And a further excuse for me to do likewise. I grew up in a house whose upper storey was the roof space. This storey had three rooms, all with skylights, which opened off a space stacked with junk. We called this the attic. On one side, behind a slab of chipboard -https://twitter.com/dedbutdrmng/status/1187342880328896512 …
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- was a door-sized gap leading to the space under the eaves. We called this
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The Black Hole. One of my brothers said he'd seen a man with a square face looking out of it. We all believed this.
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Square-Face lived there for quite some time. As our numbers increased, some of us had to sleep in the upstairs bedroom. Going downstairs to the bathroom meant going past the Black Hole.
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(Fortunately, in those days all bedrooms had a chamber-pot.)
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We grew older and bolder. Flashlights were very acceptable birthday presents. One day when I was eight or nine, I led an expedition into the Black Hole. We stepped from beam to beam, all the way around the eaves. No Square-Face.
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We dismissed him from our concerns and went back to playing with lead and asbestos, and other healthy outdoor pursuits. But of course the younger ones hadn't been in the Black Hole.
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When I was ten, we moved across land and sea to a much bigger house, in Greenock. Across from the house was a golf course, and in the rough of that golf course, up below the cemetry wall, was a shed. The shed had a window. You could look in.
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We looked in. It was dark, dusty, and full of green-keeping equipment. Off we went. But our littlest sister, like Euridice, looked back at it.
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And saw Square-Face looking out. The End. Moral: don't look back.
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now I'm curious if multiple cultures have overlapping myths about looking back, the way they do about grain / wheat harvests pillar of salt.jpg
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