Last night I stayed up until well after midnight watching a DVD in the basement. A three-year-old in the house means I have to stay up late to watch anything that might contain objectionable material. In this case the movie was Pulp Fiction and making sure Allie was fast asleep before I pressed play was a wise move, to say the least. Losing a little sleep is worth avoiding reports of Allie walking around at daycare screaming, I'll execute every last one of you mother $%@$'s.
Many evenings, during the week, I usually don't make it upstairs for bed until around 11:30. That means the basement and the first floor are empty and it's my responsibility to make sure all the lights have been turned off. I have to turn off the lights and make my way upstairs. In the dark. . .
Walking by the basement doorway is the worst. I know there is something down there that has been unleashed now that all the lights are out. It had been smelling me the entire time I was watching my movie or reading or typing on this computer. Smelling me. Craving me. By the time I pass by the door on my way to the stairs this something has thought of plenty of ways to eat me in the most painful way possible.
My philosophy is the something can't eat what it can't catch so I walk really fast (okay, run) to get to the stairway and the bound up the stairs. Deb often hears my steps accelerate as I pass by the basement door. Many times she's still quietly laughing at me by the time I make it into bed.
Truth is, it's usually not a vague something that's down in the basement. It's almost always Regan Mcneil from The Exorcist or that little girl from The Ring. Lately it's been this picture in the back of my mind as I run up the stairs:
I never would have guessed, as a seven-year-old, that now, at 37, I would be afraid of little girls. Little girls possessed by Satan, but little girls nonetheless.
I'd better wrap this up. I can hear people getting ready for bed upstairs and I don't want to miss out on a free ride past the basement door.