****As a child, my uncle would tell me about Postavesula, he lived in the upstairs closet near the attic in my grandparents house. Turned out he just didn’t want us going upstairs. My grandfather use to use Postavettula who lived beneath the basement stairs to scare us from going down there. Is it any wonder that I see boogeymen everywhere?’
Yesterday T and me get home after school/work. Soccer had been cancelled due to rain so I was looking forward to a nice evening at home.
We arrive at the apartment, gather up all the bags that are required and head into the apartment. T stops when we get to the bottom of the stairs and looks at me. ‘Did you leave the t.v. on?’ ‘What? You were the last one watching it you were suppose to turn it off!’
We look at one another. Shrug our shoulders. T starts to watch Youtube as I putter around getting supper. I am replaying our morning over in my mind and realize that the television was not on when I came home in between dropping T off and leaving for work myself.
The hairs on the back of my neck start to stand up. Omg there might be a serial killer in the apartment? Would M have come in and watched my t.v. as opposed to laying in the comfort of her own bed? Never (and just so we can be clear, I did ask this question of M.)
Without alerting T, I slink into his room to ensure that 1) his closet doors are still open and 2) there is no one there. So far so good. I enter my room. T.V. borrowed still here, so J did not come and pick up. I stand back from my closet, reach out and push the door open. Jump about two feet when I realize that the satanic clown is not about to jump out from behind my dress and stab me.
Last but not least, I check the linen closet. Thank goodness, I sigh a deep breath of relief, there are no killer clowns in my house.
But wait……I head in to the storage area where the cats litter boxes are. I need to do my daily scoop. It is dark. Only one little light. And nothing under the stairs.
My breath catches in my throat. I can hear breathing, a wet gasping breath coming from beneath the stairs. I squeak and rush back out into the hallway. All of two feet away.
T is sitting at the computer. Nonchalantly I lean against the counter and appraise my eight year old son. Yep, he can do it.
‘Hey buddy. I need you to come with me. But I cannot tell you why. Not until I am done.’
‘Where am I going mom?’
‘I need you to come with me. I have scared myself. But I can’t tell you right now just come with me.’
And he does. Yes my eight year old son is my knight in shining armor. As I hovered over the litter boxes scooping the poop and pee, T is chatting away behind me. About how smelly the big chunks of pee and poop are. And what am I scared of? And are we almost done yet?
Finally I am finished. We head into the kitchen. T looks at me quizzically. Do I, his mother admit that I scared myself with my own imagination? Or do I ask him to just……oh hell gotta admit the truth.
So I did. And T looked at me. Looked at the storage space. Looked at me again and shook his head.
In my defense, when I was a child I was easy to scare. And I may have mentioned before but I love it. Going down the hallway to the bathroom I would turn on my bedroom light, the kitchen light, the light in my mom’s room and just as I was about to hit the light to the bathroom my mom would call ‘Jay, are you okay?’
Every time. And every time she would scare the shit out of me and I would run screaming back down the hallway to her. We would both laugh.
I have an overactive imagination and I can scare myself without even meaning to. Yes I admit that I am using my son as my defender. Yes I admit that I love to scare myself. And it is all in fun. Rationally I knew no one else but us was here, irrationally, a mad clown hid under my steps.
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