I have never known a time which fear has enveloped so much of my senses, childhood or naught…the fear of the unknown is a fear darker than death. It is one that will keep you guessing into oblivion, only a monolith of light and guidance can scatter its ties. In my youth I often feared the unknown.
The chilling wind blew through the wispy branches of the fir and pine trees outside, while I sat on the hearth, bundled in a long cotton blanket half-subdued by the heat; half-subdued by sedative enviorment. The dimmed lights accented the faint flicker of the autumn candles scattered around the living room, while their warm vanilla scent passed beneath my nostrils, flaring them wide with delight.
“Dong…dong…dong…” high upon the wall the old grandfather clock struck the final note of the tenth nocturnal hour.
They’ve never been this late, I thought. A cup of mulled cider fresh from the crock-pot warmed my chilled hands. I placed down the cup; stoking the fire with shaking hands, my eyes watched as the spirits of the flames danced to their indulgent rituals, a dance which is said to give and take life, and which the earth snuffs and the sky feeds.
From the distance of our rural home I saw a flash of lightning, as the thunder roared back in contempt.
It’s spooky, I thought, as my mind became exceedingly more and more agitated, to be home by yourself on Halloween. I wish mother or father were here. They had left to go bring home my brothers, but they seemed to have been gone longer than they intended. Our house, though not terribly large, gave off an ominous feeling when there was no one home to comfort you. I heard another crash followed up by a thud somewhere in the distance and thought someone might be intruding, but it was only a very brittle tree branch.
I tried to think of happy thoughts, thoughts to ease away the phantom sounds and the conjuration’s of the overactive consciousness, but the images of that R. L. Stein thriller I had read earlier in the day had burnt nefarious images of horror upon the easel of my mind. Images that which all the paint in the world could not hide. My overactive imagination raced. Was Dracula hiding in the barn, or was a ghoul in the bushes near our old ’87 Civic? These were the questions I, as a 9 year old, couldn’t help but think about. I tried to think of happy images or feelings of the past week: the Garfield comic I had read the previous night—but my mind was flooded with keen images of horror and terror.
Despite my keen imagination, and with a struggle that would have intimidated Bonaparte, I persuaded myself to fall completely asleep, and to ignore the sounds my mind was feeding me. When I did my dreams were not terribly pleasant, but nor were they horrific.
I awoke later that night to find my father sitting upon the couch which I laid prostrate. His hand was rested upon my head.
“I’m sorry it took so long for us to get home son,” He said calmly, “There was an accident on I-5 and traffic was backed up for a few hours. But we’re here now. Did you have a good evening?”
I told him about all my feelings I had that night, everything I thought about in my overactive imagination while they were gone. He just smiled and nodded, listening intently, until I finished. He then thought for a moment, holding the strand of silence in his gaze; then replied:
“Fear is nothing but an image of beauty tainted with evil, purge it with happiness and it will be beautiful once again.”
