A Parade of Ghosts

	It began very subtly at first. I hadn’t thought much of it. The doctors said that things were bound to change. How could they not? He was all I had, and I the same for him. It started when I found him making off with a pair of serving spoons from the silverware drawer.
	“Where might you be taking those?” I asked. I stood at the threshold between the kitchen and the parlor, staring down at him. He tried to avoid my gaze but was forced to meet it when it became apparent I wasn’t going to move without an explanation.
	This towheaded child looked up at me with these great big eyes – her eyes – and smiled, his first in some time. “Mommy needs these,” he chirped happily.
	That bitter taste of joy and anguish welled up. Love can be a cruel thing. Was it more merciful to let him live this fantasy? It was less painful, at least, than reminding him of that cold dark where she slept silently. I myself can scarcely think about it, and for that reason I let him be.
	Things went on this way for some weeks. Every time that I should have spoken the truth, I fled from it. Sundries continued disappearing as you might expect. Washboards, jugs, odd ends of colorful strings. Never any items of great importance, so I never cared. Occasionally I’d spy him rooting about in the garden and beyond. He’d come home with muddy boots and dirt-caked knees, arms laden with all manner of herb that neither he nor I could name. He instead called them silly things like whistlewoods or raven roses and assured me that Mommy needed all of them.
	It wasn’t until that night that I finally resolved to put an end to it. I had put him to bed and retired to my study where I tried to take solace in old letters and fond memories over an even older spirit. Midnight was approaching, and I figured it best to turn in. I had just reached the top of the stairs when I heard a quiet shuffling from my room at the end of the hall. I stepped in, cautiously, and found the closet door thrown open.
	It’s likely no surprise what I saw when I finally peeked in: my boy was sat on the floor, going through old clothes. Much to my dismay, he’d found the old box of her scarves where I kept it towards the top. He’d been weaving them into a wreathe of elder branches when I stopped him. Perhaps the whiskey had left me feeling vulnerable, but I couldn’t take this agony any longer.
	“James,” I said, as gently as I could, “Mommy is gone, and she doesn’t need these things anymore.” I went to remove the scarves from their bindings. They were nice things, and still carried the faintest memory of her perfume.
	“No, you don’t understand!” James said, clearly upset that I was undoing his hard work. “Mommy is home, and she needs this! She told me so.”
The hairs of my arm prickled. That last sentiment made me uneasy, and I was growing irritated. “Son, she’s passed on. She can never come back.”
He looked sullen at the mention of her death. We never talked about it more than we needed to, and by God now was that time. “She’s home though,” he said despondently, “down in the cellar.”
I’d heard enough. Without another word, I marched him back to his room and laid him down again. “I don’t want to hear another peep about this,” I said. Walking out, I shut the door behind me. I groped about the top of the doorframe until I found the old key, locking the door before tucking it into my pocket.
I thought I’d heard the last of it. Perhaps, more so, I was wishing I had. I still had yet to learn the awful truth of it. More weeks went on and James’ banditry seemed to have stopped. His mood, however, grew blacker every day. I tried to justify to myself that I’d done the right thing. I half believed it, too, until I found him in the rat poison.
The doctor said it was good I’d been so quick, and that James had eaten so little. He’d recover, but this was of little comfort. When I left him at the hospital, James weakly whispered one thing: “Mommy needed me.”
The door slammed behind me, my face streaked with innumerable raindrops and tears. My Lynette would never ask that of our boy. My Lynette loved James more than life itself. My Lynette was not creeping about our cellar. There was only one thing to be done.
I took up an iron from beside the fireplace and prepared to face whatever fiend awaited me— if only I’d known how right I was! I passed through the kitchen and stood by the top of that dim staircase. I set foot on the first step, which gave a soft sigh. The next, a low groan. Then a faint cry followed by a weary lament, each step louder than the last. By the time I faced the door it had been an agonizing chorus. I reached for the brazen knob, and it seemed to rattle with anticipation. Sweat beaded on my forehead as horrible laughter began to rise from somewhere within.
I twisted the knob, it burnt like fire. I threw open the door as the infernal cacophony poured out. I swung the iron – in vain – and was knocked back onto the stairs. I watched in horror as the wicked procession poured out from the darkness. Screaming and wailing as they soared overhead, these phantasmal percussionists clattered cutlery and strummed their lyres. Festive votives of witched woods and colorful cloths paraded past. For that one terrible moment, the gates of Hell themselves had been opened. In the next, silence, and the cellar was empty once more.