Dawna Wightman
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on all fours

on all fours

May 09, 2023

Geez, here in Toronto the day is filled with birdsong, the sun is shining and spring is offering promises of growing and joy and all things bright. What a better day than today to tell a terrifying story!

During covid, I started baking for our neighbour Doris. “This is very kind of you,” said Doris. “But I was lonely before covid, and I will be lonely after.”

Her vulnerability was like a knife in my heart.

A dream was born.

It is true that we can not change the whole world and it is true we can all do our tiny bit. The husband was informed we had to do something for isolated seniors like Doris.

He was against the idea. We do have a lot going.

So I applied and applied and applied and finally got a grant for women who want to make the world a better place. Now we had seed money from 222Foundation. Now the dream was close to coming true. Now we needed land. Oh, the dream, yes. The dream was to grow fruits and veg and find volunteers to share them with an isolated senior of their choice. Seniors would get some organic produce and most importantly, a visit. The produce would be conversation starters.

We sold our house and moved to a sugar cube and bought a farm cheap, cheap, cheap because it was covered in sumac, having been abandoned for over sixty years.

I do not do farm life. I love city. I am from Montreal. Give me a smoke, Pepsi and a Mae West with a smoked meat chaser and I’m happy. But there were lonely Dorises to visit so to get them produce, I had to have a garden and the garden we had bought was in the middle of bush with no water, no cell service, no anything civilized.

 The farm sits on a dirt road.

I drive down that dirt road in a snowstorm. I am driving to the farm. Alone. In the pitch dark of midnight, the car wipers work their hardest to fight back large flakes. I do not want to be here, but I am going anyways. There are no other cars, no other people, nothing but night for company. And terror. I do not want to be here. The car turns into our lane. I do not want to be here. The car drives to the clump of poplars, the ones on the knoll. I do not want to be here. Wipers keep rhythm to the heartbeat in my ears. Leave the head lights on. Get out of the driver’s seat. The car door has been left open to get away and fast but from what? Knee deep in snow, movement catches, my eyes follow the funnel of head light over to – there. There. Lidless globes stare at the headlights. Creeping out from behind the trees is a humanoid. It walks on all fours, keeps its chest close to the ground. It locks me into its stare, coming closer, it -  

Cozy bed! Cozy bed! Home, I’m home! I’m awake. I am home. It was just a nightmare. I rarely have them and usually forget or brush it off but this one clings, it was so real. Spindly arms and legs, twig like, it has a watermelon sized head and skeletal body. Hairless, grey flesh, thin neck. There is so much good to do but I can’t stop it, I look up those unnatural features and there, there on google in black and white is the thing from my nightmare – the Dover Demon. (Look it up if you dare!)

Last seen in Massachusetts in 1977, one teenager swore on a stack of bibles that he saw it. Something from my subconscious has been given form. How? It shakes me to the core until I tell myself it is coincidence. Imagination. Quit being a baby lala!

And the river runs, and the river runs and months pass, and things grow and die, and that badness is left far behind.

We are at the farm, having the time of our life at a party. There are many smiles here, and sun and all things bright and beautiful. One of the kids has hired three psychics to read everyone’s tarot cards. The man motions me over to his table. He looks unsure of what to say next. He asks me if I am still scared.

Of what?

The one that lives over there, in that clump of poplars.

Freeze.

There’s that heartbeat in the ears again.

I ask him how he knows, I have never told a soul, not even the husband. Psychic says it is his job, these things he knows. He tells me the demon was here many years before we started clearing this land – it has been trying to scare me but that’s all it has power to do. No harm can come of it living on our farm.

Psychic pretend pounds his chest like a gorilla – “It’s just flexing,” he says. “It’s just a spawn of dark things, it can’t hurt ya.”

Oh, well. I am Canadian, from tough stock. Pull up the big girl pants and move on. It is up to all of us to live in the sun and deal with our fears. (Am I tough, though?). On the farm we sleep in a small garden shed. The window faces that clump of poplars on the knoll. I sleep under the window, always make sure to put a T-shirt over it because the pull to dark things makes me want to wait until everyone is asleep but me and.... look outside.

Gulp.

SO! May is planting time, after the last chance of frost passes. The last Saturday of May 2023 we have at least two thousand seeds to plant, along with apple trees, potatoes and seedlings: hops, eggplant, tomato, okra, lovage, parsley, basil and more - we will plant kindness because Doris is lonely. Many others like her are lonely.

If you can handle getting dirt under your nails, come plant with us. If you don’t plant but have an instrument and want to stand around and entertain, you’re welcomed too. If you can’t make it to the farm, you are smart - the Dover Demon might be lonely, too.

Life and death. Light and dark. Goodness and spooooky.

Happy May!   

 

   

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