minded are inclined to consider them extra-
dimensional inhabitants of another universe. But as for me, I feel this dark apparition may have been the sad soul of the embryo I aborted last month, saying “Goodbye and remember me.”
My child, there is no fear that I will forget you. I’ll wonder for the rest of my life what sort of adult you would become. I’ve thought of the joy and laughter another child like Christopher would bring to our family.
But in the end, I tallied up memories of the convulsions wracking Christopher’s body for days after his difficult birth, of the seven-month post-partum depression I suffered afterwards, of the tenuous financial edge we balanced on with my husband’s shaky job.
But be assured, I will remember and miss you. Meeting you has somehow given me the determination to get my act together and cherish each day.
already home from kindergarten? My watch read 1:15 — way too soon for the school bus to drop
him off. Hurrying down our curved staircase to the first floor, I gripped the banister, fighting my
reawakened fear of heights. My therapist warned this might happen—the revival of old anxieties,
irrational fears, and diving into sleep to avoid thinking about last month’s decision.
I opened the front door, shading my eyes against the early afternoon sun. A stiff breeze
from the West, the beginnings of a predicted Santa Ana wind, tried to carry crinkled autumn
leaves into the house. In the swirl of dried oak debris stood a two-foot high, totally black something. When I took an involuntary step backward, its paper-thin body turned and ran away down the walk, rounding the corner of the attached garage.
Somehow, I wasn’t afraid, and I sped after it. By the time I skidded to the end of the path, the visitor had disappeared. I searched all around the property, including the upper half-acre of orange trees, the legacy of a long-ago commercial venture, but with no luck—I was alone among the garled, fruit-laden trunks.
Since then, I’ve spent days doing a lot of Google research, reading accounts of people
visited by shadow beings, humanoid figures the believers in the paranormal or supernatural
interpret as some kind of spirit. The more scientific-minded are inclined to consider them extra-
dimensional inhabitants of another universe. But as for me, I feel this dark apparition may have been the sad soul of the embryo I aborted last month, saying “Goodbye and remember me.”
My child, there is no fear that I will forget you. I’ll wonder for the rest of my life what sort of adult you would become. I’ve thought of the joy and laughter another child like Christopher would bring to our family.
But in the end, I tallied up memories of the convulsions wracking Christopher’s body for days after his difficult birth, of the seven-month post-partum depression I suffered afterwards, of the tenuous financial edge we balanced on with my husband’s shaky job.
But be assured, I will remember and miss you. Meeting you has somehow given me the determination to get my act together and cherish each day.
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Phyllis Houseman
phouseman@comcast.net
Phyllis Houseman was born in Detroit and received degrees from the University of Michigan and Wayne State University. She served in the Peace Corps, Ecuador, and then taught Biology and Physical Science in Detroit and California schools. In a step into another career, Phyllis has published several novels and short stories. Web Page: https://phyllishouseman.com Amazon Author Page: amazon.com/author/phyllis_g_houseman |