Beware All Who Enter
To err is human. To share is divine.
The other day, I ran into someone I hadn’t seen in ages.
I was darting through Grand Central Station, on my way home from a meeting, when I stopped to marvel at the ceiling — golden constellations shimmering against a wash of robin egg blue.
That’s when I encountered her. My former self.
She used to race through that terminal every day, the painted stars a witness to much awe and longing, confusion and hope. She used to wonder at that ceiling, taking comfort in its scale, in the sea of people coming and going, on their way to whatever came next.
I had forgotten about her, about that commute, about that now-distant chapter. But for a few moments, we occupied the same footprint.
There are ghosts who walk among us. Not always the ones we think.
October 31 marks the beginning of Samhain, which is Irish Gaelic for “summer’s end.” In the Pagan tradition, Samhain is the time when the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest, when we walk closer than ever to the spirit realm.
In the United States, Halloween pays thin homage to these roots — ghouls and ghosts and skeletons, creepy but commodified. As the neighborhood decor grows ever more festive (and the costume selection at the local Target grows increasingly picked over), I like to think about that veil. Poetic, whisper-thin. A gossamer cloak between the day-to-day and the mysteries dancing just beyond our comprehension.
What if it doesn’t only stretch between worlds? What if it also webs between dimensions, between choices? Between the people we are and the ghosts of who we used to be.
In my twenties, I worked as an assistant at a fabled Hollywood talent agency. Everything about it was polished, from the employees to the visitors to the space itself — a sea of marble and onyx and brass, like the sarcophagus of a very important pharaoh. The climate was chilly, no matter the season, the air perpetually dotted with the ringing of far-off telephones, like the bleats of many panicked sheep.
I wore A-line dresses with heels that clickety-clacked when I walked, which I did very little of, since the bulk of my job involved never leaving my desk. I was responsible for answering my boss’s phone, which had a tendency to ring at the least opportune moments. (I’d sprint to the bathroom and become seized with panic if I heard it ringing from inside a stall.) Sometimes, the whole world called at the exact same moment, sending my switchboard lighting up like a corporate version of Whack-a-Mole.
One afternoon, just before Halloween, one of the agents announced there would be an office decorating contest. My boss at the time, a veritable titan of the industry, prided herself on her reputation for being, shall we say, more than a little intimidating. As soon as the announcement was made, she sauntered into my cubicle, leaning so close that her hair nearly brushed my face. “Let’s make my office THE BEST,” she whispered, and promptly disappeared.
This was my chance to shine, to win her over with my inner Martha. I envisioned an immersive experience — a room cloaked in black sheets, mood lighting, maybe a werewolf that handed out office supplies. Alas, my budget was $25 to spend at the drugstore around the corner, so my options were limited. I bought a couple rolls of black crêpe paper streamers, a pack of static cling letters, and some low-budget cobwebs and hoped for the best.
I stayed late after work, crafting a giant web inhabited by a grinning paper spider. I stretched filmy cobwebs across bookshelves and filled multiple decorative vessels with candy. But the pièce de résistance was the sign adorning the office door: BEWARE ALL WHO ENTER, it read, in perpetually melting red letters.
My boss couldn’t have been more delighted, doubling over with laughter the moment she saw it.
“Because I’m scary!” she said, voice saturated with pride.
“Yes,” I said, nodding. “Very scary.”
“Maybe we should keep it there all year long!”
Halloween came and went. Costumes were donned. Candy was distributed. Dogs dressed as bugs and superheroes and firemen paraded through the halls. The “best decor” prize was awarded to an agent in the TV department — curiously, the same agent who had suggested this contest in the first place.
That evening, after everyone had left, I de-cobwebbed the bookshelves and took down the grinning spider. Then I went to the door and peeled off the big red warning.
I blinked. The letters were gone, but the message was not. The sign had left its mark, the scarlet dye embedded deep within the wooden door.
BEWARE ALL WHO ENTER, it read, though now it was more of a whisper than a shout.
I stood, frozen, various scenarios dancing through my head. Perhaps the door could be removed and replaced. Perhaps I could be removed and replaced. Perhaps I could get ahead of the situation by leaving the premises, fleeing to Canada, and never coming back.
So strong was my focus on the door that I barely noticed Darwin, one of my fellow assistants, ambling by. (If you’ve watched Succession, picture Cousin Greg, but erase the nepotism and replace it with a genuine love of literature. Darwin to a T.)
“What’s wrong?” he asked, the moment he saw my face. I wordlessly pointed at the door, like the Grim Reaper singling out my next soul.
Darwin gasped. His eyes grew wide. This was worse than I thought.
“Don’t panic,” he said, though it was far too late. “We’re going to figure it out.”
We sprinted to the cleaning aisle at the nearest drugstore — the same place where I’d bought the cursed letters — vetoing wood polish and Brillo pads and bleach. Finally, my eyes landed on an economy size package of Mr. Clean Magic Erasers. (This essay is about to take a turn that sounds like it was sponsored by Procter & Gamble, but I assure you, this is an unbiased story where the hero happens to be a piece of melamine foam.)
Back at the office, we took to the door, erasers in hand. At first, they made absolutely no difference. But slowly, the tips of the sponges turned pink as the door turned ever less so. We stayed, scrubbing, late into the night.
Eventually, the stains disappeared.
Mostly.
If you turned the door at juuuuust the right angle, and squinted your eyes in juuuuust the right lighting, you could still glimpse a subtle warning etched into the varnish. For months after the fact, any time someone reached for the doorknob, my heart would catch in my throat. But miraculously, no one ever noticed.
As Alexander Pope once wrote, “to err is human.” But I’d argue that the level of just how human we are permitted to be varies widely by profession. I’ve also heard it said that there is no such thing as a mistake as long as you learn from it. In this case, the lesson — BEWARE OF POROUS SURFACES — is one I shall not soon forget.
The thing about mistakes is that we’re always in good company.
When the ceiling of Grand Central Terminal was first unveiled, back in 1913, a commuter noticed that it wasn’t quite right. The coordinates were backwards — east was west, and vice versa. As it turned out, the original image was projected onto the ceiling with the wrong side up, a rather glaring oversight. The mural has undergone multiple renovations over the years — including a complete re-painting in 1945 — but multiple inaccuracies remain.
A decade ago, I didn’t know the story behind that ceiling. I didn’t know what my next job would be. Or even my next step. I especially didn’t know it was okay to falter. Thank goodness for time, for experience, for perspective.
In one way or another, we’ve all logged panicked hours scrubbing a proverbial door. When you’re deep in it, it can be hard to picture how the dust will settle. But in the best of cases, today’s mess will (eventually) become tomorrow’s story.
This season, as the veil between the worlds grows thin, may we honor those who came before us. And, should we encounter the ghosts of our pasts, may we acknowledge them, may we learn from them, may we offer them some grace.
Card of the Week
Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.
Over the last year, there have been moments where I feared I’d forgotten how to be a person. I’ve needed to re-learn social skills I thought I mastered in middle school — the rhythm of small talk, for example, or how to behave at dinner.
But then, a weird thing happened. I wanted to talk to everyone — friends, acquaintances, people I see at the grocery store. (This is not particularly normal for me, an introvert, nor for New York City, where neighbors are known to ignore each other in the halls.) The best way I can describe it is interconnected. Like I’m filled with a boundless love, even for grumpy strangers I’ll never know.
The Three of Cups is all about connection. It’s a beautiful card, in that it reminds us of the good to be found in relationship to others.
Perhaps your own view of connection has changed. You may find yourself craving more interactions, or seeking more quietude. There may be relationships you wish to build, or others that no longer serve you. The tenor of your conversations may have shifted. Perhaps you are in a different place, whether an altered mindset or a new geographic location.
No matter your current circumstances, this card is a welcome reminder of solidarity. It is the reassurance that whatever you are experiencing, you are not alone. To that end, the message this week is simple and clear: You are supported.
This card is also a nod to those who invisibly support us — ancestors, mentors, artists, philosophers, deities, practices, rituals, texts. Your support system can include anyone (or anything) that provides strength, inspiration, and meaning.
Three is a sacred number in many traditions. It is the personal triumvirate of mind, body, spirit; beginning, middle, end. Like a triangle, it is a symbol of balance and stability. Like each of us, it is complete.
This week, take note of all the connections in your life, including the unexpected. If at any point you feel compelled to seek or offer support, do not hesitate. You never know where one kindness might lead. It could change everything.
Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this letter and would like to receive future installments in your inbox every Sunday, please consider becoming a subscriber.
This was a captivating read, thank you so much! Your picture captions are hilarious. Also, yay for friends like Darwin. I love that he showed up right in your moment of desperation to say, “Don’t panic. We’re going to figure it out.” That's awesome :)
Also, I think about ghosts of Emma's past a lot, especially the version of me who still works in an office downtown. I recently realized there's a haunting there because there was never closure. When you're told to go home because there is a pandemic, and then never brought back to pick up right where you left off, it does feel like a whole alternate reality was birthed from that. I wonder what the old me is doing now in that other reality.
I appreciate the legit writing and storytelling skills on display here. Well done, Caroline. It's always such a pleasure to read your work. Thank you!