When I was six years old, we lived in an older home that had push-button light switches.
These switches were like two Licorice All-sorts ( the black ones with a snowy core of coconut) had been inserted into the wall, surrounded by a rectangle of burnished brass.
I now assume that these fixtures were left overs from some ancient electrical system but to my young eye they were the pinnacle of elegance - they were different - and I loved the feel of that cylindrical switch giving way under my small palm.
Even then, I harboured faint longings for a somehow yet-to-be-discovered aristocracy and also searched the back-of-closets on a regular basis in case a portal to Narnia or somewhere equally thrilling might suddenly reveal itself ...
This particular light switch though, whose function was to guide anyone up to the second floor was unhelpfully located on the landing of the stairs.
There was gold damask wallpaper with a raised, velvet nap flanking both sides of the stairs and although it was quite innocuous by day, as soon as the light began to fade, I began to see taunting, sneering faces in the interlocking scrolls of the pattern: a pointed devil beard here, a wolf or some other demonic creature of the night there, stretching lips back to reveal pointed teeth and rolling, unforgiving eyes.
Each night I had to make a dash for that switch in the darkness.
Even though it was only about 10 seconds to make that leap through the blackness taking the stairs two at a time, I could feel that hot breath on the back of my neck getting closer and closer, unseen claws making a strange clicking sound now as their speed increased, till I finally smacked the light switch hard to flood the area with a bright, white puddle of safety which caused the beasts behind me to dissolve into a cone of sandy nothingness.
I think back to this sometimes and how genuinely frightened I really was and wonder why my parents didn’t just leave the light on for me?
Of course, there was also the fact that I never thought to mention it to them.
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Oh my gosh... the photo of you with your Edward... Is that a big blond Steiff teddy bear, the one that mooed when you tipped him back? He looks just like my very own Teddy, my birthday present at age 3. I still have him.
Love this post!
Ah, recalling more innocent times. This reminds me of when I used to run and jump onto my bed because I was afraid to leave my feet dangling or anywhere near the 'under the bed' part, for fear of monsters or anything, really, grabbing my ankles.
And when I used to stare at my headboard woodgrain and imagine seeing this or that. Walls could do that too, come alive under what seemed like hours of staring. How we cultivated our imaginations during our childhoods, Sue! xo