The Ghost of Balsam Lane

I lay in my cold bed clutching the covers and pulling them up around my chin while shivering uncontrollably; partially from the cold and partially from the fear that gripped me. My room and the house was dark, ebony dark. Even the moon and the stars could not force their rays of light through the thick, musty-smelling curtains, creating a darkness that was almost palpable. I hated the dark. Bad things always seemed to happen when it became dark. This darkness was intense, full of uncertainty and the unknown. The cold crept through my muscles and sinew until it penetrated through the bones, deep into the marrow. Although I couldn’t see a thing, I could hear and feel the evil that lived in my house. Almost every night my mother, brother, and I would crawl into our separate hiding places, under the covers on our beds. This is when the quiescence began to cause chills and shudders.

There was a man walking through our house. I could hear the scrapping of his feet on the worn hardwood floors. The darkness did not allow him to see where he was going and he would bump into things and I could hear feet shuffling sounds, labored breathing, grunts, and groans. The dissonances became stronger as the stranger came closer, feeling his way down the shadowed hallway. My heart pounded in my chest and adrenaline poured into my bloodstream, constricting blood flow in some areas and increasing blood flow in others. Hyper-vigilance forced my scrawny body to get ready to fight or flee. My ears started ringing and my breathing quickened as the scraping sound of the man’s feet and his labored breathing came closer to my threshold.

As I held my breath and listened intently, straining to tune my ears to hear the noises coming from the dark hallway, I glanced nervously towards my little brother who had just turned six. I couldn’t see him but I could hear his steady, shallow breathing so I reached over with my right hand to make contact. It was my job, in my mind, to protect my little brother from all dangers, seen or unseen. I willed myself to ignore the terror and swallow the huge lump in my throat, blocking my airway.

Squinting, I tried to will my eyes the ability to see in reduced illumination until I convinced myself that there was a corporeal supernatural being or the outline of the man walking past my door. My breath was held captive for a seeming eternity as I watched him reach the end of the hallway and stop in front of my door. He slowly made his way into the opposite room, where my mother slept. I strained my hearing, hoping to pick up the slightest sounds when I heard the man slide into the bed next to my mother.

Everything became eerily quiet. Shortly, one could hear the man’s breathing become rhythmic and steady. I was able to relax for the first time in a long while. My fist released the scrunched up covers and I wearily closed my eyes to go to sleep.

After scrapping his hands, arms, and elbows against both sides of the hallway, leaving blood trails for the morning light to shine onto, he had finally found his bed. He had just finished his nightly fifth of whiskey and chasers of beer. The stranger, called dad, had made his way to bed, sleeping off his drunkenness. We will relive this nightmare tomorrow night, all over again.


(Dedicated to all the children whose parent or parents are in the clutches of addiction. May God help them all.)