To fear the dark

I was terribly afraid of the dark at the age of nine.

There might have been a few explanations for this. Ever since I was little I have always had a fascination for things that scare me. The sadomasochist in me has an eerie interest in criminal history and inexplicable things. When I was nine, I used to sneak in to the grown-up part of the library and head right to the paranormal shelves. I especially remember this one book, quite large, and absolutely stuffed with what they called ‘ghost photographs’. These were usually photos of smiling families, with something blurry in somewhere in the pictures. The caption beneath the pictures explained stories surrounding the picture, usually that this blurry spectra was either a dead child or grandmother who had passed away just days after the picture was taken. The chills I got reading these books in my grand curiosity would urge me to read more.

In the evenings I was completely terrified, begging my mother to let me sleep in her bed. It ended with my father, muttering and frowning, having to spend the night in my child-size bunk bed while I slept on his side of the bed in the master bedroom. I wonder how many nights I deprived him of his sleep. Poor man, having to go to work the next day!

One of the girls in the neighborhood was my very good friend. We used to go to her house after school to have our afternoon snack (quite frankly a nice habit, oddly enough lost in the adult version of me). These would often consist of homemade microwave heated sponge cake, which my friend’s mother used to bake by the truck loads, and furthermore freeze so that her daughters could have them for afternoon snack. My mother, always the skeptic of things she regarded as ‘new’, had refused to buy a microwave. In fact, she did so for many years to come, until she finally yielded when my grandmother bought us one. I guess she took pity on her granddaughters, hopelessly lost in the dark ages (Today my mother uses her microwave on a daily basis).

After snack, we would always watch a movie. This was during the times only the lucky few owned a VHS. We were one of the lucky few (only because my father was obsessed with movies. Our VHS had a little dust cover and was not allowed to be touched by us children without adult supervision) and so was my friend. Thus, after our snack, we would rush to the video box and see if my friend’s older, teenaged sister would have bought and recorded a new movie.

It was one of these days that we came across a series of movies we had not seen in the box before. They were clearly rated R, which made us even more curious. This was our first and unforgiving introduction to the world of splatter horror. Promiscuous teens, brutally slaughtered by a maniac in a hockey mask who never seemed to die… Body parts flying everywhere! I had never seen anything like it. Oh, the scare, the thrill!

When the movie ended, we solemnly swore that we would never tell a soul what we had just seen. For one, because my friend’s elder sister probably would hang us by the neck, would she find out that we had been in her movie box. Second, because our parents would probably forbid us to watch these types of movies, would it be discovered that we did. And we really wanted to see the rest of this gory series!

It became a ritual, coming home to my friend after school, having a snack. Brazing ourselves for what was to come. Watching a movie that opened up a world, completely unknown to us. Mumbling a very unconvincing “were you scared? I wasn’t at all” and stumbling home. Not being able to sleep at night. Because although I never actually asked my friend (no way, I wasn’t a coward!) I am sure that she was just as scared as I was. I could tell. Looking back, she probably had just as much trouble with splatter movie conditioned insomnia as I did.

I think my mother never could understand why I was so afraid of the dark. She tried a number of things, night lights, music… even bedtime stories. But to no avail. For several years to come, I continued the habit of sneaking into their bedroom at night, desperately seeking refuge from the scary images that snuck up in my mind at night. Nevertheless, we kept watching splatter movies. And we kept being afraid.
I have remained a real coward when it comes to scary movies. But I am also hopelessly curious. I look across the room, where my boyfriend is setting up the television, because he is going to watch a splatter type movie. I know I am going to end up watching it too. This is just the way I am.

I will probably have trouble sleeping tonight.