Notes from Maine - 2022/01/23

My friend was over last night, working on a pinball machine. He’s in charge of buying, selling, and doing some maintenance. I’m responsible for fixing the circuit boards, any hairy electrical issues, and reprogramming them. Together, we’ve revived a lot of machines and passed them on to new owners. It’s a fun hobby. 

Anyway, last night he was working at one end of the house and I was far away in the other corner when he came to find me. Before I could ask what was wrong, he said, “I heard a scream.”

I raised my eyebrows. 

Years ago, this same person threw a whole dish of soy sauce on me when he was startled by a zombie movie. He’s a big, strong, father of two who can be frightened by the mere mention of ghosts. I wasn’t surprised by his panic at the sound of a “scream.”

“What did it sound like?”

He said, “Far away, like from the cellar. It was low and sounded like a yell for help.”

I shrugged. “I guess we have to go in the cellar.”

“No!”

His panicked reaction traveled to me telepathically, or like a skin-tingling electric charge that jumped from body to body. I loved it. I loved the idea that there was a monster lurking in the cellar—real danger facing us if we dared to open that door and descend those stairs. I was five years old again, watching Scooby-Doo in those first few minutes when the monsters are real and haven’t been unmasked by the meddling kids yet. 

I shrugged again and said, “We’re not going to know until we go down there.”

I said it just to elicit that response again. I just wanted to experience fear again through his reaction. The rational part of me had already explained it away. He was in the mudroom, which is the part of the house closest to the barn. At night, locked in their individual stalls, my horses are experiencing another wave of baby fever. Sometimes they call plaintively to each other, professing their love and expressing their desire to have another winter foal together. I’m sure that’s what my friend heard.

I couldn’t convince him to go in the cellar. At this point, having known each other for more than twenty years, he knows better than to trust me. Down in the cellar, I would have made up a story about how I keep hearing noises down there and feel like something is watching me from the old, dark part of the space. I would have told him that the dogs won’t go down there anymore. If I force them, all the hair stands up on their back and they stand, stiff, staring at nothing as they growl. 

None of that is true, but it would have been fun to say to him.

I have no interest in skydiving, swimming with sharks, driving fast, or gambling. I’m not a thrill seeker. But I do love the idea of encountering a ghost, demon, or evil spirit. I don’t really believe in those things, but I love the idea of them. Everything is too rational and plain. I would love to be able to conjure the visceral response that my friend has—imagining a moan for help. All I hear is one horny horse calling to another.