Eched

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting an orange glow over the neighborhood, my heart quickened with anticipation. It was the day of our long-awaited sleepover at Aunt Lucy's house. The mere thought of spending a night with my cousins filled me with excitement. The evening program at Aunt Lucy's was vastly different from ours, and it held a charm that was irresistible.

Aunt Lucy was a master storyteller, and she would regale us with tales of a bygone era. But there was a catch—her stories were all scary. It was her way of challenging our fears, of making us feel as if we were overcoming our ever-anxious natures. I would sit huddled with my cousins, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows on the walls, as Aunt Lucy's voice filled the room.

One particular story had etched itself into the depths of my memory. It was the tale of an ogre with unimaginable powers. In the story, three girls found themselves captured by the ogre, and no matter how hard they tried to escape, invisible forces would pull them back. The story was haunting, and it stayed with me long after Aunt Lucy's voice had faded into the night.

Nowadays, in the depths of my dreams, I find myself visiting Aunt Lucy's home. But something feels off. The once vibrant house now stands abandoned, shrouded in an eerie silence. And in place of Aunt Lucy, the ogres have taken residence. Their menacing presence sends shivers down my spine.

In my dreams, I run away from the ogres, seeking refuge in the familiar embrace of a guava tree we used to climb as children. The tree, defying all reason, uproots itself and carries me to our doorstep. But as soon as I set foot on the threshold, unseen forces grab hold of me, dragging me back to the ogres' lair. It's a nightmare I endure from time to time, a reminder of the stories that have haunted me since that fateful sleepover.

Only now do I understand why my mother never entertained my pleas to visit Aunt Lucy more often. Why she shielded us from the realm of scary stories. She knew the power they held over our impressionable minds, how they could linger and manifest in the deepest recesses of our imagination.

As I grew older, I came to appreciate the contrasting evening program of our own family. The focus shifted from tales of ogres and daring escapes to a more structured routine. Any misbehavior during the day would be scrutinized, and punishment would be administered accordingly. But there was solace in our evening worship and prayer sessions, a time when my parents would sing hymns in unison. Their harmonious voices resonated through the house, correcting each other's pitches, creating a symphony of faith and love.

It was in those profound moments of unity that I found peace. I began to understand the reasons behind my mother's protective stance. She wanted to shield us from the dark tales that could infiltrate our dreams, from the clutches of fear that threatened to consume us.

And so, as I wake from my recurring nightmare, I am grateful for the lessons learned. The vivid dreams serve as a reminder of the power of storytelling and the impact it can have on our lives. Aunt Lucy's stories, while terrifying, were a testament to the strength we possess in the face of fear. My mother's guidance and her unwavering commitment to our well-being taught me the importance of balance and nurturing our inner strength.

Now, as I navigate through life, I find solace in sharing stories of hope, bravery, and resilience. I understand the delicate balance between enchantment and caution, and the profound impact it can have on shaping the minds of young ones.