Terror of the Surreal

  The strongest emotions any television show ever triggered in me was the 1990's series  "Twin Peaks."  I have memories of sitting on one end of the couch with my youngest child on the other end, and both of us entranced and semi-terrified as each  show played out.  It seemed we were always watching alone, in an empty house. His brother and sister would have been away at college, and perhaps their father was working out of town that year, because the focus was always on just us two.  The mood of the show was strangely surreal, with danger lurking in the most unexpected places, including inanimate objects.
    I was unable to take my eyes off any of the scenes, was fascinated by each  scene and every eerie camera angle.  I waited eagerly for each episode to begin: I think it may have been shown on Thursdays from 9 to 10 p.m.  and though I watched each minute of the show, I remember running out to the kitchen during the commercials to check the clock, hoping it was close to 10 because I couldn't bear the suspense.
   The plot was double-edged, campy, mysterious, deliberately ambiguous, with double-edged occurrences and multiple themes, microcosms in and of themselves.  There was the obvious evil and the perception of evil  in the presentation of common objects.  The camera would pan around, and we would wait, expecting  to see something absolutely horrible in its depravity, but it would settle instead on a clock, and that would appear as the most mortally terrifying sight imaginable.  Just a clock, ticking away.
   I have now, in my present situation, my own presentations of the absurdly surreal Twin Peaks images.  By necessity, I'm the last one to go to bed at night.  As I brush my teeth, I see, reflected in the bathroom mirror, the image of the black headrest of the wheelchair, its back turned for easier access.  I see the same illusion in the early mornings also, and though now I've grown accustomed to its presence, and know what it is, it still elicits the eeriness of the unknown, that fallen-away jolt of the unexpected potential threat.
    And I can't dismiss the appearance of a black shrouded figure disguised as a headrest as a solitary incident either.  Late last night, I went down to retrieve some laundry in the basement.  Now our basement runs the length of the house, a walk-in basement I think it's called.  There is a door that opens to the outside, and  two full-length windows.  All are locked, theoretically, but sometimes one forgets, and the windows still have the screens in place.  Unfortunately, there is a lot of clutter in the basement, as well as tools and pool stuff, a lot of cartons; that is, sufficient space for many concealed  beings.  But who would want to hang out in our cellar, I assure myself, so I'm not really scared, just wary.  So:
     I open the door to the basement, turn on the light, which is not that bright, but serves to illuminate the steps.  I take a few steps down, and see on the floor at the bottom of the steps....something.  I peer at it, trying for identification.  I can't make anything out of it, can't think of what it could be,  It's not large, a dead bird maybe? Or even a live bird? Or another creature, dead or alive?  Some years ago, I discovered the body of a red squirrel curled up on the chair by the dryer.  I thought at first it was one of my son's stuffed animals.  But that was in daylight, and there were other people in the house.  This item is lying in the middle of the concrete floor, in a place I know I hadn't put it no matter what it turns out to be.
My eyes attempt to focus on it, much like the Twin Peaks camera.  I look closer, finally walk nearer to it, and in the dim light, finally see that it is a fanned-open whisk broom.  The theme music from Twin Peaks fades from my brain.