There are times when a person finds themselves reflecting on their past. Sometimes in fondness, other times in frustration. However the times where one remembers the past most vibrantly are those moments of regret.

 

Looking back, I can remember the odd times when the hushed agitated whispers of my mother and grandmother coloured our kitchen’s air with a sense of foreboding gloom. Of course those whispers would immediately switch to a sombre quiet once they saw me eavesdropping.

 

My grandmother would coax me back to bed with her warm smile which softened her sharp tongue, “my little one,” she always began, “what need is there for you to listen to us old ladies, hmm?” And with that I was quickly hustled back to my room.

 

I can also clearly recall sitting on my aunt’s lap during her frequent visits to my childhood home.  She was so different from my mother, yet oddly similar. My aunt’s pin straight hair always done up so neatly in comparison to my mother’s curly disarray. Yet I could always find the exact same look in her eye as I did with my mom, it was always as if they were looking somewhere just out of sight, waiting for someone – or something – to come into focus.

 

“You are lucky,” my aunt would say as she rocked me tightly, “the woman of our family see things. But maybe you are not so lucky, we still need a strong man to look after us when it is too much, no? Grow up quickly my boy.” I didn’t take any of it to heart of course. As I grew older I learned to assimilate my family’s superstitious ramblings into my plain, ordinary life.

 

That said, I still loved sitting in with my aunt and watch her set up the occasional odd ritual. She was always delighted when I spent the extra time with her, I think she always resented the fact that she had no children of her own. Plus, her little nephew was one of the few people she could explain her craft to without sounding like a fool. Each time she taught me was as if it was a school lesson, occasionally quizzed me on our previous sessions.

 

“Do you remember why we always keep a bowl of salt in the room? Tsk, tsk, you must pay attention!” she would scold. Yet at the same time, she would be obviously happy to correct her curious young pupil.  And so I learned. But as much as I had knowledge, I did not have belief.

 

One day, after my grandmother had fallen asleep and my mother was working, I opened the door to the cursed room. Needless to say, I never believed it was cursed. My grandmother would simply glare at it from time to time if she misplaced her reading glasses or other small disturbances in our plain ordinary lives. Even my mother rolled her eyes at this particular antic of the old woman’s.

 

I asked her why she hated the room so much once as a three or four year old. “Ai, this house is a blessing that your mother, with God’s will, has worked so hard towards. But still, this place is ours because of its history, if it had not been for the misfortune of the ones before us we would be in a place a tad bit more cramped.” This answer upset me, but my mother reassured me that there was nothing to be scared of in this house. After all, my mother, aunt, and grandma had checked it thoroughly before we moved in and that my grandmother was just being silly. Still, it was at her insistence that left the room empty, and in return she was no longer allowed to mention anything of the house’s previous owners or anything of the kind. At least not orally – her angry glances were still more than obvious. 

 

In my mind, this empty room was the perfect place to perform a young boy’s mischief. I often stored candy or junk food here with the utmost trust that the ‘cursed’ room would protect my goodies. So, it was only natural that I would start practicing what little supernatural knowledge my aunt had given me in this room as well. I was strictly forbidden from fooling around with the strange circles or patterns that the adults in my life used- which obviously meant I wanted to give it a go.

 

The first thing I had tried was a simple pentagon star pattern enclosed in a circle. At the centre of the pentagon I placed a single candle and lit it- eagerly anticipating the results. It was a basic design that I had made off the top of my head, so it was no surprise to me that the circle was unsuccessful. A week passed. And then another, and my curiosity overcame me once again. This time however, I decided to try and memorize the circle that my aunt had drawn the night before.

 

Piece of chalk in hand, I drew the outline of a circle. And drew a small circle just a few inches smaller than the one that came before it. I drew a Star of David in three equidistant corners in the space between the two circles and extended an imaginary line before marking out an inner triangle.  With a few meaningless inscriptions written in the spaces in-between, I was finished my work. And all I had earned to show for it was my own drawn out shadow.

 

Or so I thought. For the briefest moment the light began to flicker out of the corner of my eye- but I quickly disregarded as my mind playing tricks on me. Still, as I went to bed that night, I felt this nagging sensation that maybe, just maybe, that flickering was a direct result of my efforts. That maybe, if I tried again with the same circle, I could bring a stronger reaction come to life. Wouldn’t it be something if all the strange things my family were so consumed with were true?

 

With those thoughts in mind, I found myself in the room once again two nights later. This time, I came in at the dead of night once I was sure my family was sound asleep.  Once again I etched the circles that I was forbidden to draw, this time using only the light of a single candle to guide me. I thicken each once, twice, or even more as I saw fit. I wanted to be successful - I willed the circle to yield something, anything! Finally, I set my lone candle in the centre of my masterpiece and stood back in anticipation.  My work was complete.

 

Yet, again, all I had to show for my labour was my single, elongated shadow. My heart sunk in disappointment.  I remember thinking then that perhaps it’s time I stopped humouring my aunt’s lessons before I realized something. Something that would disturb me every time I glanced over my shoulder.

 

Against all possibility, my shadow was stretching towards the candle, not away from it. At that same moment I watched in shock as my shadow suddenly took to life and peeled away from the floor it was painted on. It’s shins – my shins – bent perpendicular to the ground so that its soles were still attached to my own. Allowing it to stare at me eye to eye with that featureless, pitch black face.

 

The silhouette lunged at me, gleefully wrapping black, ribbon like arms around my neck as one might imagine a snake strangles its prey. Within moments I was being lifted off the very ground while staring into my black reflection.  My vision started to blur, but I kept my eyes locked my eyes on it - on that horrid shadow-grin etched on its profile. It was obvious, that creature revelled in my pale, bloodless face gasping for air.  

 

I do not know what I saw that day. I claim no answer as to what my amateur mistake my horrified mother had to save me from. All that I know and understand is the world that I see and touch. But I still bear a mark in the shape of a handprint around my neck. That scar was inflicted by the very same shadow which follows me to bed each and every night and which wakes me in the morning.

 

Perhaps my story seems a bit far-fetched. But the truth is that I am not one of those men who preach the world of the undead and the spirits from beyond our mortal lives. Nor do I damn those who follow that world or roll my eyes half-heartedly as most do. But there is fear engraved in the eyes that stare back at me in the mirror- a fear is only rewarded to those who know there is something to be afraid of. So my final message is simple, be cautious. Be wary. For those who provoke the dark spirits hidden underneath our beds at night are those who have no choice but watch their shadow’s malicious dance by the candlelight’s glow.