In Which Things That Go Bump In the Night

When I was little, I used to get terrible nightmares, week in and week out sometimes.  I don't remember a lot of the specifics of these nightmares, mostly they were security related and involved terrible home-invasion fears.  I definitely used to picture somebody having snuck into my apartment and positioned himself in the shadows of my room, just waiting… waiting… for the perfect moment… to STRIKE!  What they were after, I'm not sure.  I can definitely remember specific things that used to prompt weeks of nightmares for me.  There was the time my brother and his friend Jason literally forced me to watch Nightmare on Elm Street 2 (they held me in place and would punch me if I closed my eyes) and there was the time I saw a trailer for a movie called Dr. Giggles, about a murderous, clownish doctor.  The story that frightened me the most was a scary story that a friend of mine told me once. 

You can read a few different versions of the story here, but I will summarize it as best I can.  Basically, a girl is left alone with her dog for protection.  She wakes up in the night to a dripping sound and tries to turn a faucet off more tightly, returning to bed and reaching down in the dark to have the dog lick her hand for reassurance.  She wakes up again to dripping and tightens another faucet, &c., this repeats a couple times.  When she wakes up in the morning she finds a bloody note by the closet that says "HUMANS CAN LICK TOO" and finds the dog hanging inside the closet with its throat slit (its blood was the dripping noise).

It's not surprising that I had nightmares, of course—it's a pretty disturbing little story.  I also finished the story in my imagination with the murderer waiting until the moment of the girl's revelation to jump out and kill her.  I didn't have a dog at the time, so it wasn't as if I was now questioning every movement of my pet in the darkness, but the story chilled me to the bone nonetheless.  I think it was the idea that the dog's licking, a sweet act of reassurance and love, could actually be the cold-hearted manipulations of a demented killer.  When I imagined discovering that the dog's licks had been the killer's, I always pictured cutting my own hand off, unable to even look at the part of me that had been caressed by the killer's vicious tongue. 

When I would have nightmares, I would usually seek the comfort of my parents' bed, just like most little kids.  For some time, my parents were generous enough to let me into their bed, but then they kicked me out for good after it became tiresome, and I slowly wore down the goodwill of everyone else who slept in the apartment, but for months and possibly years (I can't remember) I would spend my post-nightmare nights in my parents' bed. 

When I would knock on the door and come in, the first thing my mom would ask is if I wanted to talk about it, and if I said "no," she would strongly encourage me to do so until I finally said what the nightmare was about.  She always told me, "talking about it will help make you feel better, it will make it less scary," and she was definitely right.  I think this is the reason I am so open to psychoanalysis, blogging, and the idea of being a writer in general… I place an inherent value on the act of expression.  It is a value that I am extremely grateful to my parents for, even if they don't always practice what they preach. 

After I talked about it, I would climb into bed.  My parents would typically drift off to sleep very quickly (or it seemed that way to me) and I would lie in the bed next to them, looking around the darkened room.  On the wall opposite the bed was a painting of an owl.  I really liked this owl painting during the daytime—I really like owls in general.  He looked wise and serene, with a piercing but ultimately gentle gaze.  At night, though, the owls eyes would suddenly become brighter than the rest of him, and his piercing gaze became judgmental and predatory, his wise serenity now a quiet, plotting rage darkly contained, simmering.  He became the killer in the story, masquing as a friendly protector whilst secretly waiting to pounce with evil intentions.  Sometimes, I would stare at him for an hour or more, with my dad's sleepy rumbling as an intimate soundtrack. 

I think the reason I was so afraid of a mysterious attacker was a sense I had that I deserved it.  I don't think I was capable of reckoning with the idea that somebody might kill for their own pleasure, exactly, so what was most terrifying about a murderer was the fear of my own culpability.  Not only that, but the double nature of my tormentors, outwardly friendly while inwardly hostile, was and remains something that I fear in myself.  I see it in dogs sometimes—they can be all tail wags and face licks, but how much does it take for them to snap and lunge at you with teeth as sharp as carpet knives?  I wonder if this is an element of all little kids' fears, or something especially particular to me.  Either way, it is a fear that has stuck with me to this day, if not through nightmares, then through anxieties and emotional defensiveness.