October is here!
The Spooky Season has always had a special kind of magic. The cool kick-off to the Fall line-up of spectacular classics. Halloween to Thanksgiving to Christmas. When I was a baby being baptized on Halloween, my brain hadn’t grown to the required size to properly understand all of that symbiotic goodness. The cherry on top being the absolutely beautiful, Virginia Fall season I’ve experienced for what will, this year, be my 49th consecutive. I want to take advantage of that love for Halloween and the spirit of writing, which has once again possessed my hand.
More poignantly, the writing virus has just spread out a little. From the exclusive, caveman-esque stone carvings on the inside of my skull to, well, here. And also in the latest issue of POZ. If you have a heart condition or get scared easily, abandon the tales of terror below and go read Somebody to Share. An ode to love. Tears were shed writing it. Who knows, perhaps that story may end up being one of this month’s OctoberFeast offerings?
Shoot, I may have already blogged about it. Well, I guess that’s one of things that makes OctoberFeast scary- not just for you the reader but for me as well. ADHD doesn’t make it wise to go see if I did, I’ll just end up editing-to-death a blog entry that may or may not have the tale I’m looking for. I most certainly wouldn’t make it back here to pitch the last bits of dirt on whatever story I choose to send a shiver down your spine.
What’s scariest about OctoberFeast is that it could be one-and-done. That’s why I want to share one that my Mom told a lot when I was growing, that I forgot about until after she passed. I’ve spoken to her a lot since she passed to spirit on the last day of June in 2022. The ghost story she told occurred when I was still in a crib, sharing a room with my big brother, Kip. Mom said that, some mornings, my crib wasn’t in its usual spot. It had been moved to block a door to the attic, I believe.
At the time, Kip wasn’t strong enough to move it on his own. But the crib wasn’t his gripe. It was the ghosts. “They only talk to Shawn!” Mom said she shared the peculiar claims and cribbage to a neighbor, who casually told her our place had been haunted for years, which was good enough for her.
(Whisper, female voice: “…OctoberFeast.”)
The morning of Mom’s passing I woke up with a song in my head: “Your Wildest Dreams” by The Moody Blues. I listen to music a lot, but I don’t wake up with earworms on the norm. The upbeat ditty, of course, stopped when I received the sobering news that Pam Decker, one of the most spirited among us, had passed to spirit. Before masking up (Gwenn and I both had COVID, the chef’s kiss), I was getting ready and I put on my two-hour Spotify list of beloved songs.
At the time, it was about two hours long. I’d recently added Your Wildest Dreams. As I hit play I remembered that I’d woken up with the tune playing in my mind. “Don’t do it, Mom,” I said. “Don’t you dare.” The first song to play?
The fucking Moody Blues.
I burst into tears.
A couple of months after her passing, I took my Dad on a tour of a few houses we lived in before settling in Waynesboro, where I’d been born. The first place I remember living in was in Grottoes. I was 4. The haunted house in Bridgewater was right before that. As we neared, Dad said he thought the house had been torn down years ago. “Yeah,” he said as we drove back down the street. “It was right there, beside the alley.” I brought up the cool ghost story because I wanted to get his take on it. Also, like me Mom is much more prone to fantastical thinking.
Dad backed her up.
I wasn’t going to challenge him if he didn’t, on the account that I’ve long forgotten my ghost friends’ names which put my credibility in peril.
That trip was such a bonding experience, one we both needed. And get this, when I picked up Dad for our joyride I was listening to my life-is-random playlist, which had swelled to about four hours long by then. As Dad opened the door and got it, guess what song started playing? Yip, you guessed it. “Your Wildest Dreams”. A little less than a year later, my brother turned 50 and had a big birthday party at the bowling alley in Staunton I’d picked dad up. A day or two before, I heard a Moody song I wasn’t familiar with, though Gwenn recognized it.
The Voice.
Being upfront, the only Moody Blues tunes I really knew weere Dreams and Satin. The Voice was a real banger, and I quickly added it to my random playlist. Well, guess what band was playing at the bowling alley when I walked in for my brother’s 50th?
The f’n Moody Blues: The Voice. Just like the drive with Dad, this was mom’s way of telling me that she was there celebrating the present. She knows I have wild ideas, but she also knows I’ve always needed a few larger than life signs that magic truly does exist in this world. I’ve had a wonderful life thanks to love first, luck second and, lastly, a little bit of magic.
Like meeting Gwenn while standing in line at a talk given by Jeanne White, Ryan White’s Mom.
Just wait, Ryan has a cameo in an upcoming OctoberFeast story, if I can keep my mental health on the rails, which involves so much these days: walks, talks, creative outlets, consuming copious amounts of Halloween-themed baking shows. Every day, I try to do something healthy for myself. Sometimes, it’s drawing the blinds a little and taking a step back.
Now, you might be thinking that what I have shared above is cosmic speculation that can be chalked up to, say, pure coincidence… all I’ll add to that sentiment is simply:
Don’t.
Even.
Think it.
You wouldn’t want to upset mother, would you? Ask any poor, still living soul that found out the hard way. Like the people that tried to keep her little ghost whisperer out of school after HIV entered the family portrait… the eyes, look at the portrait… the eyes follow you around the room. Heck, even ask the poor souls that are on the other side with. Because, during OctoberFeast, anything is possible. And in the real world, where the horrors seem ever present and desperate to one-up previous offerings, there is no need to distress or doubt the spirits that guide us.
Especially not during…
(Female voice, whispering: “…Octoberrrr…rrrr…rrr…
Demonic voice: FEAST!”)
Positively Yours,
Shawn