Modern Lore Lockdown Edition: A Time It Was Too Quiet
A Time It Was Too Quiet
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It was St. Patrick's Day Weekend in Big Bear, and though we had anticipated rain, we were surprised by 14 inches of snow. It was one of our first romantic getaways, but we'd already been a couple too long, and being confined to a rustic cabin in the mountains with two puppies, inadequate footwear, and food under the nutritional umbrella of "road snacks" only made tensions worse. All hiking trails were closed. The Mom & Pop diners were shuttering early. We stocked up on firewood and accepted that our spring fever would be redirected to our cabin.
We rummaged through the house's DVD collection and settled on The Shining. We were drawn to our situation's parallel—the mountains, the unfamiliar hotel, being snowed in—and while neither of us were very brave when it came to horror movies, when else would we have the chance to watch it under these conditions?
Though I knew every iconic moment, I'd never seen the film from start to finish. Alex had. Halfway through, he said he was going to bed, ignoring my requests to sleep on the couch and absorb my nervous energy. I was left alone, save for two sleepy dogs in my lap. On screen, Jack was cracking and Shelley was screaming.
Outside, the snow muffled all the sounds of Big Bear. I couldn't hear wind rustling newly-sprouted spring leaves or crickets' nightly serenade or the thunks from moths clumsily drifting into the porch light. Nothing could distract from the film. I lived in the same reality as the Overlook Hotel.
Kozy shot up from my lap, howling. He had heard something from beyond. I paused the movie and listened carefully, imagining that my ears could move in tiny shifts, calibrating, homing a target. But beyond the cabin, it was soundless. My makeshift, fractured family had been sucked into a black hole and spit out, and on the other side, it was the only thing left in the world.
2012