The lights all around the neighborhood were going on, the porch lights, and some even had orange twinkling lights, spooky decorations. A skeleton, a witch, a jack-o-lantern. Ghosts, hanging from the mailbox. And I couldn’t wait wait wait to get out there. It’s Halloween night!

“See! Grandma! Those kids are already trick-or-treating!”

“Be patient, honey. She’ll be here.”

But that “She’ll be here” started sounding more and more strained and, every once in a while, my grandma would make her way to the kitchen where I could hear her pick up the phone and speak in hushed tones, whispering, frantic.

I just wanted her to see that I was Ariel! I was beautiful Ariel with the long red hair and sparkling green tail!

But . . . she never came.

She never came that night, with the pumpkins and the ghosts and the candy that all the other little kids had but now I didn’t want. Couldn’t have kept down, even if I’d tried. She never came even to that next pumpkin holiday, that Thanksgiving, even though Grandma set a plate for her. Empty next to the turkey. She never came even though Santa came, and Grandma made sure to leave out cookies and milk because she told me I’d been so good, such a good, good girl.

And she never came back.

This is a memory that I have but that I put far, far away. Off in Red Square or Paris or Prague. I paint over this memory with everything my mind can muster, oil paints and watercolors and wild sculptures that become real. Real things in my head that begin to move around on their own. And these real things, real things I imagined, they get to replace that red Ariel wig and that sparkly green tail. These now-real things get to protect me. To warm me. I wrap them around me like a blanket.

The little town reveals itself around the bend, tiny little boxes placed just so. From here, far away, they could be decoration models on a train set. A sweet little town the train choo-choos around at Christmas.

I make my way all the way up the road and into the quaint café. Opening the door, I realize I’m just not used to seeing that many people all at once. Not only that, but I get the distinct feeling everyone just recoiled from me. They didn’t, actually, but I feel a change in the air.

Does everyone feel like this? Unwanted? Queasy at the thought of interaction? Or is this just me?

The eternal question.

Am I weird?

I make my way to a small table in the corner, because small tables in the corner are my natural habitat.

What am I even doing here, in this place? With that house and all its . . . what should we call them? Quirks?

I know what you’re thinking.

Why haven’t I googled it.

Right?

I mean . . . I’m staying there. Wouldn’t anyone in their right mind google the address?