Paganistan: Notes from the Secret Commonwealth

In Which One Midwest Man-in-Black Confers, Converses & Otherwise Hob-Nobs with his Fellow Hob-Men (& -Women) Concerning the Sundry Ways of the Famed but Ill-Starred Tribe of Witches.

  • Home
    Home This is where you can find all the blog posts throughout the site.
  • Tags
    Tags Displays a list of tags that have been used in the blog.
  • Bloggers
    Bloggers Search for your favorite blogger from this site.
  • Login
    Login Login form

Things That Go Bump in the House

You could call him the house-wight. I first encountered him directly in a dream last year. (And yes, he's a he, whatever that means.)

That's how I learned his name. His name says a lot about him (and, probably, something about me, as well). When you know someone's name, it's a bond. Whether you will or whether you won't, it makes a relationship which, like all such, needs ongoing maintenance.

These last few days, I've been hearing things fall in the house. I get up, I go look: nothing. It isn't Craig: he's not here. It isn't the cat: he's asleep on the bed. Yes, the house vibrates when buses hit big potholes on Lake Street, but it's not pothole season yet. (Ah, the joys of urban spring.) Yes, the house ticks and pops when the temperature falls below zero. But those sounds I know, and this isn't them. Ice falling from the eaves? No, these are indoor clatters, I'm sure of it. I'm hearing things fall in rooms where nothing seems to be falling. If we call it the house-wight, that makes as much sense as anything.

A little guy with a beard and shining eyes? Shadows sliding in the far corners of vision? My human mind connecting up stray incidents into patterns that don't exist? A subtle way of externalizing my mental and emotional relationship with my environment? All of the above?

Whatever it may be, this clanking-around sure strikes me as attention-seeking behavior. (If he were really angry, I assume he'd be breaking things.) I haven't exactly been regular with the saucers of milk. Maybe it's time I changed that. It never hurts to pay more mind to your whereabouts.


So, here's your milk and here's your post, You. (See, I didn't give away your name.) So.

How's about some quiet now, eh?






Last modified on
Poet, scholar and storyteller Steven Posch was raised in the hardwood forests of western Pennsylvania by white-tailed deer. (That's the story, anyway.) He emigrated to Paganistan in 1979 and by sheer dint of personality has become one of Lake Country's foremost men-in-black. He is current keeper of the Minnesota Ooser.


  • Anne Newkirk Niven
    Anne Newkirk Niven Monday, 16 February 2015

    Well, of *course* you didn't give away his name. (He would have given you a lot of trouble for doing that.)

  • T-Roy
    T-Roy Friday, 20 February 2015

    Some of them prefer oatmeal with a pat of butter.

  • Steven Posch
    Steven Posch Saturday, 21 February 2015

    Ah, yes: it makes sense that the preferred offering would vary from wight to wight. (We have our preferences, why wouldn't they?) I'm interested to note that they always seem to be things consumed within the household, not special, exotic foods.

  • Anthony Gresham
    Anthony Gresham Friday, 13 March 2015

    Back when I still lived in my parent's house I would notice sounds when I was in the house alone. Thump noises like something fell over occasionally, but more often it was the sound of water. I'ld get up and check all the faucets to make sure none of them were running, none of them were. When there were other people in the house I just assumed it was them and didn't notice the sounds. Now that I live in an apartment I take for granted that it's the neighbors I hear.

  • Please login first in order for you to submit comments

Additional information