Tag: Memoir

Chapter 4

~ Attracting Ghoul Friends ~

For me, the payoff of a nightmare almost always comes in the moment of waking up. Especially if I wake to birdsong and sunshine. I can usually shake off even the most diabolical of night frights quickly in the light of day. But when it’s too early to get up and I know I’ll be going back down for more of the same, all I can really do is try to appreciate the entertainment value of my frightful nocturnal imaginings. There is a thrilling rush of adrenaline that comes when I awaken from a mind-bending vision of abject horror. When I was young, I gradually became addicted to that rush. Being hooked on fear, I would look forward to the next nightmare, hoping only that it would be more terrifying than the last. I was rarely disappointed. Eventually, my mind created a dream routine that would ease me out of the darkest reaches without the shock of being physically jolted into a sitting position in my real-world bed. The routine soon became my favorite part of every scary dreamscape escape. I offer up another recurring nightmare from early childhood to fill you in on the devilish details of the routine.

I find myself standing next to an antique potbelly woodstove that my mother is trying to light up – it’s a gloomy little room, cold and damp – foggy outside and foggy inside. Is it fog, smoke, or an army of ghosts filling this place? – mom is cursing – the fire won’t start – “Stay here Scott, I’m going to get some firewood.” – the room suddenly feels fragile, like a thin-skinned tent – I follow my mother to the screen door and latch it with an equally fragile hasp – as I’m backing away from the door, it dawns on me that I am no safer inside of this wicked crate than I would be outside of it – I know what’s coming – I’m powerless to stop it – my mom comes screeching back to the door with superhuman speed, crazy sharp claws, cruel looking fangs, and hair sticking straight out in all directions – it isn’t my mother, it’s an apocalyptic lunatic. Her tortured howl is maddening – I know the screen won’t hold for more than a second – I know that a second is all I need – my ritual of escape takes the lead and the relief is immediate – I curl into a ball and fly backwards through the air – spinning around, rolling forward and taking control – flying, rolling, out of the darkness and towards my house – bursting through the back door at full speed – up the narrow stair case and down the hall – in the instant that I land in my bed, I’m awake, and I know that I’m safe. Once again, I had left the shock of the night terror where I thought it belonged, deep down inside. What I failed to realize is that the depths would keep getting deeper to accommodate for the growing horde of monsters I was routinely breeding and feeding with my swiftly accumulating fears.

The fight was a mismatch from the very start. These demons were in an entirely different weight class than me. Anyone with a modicum of sense would surely have told me so. But I never told anyone about my plans to confront the blackness, except for the God within me, and I was fairly confident God would always have my back. If not, I thought, ‘How in the hell do I keep making it back to my bed in the morning?’

In the youngest years of my life, the daytime hours were filled with adventure, exploration and wonder. I would spend as many hours as I was allowed to, playing in the tattered woodland areas around town, wading through the rivers and runoffs, digging in the dirt for worms and antique bottles, and crawling through the rainwater drainage pipes beneath both Mill and Main Streets. When mom and dad decided I was old enough to sleep in a tent in our backyard, the adventures often continued well past the witching hour. Slinking through Hope in the darkness was a lot less scary when your friends were there with you, so usually the tent in our backyard was filled with as many friends as the tarpaulin floor could accommodate. As I recall, my older brother and I would argue over who’s turn it was to sleep out in the tent on any given night, but we soon realized that the overflow could always sleep on the ground underneath the stars. At one point we must have had upwards of fifteen wayward boys, and sometimes one wayward girl, marauding through the streets of Hope Village under the dark cloak of night.