[dropcap]I [/dropcap]almost didn’t write this. Maybe I still shouldn’t. I ought not write about things so ridiculous.
My cousin, Lonnie, was afraid of everything, especially the dark. To make matters worse, he believed in ghosts, too. Namely, the spirit of his dead grandmother. Lonnie would swear on the Bible that his granny was with him, day and night.
Sometimes while conversing, Lonnie would pause, nod to an empty chair, and say, “Ain’t that right, Granny?” Those in the room would glance at the vacant seat for a moment. Which would then prompt the same looks you give someone with toilet paper stuck to their shoe.
Needless to say, I thought it was hogwash. And things became downright absurd when Lonnie refused to ride shotgun with me.
“Granny prefers to sit up front,” Lonnie said.
So, I played along.
Lonnie went on, “Granny wants you to buckle her in, too.”
I took the name of the Lord in vain.
One Christmas Eve, Lonnie and I sat in the den, watching television. It was during the exact moment when Lonnie’s favorite television-character said, “What’choo talkin”bout Willis?” that our electricity went off. We sat in the dark for nearly an hour, Lonnie trembled like a leaf.
“G-G-Granny hates the dark,” Lonnie said.
“I’ll bet she does, Lonnie.”
“Granny says she just won’t have it.”
And in that very instant, our Christmas tree flickered into colorful life, while the rest of the house remained pitch-black. It was a marvel. No other appliances resurrected. Not the lamps, nor the oven-clock. Just the tree. It stayed that way all night long. And to tell you the truth, I’ll never know what caused such an occurrence.
But whatever it was, it knew Lonnie was afraid of the dark.