Three for Halloween

1.  My favorite episode of This American Life–one of many favorites, actually– is an atmospheric piece about an abandoned house.  Highly, highly recommend that you give it a listen.

The House on Loon Lake
Adam Beckman tells the first part of his story, about how, back in the 1970s, he and his friends broke into an abandoned house in the small town of Freedom, New Hampshire. The home turned out to be a perfect time capsule, containing the furniture, letters and personal effects of an entire family…abandoned for decades. It seemed like the family just vanished one day, leaving salt and pepper shakers on the table, notes on the bedroom mirror, and a wallet with money still inside. Adam and his friends read the letters, saving some as clues, and never forgot.

2. This post at The Last Psychiatrist, one of my very favorite sites, gave me the heebie-jeebies to the point that I’m almost sad I read it. It’s way too close to my own fear of the dark and of empty houses.

The Plan Will Always Fail Catastrophically
He opened the closet door. Nothing.   It made an unexpectedly noticeable amount of noise as he closed it, and he reflexively looked over his shoulder.   Come on, get a grip.  No large cabinets in this room.  He fell to the floor and looked under the bed.  Nothing.  He unplugged the phone.  He left the light on, and hurried to the next room.  Windows, closet, cabinet, bed.  Leaving that light on as well, he left the room and went back down the hallway.  That room is completely fine.  That room is completely fine.

3. I love, love, love this poem and always have. I’ve read it so many times I nearly have it memorized.  It’s about more than Halloween, of course, but still a great thing to read today. (Via my poetry blog.)

Her Kind ~ Anne Sexton

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.