Children have no such worries, of course, and my wife's only fear is
of being woken up before she's had her full union-negotiated seven hour
break, so they're all long asleep by the time I force myself to stumble
up the stairs at midnight or so. I feel my way blindly past the foot of
the bed, always making sure to bang my face into one of the wood-covered
steel rods in the middle of the room from which our second floor hangs--a
feature of our converted carriage house's balloon frame design. In
pitch blackness I undress, put on my pajamas, slip under the sheets,
gently steal my pillow back from my wife, and try not to question too
much the point of having a soul if death really is an eternal sleep.

It's at this moment, as I'm reluctantly letting go and sinking beneath
the surface of the dark pond, that my youngest daughter often begins to
talk in the next room.

It's the creepiest sound. A person you know to be deeply asleep is talking
to someone who isn't there. It's mostly gibberish, obviously--sometimes
sprinkled with a few recognizable words that suggest whether she's having
a dream or a nightmare. And it is a nightmare, usually, that triggers
these one-sided conversations, which makes the experience of overhearing
them muffled through the bedroom wall all the more unnerving.

I've gotten used to this routine, as much as one can. Then last night
as my mind lay helpless on the shelf and nervously watched the closet
door closing, I heard Emily say, very distinctly, "Is anyone there?"

The clarity in her voice made me alert again. I assumed she was calling
for me, so I got out of bed and tiptoed into her room rather than answer
from a distance and risk waking everyone else.

"It's okay, Emily," I said sitting down next to her. "I'm here."

She wasn't awake, even partially. In fact she was so still and silent that
I felt hot adrenaline rush into my chest and up the back of my neck. I
went so far as to shake her awake--something I hadn't been foolish
enough to do to any child since my first daughter overslept by half an
hour when she was one. That's half an hour I'd like to have back now.

"Stop it," Emily moaned, as annoyed as you can be while still
mostly asleep. Clearly she hadn't been calling for me. I went back to bed.

"Is anyone out there? Can you hear me?" Again I heard her say it. And
again it knocked me off the fence I'd been straddling between light and
shadow. This time I quietly called to her without getting up.

"Emily? You okay?"

No answer.

"Emily?" I called louder. My wife rolled over, grunted, and tried to
elbow me. I wasn't helping anyone. I told myself I must have imagined
the voice. I'd been practically asleep both times, after all. I have
a documented history of imagining strange things while in that limbo
state. I settled down again and counted leaves. There were thousands of
them all over my yard, stuck in the stone walls, lying matted beneath
impenetrable bushes, laughing at me.

"Please help us," said Emily's voice in the next room. "If you can hear
me, please answer."

I was too far gone now--too tired to wake up. "I can hear you," I
said. Was I really speaking aloud? I didn't know.

"I found someone!" Emily said. "Can you let us out? Can you still
hear me?"

"Let you out?" I said.

"We're locked in. Can you let us out please? We're in the cellar."

"What cellar?" I said. Our house didn't have one.

"In the Town Hall," Emily said. "Please help."

"The Cohasset Town Hall?" I said.

Someone kicked me and I woke up. I felt like I'd been out for hours,
but it wasn't yet 1:00am.

"Could you go sleep downstairs?" my wife hissed. "And take Emily. You're
both driving me nuts."

I took my pillow to the famly room couch but left Emily in her bed. I
slept soundly till dawn.

John Lengyel lives in Cohasset. He will be trick-or-treating tonight,
but not near the common.