There's A Witch Under The Stairs

There are facets of my personality I have forgotten. Parts of myself that I thought were non-negotiable and non-refundable. The night used to be my nemesis. An unrelenting enemy that ravaged my sane thoughts and sent me plummeting into negativity nightly.

As a child I was petrified of the dark. Unable to sleep peacefully by myself. Scared of what the worst corners of my imagination told me was lurking in the shadows. I would beg my mom to stay with me until I feel asleep, but that plea was not reasonable. I had to rethink my approach. My dad worked nights and my mom used to be a sucker for a good tv show or movie. (I say “used to” because now that she has so many more channels at her disposal, her taste in shows and movies has become susceptible to trash). I never had a bedtime. So, I would find something I knew she could not resist watching on tv and I would get to stay up later. Eventually, it would register that we both had to get up early the next morning. Then my next move would be to ask her to read to me. At this point in the night, she was exhausted. So, I knew that by the time she got to the third book, her eyes would be heavy, and I would not have to sleep alone. The shit is chess not checkers. Now, of course, there had to be alterations to these gameplays, but this was the most effective combination.

What book could be better for a paranoid and dramatic child than, There’s A Witch Under the Stairs? You know the love for a book is deep when you remember how that book came into your possession. My Godmother gifted me this book. I do not recall how old I was when I got the book, but it should not be disputed that I requested this book to be read to me regularly.

The main character was convinced someone evil was in her basement. It always reminded me of the scenes in Home Alone where Kevin is hesitant to go to his basement. Frances eventually takes the dangerous voyage into the basement when her beloved stuffed elephant, Ellie, falls down the stairs into peril. You can laugh when you get to the end of the book and the aforementioned “witch” turns out to be household products cloaked and masked by the darkness, but the moments leading up to the big reveal are nerve-wrecking. It taught me lessons that I carry with me to this day. Things are not always what they seem. My bravery can see me through the scenarios my fears tried to use to blind me. When we give our fears power over what we do and where we go, we will never see anything new.

This book was one of the many building blocks to me solidifying my self-confidence. I have not been able to find it in years. I have looked through old bins and searched the bookshelves of my niece and nephew. Even though I feel it is very important to pass along the gems that lit up your own childhood, I want to have that copy of There’s A Witch Under the Stairs in my collection always. My book, with my name written on the first page in the writing of that child I forget about sometimes. My book given to me by someone I loved someone I did not show enough of that love to when I had the chance.

I pray that I find it. That I can touch those pages again. I hope I can hold my copy of that book to my chest. Even if that never happens, I vow to hold the little girl I was close to my heart always. I am going to stop forgetting her. Just because I love the nighttime now and I revel in the mystery of the shadows as I welcome sleep, it does not negate the existence of the child I was. She was pretty amazing, too.