With the conclusion of I AM, we come to the letter J, and the Jogah, mythical little people in Iroquois lore.
J is for Jogah, the little people.
Jeffery was doing his best to help his parents move into their new home. But he was only eight and not strong enough to carry any of the boxes his father and the men he hired to move them were bringing into the house. Occasionally they would find a box more suitable to his size, but there weren’t very many, so he spent most of his time just trying to stay out of the way.
He felt like he’d been uprooted and transplanted to a place he did not belong. While country life looked like it would give them more room to stretch their legs and even provided a yard for him to play in, everything seemed to be so far away. In the city where he grew up everything they needed was within a block or two and they could easily walk to their destination.
One of the first things to strike him when they arrived at their new home was the silence. There were no shouts, no horns or squealing tires, nor was there any music that always seemed to be playing in the background when you lived in the city. A cacophonous blend of rap, heavy metal, foreign and domestic in languages running the gamut from English to Russian and everything in between that formed a wall of near constant sound in the background. Even during class, when they were supposed to be focused on their lessons, that incessant beat could be heard. Like the heartbeat of sprawling beast that encompassed everything in. On the contrary, in the country, silence ruled and though he was only eight, he imagined it was going to take him some time to get used to this.
As the focus shifted from the upstairs room to the first floor the men moved their canvas tarps and he was forced up to the second floor to stay out of the way as the rest of the furniture was brought in. As he sat at the head of the stairs, he glanced over his shoulder, into the shadowy length of the hall and felt the first stirring of an old fear he believed he had outgrown.
An old memory blossomed, and he recalled in terrifying detail the one time he had left his bedroom in the middle of the night and wandered down the hall to his parent’s room. Finding them both sound asleep he ventured into the kitchen, a place he should have been familiar with, but at night with the shadows crowding into the corners it took on a more sinister appearance that caused him to pause. After a fruitless moment of staring into the shadows he crossed to the sink and pushed one of the kitchen chairs close to the cabinets. He’d done this a thousand times before, but tonight with the shadows so close something felt off. As he was filling his water glass he became aware of a deepening chill as the shadows seemed to grow from the corners of the room to reach out and envelope him. As the night deepened around him the scent of lilacs filled his nose as a fear spread throughout his belly.
There had been stories about the apartment where he lived, whispered tales shared among his small circle of friends. Everyone in the building knew the old lady who once lived there, a sweet old soul who was always baking cookies and offering them to anyone willing to sit for a minute to fill the loneliness her life had become. Without realizing it, as he listened to the stories, he came to feel sorry for the old lady who died in her sleep. But now, as he stood at the kitchen sink filing his glass, he felt anything but sorrow as the cloying stench of lilac threatened to suffocate him.
He began hyperventilating and struggled to bring his breathing back under control. A scream lodged in his throat as a shadowy arm emerged from the emptiness on his right and reached for the faucet. Chilled fingers caressed his cheek in a loving manner that was anything but in his current state and the trapped scream burst forth.
His parents raced into the kitchen, flipping on the light and sending the shadows scurrying to far corners of the room. They found him standing at the sink, hands grasping the edge of the counter staring wide-eyed into nothing.
That had been then, and this was now, his parents had explained away his encounter as the overactive imagination of a child who had listened to too many stories in the neighborhood. But from that night on he refused to leave his room at night. Many nights he lay awake with the blankets pulled up to his chin listening to incessant sounds of the city around him. Drawing some measure of comfort from the presence of life in the loneliness of the night. Beneath that ever-present roar came odd creaks and groans that filled the shadows all around him. At any moment he expected chilled fingers to touch his brow.
He shook his head to dislodge the old memory and turned his attention from the hallway to what was happening on the first floor. The furniture guys were wrestling with the couch that had only managed to make it hallway into the house before it became stuck. As he watched then work he noticed a detail that had escaped his earlier visit to the house. Next to the front door, a miniature version of the door had been built into the wall on the right side, complete with sidelights and all. It was only twelve inches tall, its presence sparking his curiosity.
What could possibly use that door? He wondered.
To be continued!
Back when milk was delivered daily to your home, many homeowners put in a small door next to the main entrance so the milkman could slip his delivery into the house. But what else might find its way into the security of your home?
Richard Schiver 