From Without The Boudoir

Somehow- our very last argument rang in my ears. It was jarring that "Ha! Ha! of his as he stormed off in a huff, ne'er to be heard from again.

And here I tossed and turned tonight. It was a sensation of waiting. Waiting for what? I knew not at that time. I simply felt completely awake.

But in the September moonlight I couldn't for the blazes reconnoiter what it could be! "Ha! ha!" went his angry announcement. It was like the icy chill in the air. It had come this year with the Indian summer. I had lain out a few course woolen blankets which brought their comforting weight to the chilling situations of late. The winda' was shut and the curtains drawn together. I willed myself to sleep but only to find myself even more awake. Thence at hour Thirteen- 'Witchin' time'- came the petulant laughter again.

I opened my eyes to a strange light below the door to my chambers. It were dim enough to entice me to it. And the door opened to a darkness all too familiar as it were the very same pitch as would greet me any other such evening. And tonight with muted olive painted walls and mahogany furniture lining the hallway I should have felt calmly enough-- aye-but...

there it glowed again. Off to the strange light around the bend of the stairwell... glowing away down the steps. If I could just see what it was. I gathered my shawl.

And so I crept across the creaking old floor. The wood whined and waled as I padded along the floorboards. And there seemed to be music a’coming. And phantom smells of roses and soups and soft blankets. "Ha Ha!”, it came. And I gingerly turned the post on the stone-cold stairwell as it caught the silver moonlight in it's gleam. There was a sad and deep need for a good re-varnishing along it's olden railing.

And there I met the Porch winda' all a'blaze in the moon’s white fire. Blinding as ne'er before imagined. And all of the sudden- a great chill blew towards me. I clutched my shawl about me, trying to stay warm. and I realized I was not cold. Not at all. Aye it were the warmest burst of air one could feel at Witchin' Time.

And the laughter came again. Not austere. Nay. It was warm. As warm as the air. As warm as the softest noise uttered to my ear. As if there were an argument stopped fast- with the deafening sound of the one listening to you at last. There in those billowing curtains all a'glow in the eery moonlight came that old dear sweet laugh. Such a sad laugh. A kind laugh. A very near laugh...