It's Never too Early to be Neurotic

I was a spooky girl---by which I mean, I was afraid of even the merest suggestion of anything scary.  All things supernatural or unnatural filled me with terror, but the devil was my special torment.  I can easily recount a number of experiences that made me insist on the validity of ghosts in various forms; one case in point, a third grade slumber party at Lisha Shoe's ancient house on Black Bear Creek in Pawnee, a crowd of screaming 9-year-olds insisting there was someone walking in the attic above us, and my sudden anguished proclamation that "It feels like someone is going to open the door and the room is going to turn upside down!" eliciting all new squealing and horrified glances from my classmates.  I've sometimes wondered what psychological damage I might have done with that dramatic little number. 

Much more often, the devil was on my tail.  One must keep in mind that we attended a Methodist church, not at all inclined to fire and brimstone, and my poor, long-suffering mama didn't let me near anything suggestive of scary stuff, because I tormented both of us enough with what I only imagined.  There was NO reason at all for me to even be aware of Satan.  Nevertheless, there he was.  I was afraid if I looked down the hallway to the bedrooms in the opposite direction of my room, I'd see him, so I had to jump from the living room door to my bedroom door to escape him (probably not a distance of more than two feet, so what difference was that going to make?   You can't demand logic of a two-year-old.).  When we moved into our new house, we didn't have doors on the closets yet.  I remember my 8-year-old self waking in the middle of the night and "seeing" the devil's face in the garments hanging there.  I've never slept with a closet door open since!  In that same new house, I had a gripping conviction that the floor vents in the basement were a direct conduit to Satan.  It probably goes without saying that it took a roaring command from Mom or Dad to get me to go down there after dark on my own.  And to tell the truth, I don't know whether that suspicion came before or after a dream I had about a luxurious purple satin bedroom, the devil, and Hershey's Syrup---but that story will have to wait.  I lived in fear (for much longer than I care to admit) of suddenly coming across a pair of devil-red eyes peering at me from the darkness of a window or unfamiliar room or even my own quiet mind.  Did I sleep?  Not much---nor did Mom, who probably couldn't understand why in the world two of the most practical people in the world had this nervous child who imagined such crazy stuff.  And I'm not even going into my obsession that the world was going to end or we were all going to die in a nuclear blast.  If you don't know my family, I can't stress enough how remotely opposite this was of their logical, calm, non-neurotic ways. 

All this and more amounted to the fact that I was notoriously easy to scare---and who can resist that temptation?  All the way through college, if I watched scary movies with a group of friends, SOMEone would have to sneak up and scare me, just to hear my bloodcurdling scream.  (Remember the "Is it live or is it Memorex?" commercials, where the recording of the soprano's voice shattered the wine glass?  I could do that from three towns over.)   Even now, I don't watch things involving devils or demonic activity after dark.  I have a DVR to save me from myself.   That was what I used to calm Mom a couple of years ago, when she discovered my short-lived but intense interest in Ghost Hunters;  she was horrified that I would even think about watching such a thing, knowing how nervous I used to be.  That's when I knew for sure that my childhood had probably scarred her as much as it did me! 

Blessedly, though, I find that much of my admittedly humorous torment has subsided.  I've been watching The Walking Dead and Trueblood after dark for a few years now.  Zombies and vampires---pshh!  Is it all so stylish now, done with tremendous attention to detail but in context with modern life that makes it more interesting than terrifying?  Or is it, as I suspect, less frightening in comparison to the difficult vagaries of everyday life that makes the fiction entertaining now?    I can't say for sure yet.  In the meantime, I have a Walking Dead marathon paused that I have to get back to before bed.   Hope you caught it, too.  And don't forget to check your closet and shut the door before you go to sleep tonight!