Never Outgrown

I am not afraid of monsters in my closet. I am not afraid of the dark. I am not afraid of werewolves or vampires or the boogie man. I am an adult. I know these things are not real. They haunt the moments before sleep of my son. He can see them in the long shadows cast through the moonlight in his bedroom. He can see them when he closes his eyes. We practice banishing them. I told him to yell in his mind "you are not real and you can not hurt me" Sometimes he does this out loud and I hear him in his room trying to put the nightmare visions in their place and out of his head. I do not have nightmares of fire breathing dragons and six legged dogs trying to eat me. I am not afraid of being home alone. I am not afraid to answer the phone for fear that there is a killer in the house upstairs, making the calls.

I remember the horror stories we told by the campfire. We tried to come up with the scariest things imaginable, always involving a girl in peril. Some I'm sure my parents heard, they had been around that long. Some we made up on the spot trying to freak each other out. There is nothing quite like scaring the pee out of a bunch of pre-teen girls and then sending them off to bed. These stories never really scared me. My father had been telling me scary stories since I was a little girl."The Man with The Golden Arm" got me every time. But not anymore.

We all knew the one about the couple who drove to lovers lane to make out and heard a report on the radio that a dangerous serial killer with a hook-hand has escaped and is on the loose in the area. Everyone should keep there doors and windows locked. The killer was last spotted heading into the woods, towards lovers lane. The couple is seriously wigged out and decide to get the hell out of there. When they get home, there is the hook-hand and bloody stump hanging from the door handle. They had narrowly escaped the wrath of the psycho killer. There are many variations of girl and boy in peril stories they always involve escaped psychopath or serial killers(which is a real threat these days you know). Still we tried to scare the sleep out of each other even with stories we had all heard repeatedly.

I loved to see the eyes get wide and the glances over the shoulder start, so nothing could sneak up on them out of the darkness. If you threw a rock into the woods at least three girls would come off their seats and yell "what was that?" turning in circles trying to look everywhere at once. I would get up to go the outhouse and creep back around behind them and moan and rattle leaves, or bang the outhouse door and stifle a scream. That got them every time. We woke up many a camp counselors with our screams.

There was one story about a girl baby sitting, after putting the children to bed she is watching the news and they are put out an alert because a dangerous psychopath has escaped from the mental institution and is in the area. She knows she has locked all the doors. She checks on the sleeping children and makes sure the windows are locked. She settles down to watch more TV and hangs her hand over the arm of the couch. She feels the dogs licking her fingers and then realizes the dog is on the chair. She looks down and it is the escaped psychopath who has been licking her fingers. I don't remember any more of the story and frankly don't care. This one still gives me the creeps (I quickly look over my shoulder). I don't know why this one in particular but it does. I get the creepy bone chilly goose bumps when I remember it (I have them right now). I have heard many a horror story but this is the one that sticks in my mind and will not go away and give me peace.

To this day I can not hang my hands over the arm of the couch or sleep with any part of my body hanging off the bed. It is not a fear I am even conscientiuosly aware of but It is there. I try and test myself and hang my foot off the side of the bed. I simply can not do it. I last about 15 seconds and then I have to pull it back. My hands remain on the bed at all times as well. I know that there is no psycho killer out there slithering across my bedroom floor waiting for the opportunity to lick my outstretched toes. But I figure, why take the chance?