I seem to have lots of memories which involve walking at night through the woods on dirt roads. There are rules. (Note: This is a companion chapter to “Rules About Monsters Around Your Bed”. )

We always leave the warm house after midnight. The flashlight splashes a long oblong of light in front of our feet along the rocky road. Monsters can’t come into the light zone, just like your body parts kept completely under the quilt are safe from bedroom monsters. Keeping your feet inside the light on the road is the simplest method of survival. Monsters are nothing if not rule followers and respecters of ritual.

Mom carries the flashlight. She walks in front, and points the beam down at a practiced angle for a clear light out front without sacrificing a slight glow backwards for the feet of her little followers. Our car is parked 100 black yards down the driveway from the house. The road is rutted by summer runoffs and jutted with stones too sharp for our car’s tires, so you attend to your footing for both practical and supernatural reasons.

The rocks, felt underfoot but impossible to see, keep my feet guessing. But it’s all good as long as I don’t step on amything soft or squishy or, worst, wiggly.

We’re miles of hills from the nearest street light or storefront and the stars are a million fireflies in the few gaps between the trees. But down here there are only large shapes. You could walk within a cough of cows after midnight, and not know it. You’d think the dark mass is a hedge or thicket but then an ear flickers, and you can trace the shape of their backs and heads. Or the heifer clears her throat to remind you that wherever you belong at this hour, it’s not here.