Childhood Fears

I have to stop doing this. I know I have work in the morning. I know I have one strike, but I just get distracted. The basement is dimly lit by a single lightbulb hanging from the center of the room. Well, that and my television screen. The beige walls contrast the white carpet, to make it seem almost as if it is glowing. I have a whole house to myself, but always find myself retreating back here. All that’s changed in the past ten hours has been the movies appearing on and off my screen, and the sound of my clock, which sounds every hour. That is what snaps me out of my trance. My eyes dart toward my clock, and see that it reads three. I only have about four hours until work. But I really, really, don’t want to go upstairs. See, I have a childish, embarrassing fear. We’ve all been victims of this, but mine, never left. My light switch is at the bottom of my stairs. This means I have to turn off my light, and then sprint up the stairs like a kindergartener. Why? Because as stupid, and immature as it may sound, I am certain that there are monsters, lurking in each corner of my basement, waiting to snatch me and pull me into wherever they go when light is shed upon where they lurk. So as you can imagine, it is a living hell to go upstairs each night. Procrastinating doesn’t help much either. I take a deep breath, tell myself to man up, and I get up. I walk to the television, and turn it off with a loud *click*. I hate myself for this. It is SO quiet. I can practically hear the beasts breathing. I put my hand on the icy cold switch. The breathing of the things intensifies, I feel like a caged animal, being watched, stalked. I look up the stairs. Only a few seconds, and it will all be over.




Pitch black, I have no sense of direction. They are touching me, I know they are. I feel the fragile, papery skin of one. The moist scales of another. The air grows damp with their breath and mine. They’re grabbing, clawing at me, eager to pull me back into the abyss. Nipping at my ankles, and pulling at my legs. One part of me says it can’t be real, but all other parts tell me to get out of this horrific place. I feel the unbelievably slippery brass doorknob in my sweaty palms. I grip the rustic sphere, and turn it with all my force. When I break into the cool air of my living room, the fresh air fills my lungs like the first step outside on a brisk autumn day. The dimly moonlit room is all the relief I could ever ask for. I look into the abyss for one last time, and shut the door.

My heart skips a beat when something squishy keeps the door from closing. As quickly as this living room gave me salvation, it is just as quickly turning into a nightmare. I look down, ready to confront whatever demon that has made it’s way out of my personal land of nightmares. But all I am confronted with, is a sock, my left sock, wedged in between the doorframe. I look down, and sure enough, only my right foot is covered. I chuckle to myself, wondering how I can be so childish, so silly. I toss the old sock into the darkness of my less horrifying basement.

It’s tossed back.

Credit: somethinginthedark

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