That Which I Have Feared The Most ...

That which I have feared the most is upon me.

The other night, it happened. The perfect storm of fear. After working in town all day, I came home to an empty house, which is my lot in life right now, and not such a bad thing most days.  But that night I was a bit on edge already, and cold. There was a distinct note of Poe whispering through the tops of the trees.

Moths fluttered nervously in my belly. I stoked the fire and fixed a cup of coffee, determined not to give in to anxiety. Hard winds buffeted the little house. Overhead, the elms bowed and swayed, flailing the roof with their branches, cold fingers scratching against the windowpanes. Outside, the drizzling rain turned to ice and then to fat, greedy snowflakes that hung heavy on the electric lines, pulling them to the ground.

Lights off.

In the dim light of the fireplace, I found a couple of candles and some matches. I pillaged about by candlelight for the phone book. Not knowing where the lines had gone down, I needed to contact the electric company to tell them I was out.

No luck.

Plan B entailed doing the thing I’m trying not to do these days: calling my almost ex for help. I picked up the phone, hesitating. Should I? Should I not? What about the water in the well house? The pipes are wrapped in heat tape and if they freeze again…. I flipped the phone open, surprised to find I had no service until I remembered the booster was electric.

No phones.

The sound of heavy footsteps overhead turned my blood cold. Several years back, one of the neighboring ranchers was robbed. When the local sheriff investigated, he found footprints on the roof, indicating the thief had laid in wait for the house to be empty.

I fear stalking more than anything else.

Ice slapped the glass next to me. I jumped and let out a muffled whimper. Full-fledged panic grabbed me by the throat. What if someone was out there? What if they were on the roof, waiting?

I was fifteen years old again, in East Texas, living in a ramshackle house on the bad side of town. There was a man outside my window, his palm  pressed against the pane, melting the frost. My throat closed. I was literally frozen in fear. My hear t raced. My head felt light. I had to breathe. I had to run. I had to do something…

And then the most amazing thing happened.

I stepped outside of my trembling body and had a talk with myself.

Here’s the deal, chickie. You aren’t fifteen, by about thirty two years. You aren’t in Texas and you aren’t on the bad side of town. You’re a big girl now. You live alone in the country. Your power is going to go out sometimes. You lived without it for ten flipping years, so what’s the big deal here? It’s nearly 9. Quit being a pansy and go to bed.

The roof creaked again, directly overhead. I chewed the inside of my mouth. To Pansy or Not to Pansy?

And if there’s some idiot on the roof, he’s going to slip on the ice and fall to his death or be beaten to a bloody pulp by the elms, which is what he deserves anyway. But he is for dang sure not getting in this house with all the windows painted shut and deadbolts on the doors.

That chased my fear away like a fishwife with a broom. I put on my jammies, stoked up the fire and took my own advice. I went to bed.

I woke up a couple of times, the sound of creaking rafters and groaning tin like something straight out of Alfred Hitchcock. But I just smiled as I imagined the trees protecting me, beating the intruders away. Snuggling deeper beneath the blankets, I closed  my eyes and slept like a baby while the little fella in the holster stood guard, tucked away on top of the nightstand.