Afraid of the Dark

by Angela Sanford

 I’ve never liked to admit it, but the dark and I have never really gotten along. It’s not the kind of fear that keeps me up at night or makes me need a night-light — it’s the kind that waits quietly, ready to pounce when I least expect it. Much like my friends and family, who seemed to enjoy causing that fear in the first place.

   I still remember one fall evening, walking down our driveway on my way to a friend’s house just down the road. On either side of the end of the driveway were two steep ditches. The air was cool, and it was the kind of night when every sound seems louder because of the silence around you — when suddenly, something moved.

   I was just about to step onto the road when someone jumped out of the ditch to my left and grabbed my shoulders. Of course, it was just a friend — who immediately took off, laughing hysterically. I didn’t think. I just ran — my heart racing like it was trying to escape my chest. He kept running up the road, probably proud of the new sprinting record I’d just set.

   Another time, that same friend pulled a similar stunt. I was babysitting at home one night. My parents were out, and my brother and sister were already in bed. The house was quiet. I was half-watching TV, sitting in the rocking chair beside our big picture window. Suddenly, a face pressed up against the glass right next to me.

   I screamed so loud I probably woke everyone in East Noel.

Whoever it was didn’t stick around to gloat — just took off, leaving me there trying to catch my breath and convince my heart to beat normally again. I don’t think I ever sat near that picture window again while babysitting.

    Then there were the power outages — hours of complete darkness. For most people, that would be unnerving enough. But in our house, darkness meant one thing: Dad was about to turn into a “shadow creature.”

   He had a way of moving silently, slipping into corners or behind furniture, waiting. Just as you’d step into the next room, a hand would grab your side or a hyena-like squeal would erupt from the shadows. I’d jump, scream, and bolt while he roared with laughter from the dark corners. The house never felt quite the same during power outages.

    Years later, I thought I’d outgrown being scared of the dark. After all, I’d seen far worse things — on TV, at least. As a devoted Criminal Minds fan, proud of my strong stomach for suspense, I could handle serial killers and creepy basements on screen and still fall asleep easily afterward.

   Or so I thought.

   One early morning, after watching an episode while finishing my treadmill routine, I was heading out to my car. The yard was still, cold, and half-lit by the porch light behind me. Just before sunrise, as I walked down the path, a sound caught my attention. In an instant, every scene I’d ever watched on Criminal Minds flashed through my head.

   I bolted for the car, locked the doors, and sat there trying to steady my breathing and slow my heart rate. I scanned the shadows like an amateur FBI agent — convinced something (or someone) was out there.

   Of course, it was probably just the wind. Or a raccoon. But I couldn’t shake the chill that crawled up my spine.

    Apparently, psychological thrillers before sunrise hit a little harder than evening episodes. So I guess the truth is: no matter how old I get or how brave I think I’ve become, the dark still has a way of reminding me who’s in charge.