The edge of the woods is a space that has always bothered me. The edge is a liminal zone that sits where the civilized yard meets the wild forest. It is neither quite lit nor completely dark. It seems like a clear border, but there is nothing there to keep anything from moving between the two places. When something stands there, it looks more charged with potential menace, as if it is ready to move from that dark place towards my light. And that paranoid feeling always grows in the autumn.
Our culture has long worried about the dangers in the forest. But this reaction of mine is not some fevered imagining from historical New England. I do not think that people are out in the woods cavorting with devils and witches. Well, at least not in my county anyway.
My reaction is more primal than that. Part of it comes from childhood games played in the dark. I have great nostalgia for “Ghost in the Graveyard,” or a version of zombie tag we called “Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” that we would play in the twilight or in full darkness. Those games provided exquisite fear as my senses tried to pick out foes in the dim light.
The other explanation for my reaction is practical. I have met unknown things in the dark.
A few years back, but around this time of year, a neighbor’s dog from farther down the street started barking in the dark. I heard some crashing sounds as I moved through the woods. I went out on our porch to look. I figured it was one of our local deer. I am fond of them, and I call them “the ladies.” I always talk to them when I see them. I remind them that they’ve known me all their lives and that I don’t want to harm them. I think it sort of works. They don’t come near, but they don’t run off either. They only flee if I move too near or directly towards them.
I took my trusty flashlight out on the porch with me and looked around down below. I theorized that one of the deer was probably shaken up from a surprise encounter with the dog. I did not really see anything until I moved the light over towards the shed. Our shed is not in great shape. We call it the “Evil Dead Shed” because it really does look like a castoff from a Sam Raimi film. Down by the corner of the Evil Dead Shed, I caught the reflection of eyes.
The glowing eyes were low to the ground, and they did not move. We had a little staring contest going on. Still, I figured it had to be a deer. And something inside me, something definitely curious and perhaps caring, but also profoundly stupid, just wanted to know more.
So I went down into the yard. I walked slowly. I kept my light on those eyes. The eyes, in turn, kept staring at me. I started talking to this unknown, saying my usual friendly deer patter. I have a good flashlight, but I could not get a good look. When I got a ways out into my yard, it happened.
The eyes stood up.
I don’t know how to explain how I knew this. They just rose vertically. It just did not seem to be the motion of a deer’s long neck, and it appeared to be higher than a deer would go. I just knew this was not a deer.
I said, “Oh, hello.”
There was a long pause. Time hung between me and the eyes.
I continued, “Look, it was nice meeting you and all, but I’m going back inside now. Have a nice night.”
I walked slowly backwards. It watched me the whole way until I got around the side of the house. I dashed in through the front door and back onto the porch.
By then, the eyes were gone.
I don’t know what this thing was. There was a story on the news the next day about a bear prowling around not too far away. Maybe I was part of an ursine suburban adventure.
The whole experience was wonderfully chilling, maybe even a bit funny. My wife was not as amused by my knuckleheaded adventurism.
I never saw those eyes again.
I have this weird old heat pump. It just needs some attention every so often. A little button must be pushed to ensure the heat works right. I have to go out some evenings to do that. I always shine the light over there by the Evil Dead Shed. One night, something might be looking back.
