Are you afraid of the dark?
I used to be.
I would walk down the blackened hallway of our house from my bedroom to the living room. Hell, it was less than 10 yards long, but before I got halfway, the shadows would paw at me from the open doorways. I could almost feel monstrous claws stretching out for me from the gloom. My flight response would kick in and I'd sprint the last few feet into the light, noise, and companionship of the living room. The TV in the corner usually flashed brightly with some PBS production, "Mystery" or "Masterpiece Theater". For a while it was Poldark. I kid you not.
All of this drama happened in a cookie-cutter, slab-foundation, 50s Rancher tract home. Never was a plainer, cheaper house built. No Gothic piles of architecture to glower threateningly in the flash of a thunder storm. No basements concealing unspeakable horrors.
In fact, the worst memory I have of the place is from when my dad installed new speakers. I was just a tyke. The speakers on their stands stood nearly as tall as I was. They were faced with a slate-gray foam rubber. They scared the crap out of me.
One night, I woke up to a strange compulsion. Stepping into the hallway, those speakers sucked me to them with a menacing gravity. I tried to resist, to go back into my room, to the safety under my blankets, but my feet started to slide against the carpet. Finally, I fell to the floor, clawing at the deep, rust-colored 70s shag as those speakers dragged me to them. I still get the willies remembering that damned nightmare.
Despite all this, I never lived in constant fear of the speakers. I learned to appreciate them as my dad did, sitting in the sweet spot of the stereo sound, E. Power Biggs coaxing a pipe organ into higher and higher crests of Bach ecstasy.
I still sprinted down the hall nearly all the time though.
With time, most of my imagination was crowded out of my head by school, females, work, my own apartment, marriage, and children of my own. I didn't think too much about the darkness. Even so, I'd feel that familiar thrill if I had to walk from the carpark to our apartment on the nights I had to work late. I wouldn't run though. I'd gird myself with thoughts of deadlines and dinner. I tried not to worry about cloying shadows and hungry claws.
And then my parents pulled up stakes and moved to Washington State. They were generous and cut us a deal. They gave us my childhood home and we took out a mortgage on it that paid outright for their house in the Pacific Northwest. My parents stayed free and clear, and we could magically afford to live in my old neighborhood.
In my first week back in the house, I spent a sleepless night calming my son down from his own screaming nightmares. When he'd recovered enough to talk, my little guy explained in his three-year-old way that a "black man with a black hat and black hands" was after him. It took one more night of anxiety and tears to convince him that he was OK. For good measure, we finally turned on his night light, something we hadn't had to do at the apartment.
After those few bouts, bedtime settled back into a simple routine. I'd read him stories (he never could get enough of Curious George or The Sneetches), turn out the light, and before I could close his door, he'd ask about his "black man with a black hat and black hands." I'd remind him that we sold his nemesis at the store for $8 or some such nonsense. Appeased, he'd settle down and go to sleep.
This got me thinking. We knew that our son’s imagination would start to get the better of him at some point, but I couldn’t dismiss his nightmares coming so soon after we moved into the old house.
So one night, after everyone had gone to bed, I turned off the hall light and waited.
I stood in the blackness for who knows how long. After the initial thrill, I occupied myself listening to my heartbeat and breathing. I expected my eyes to adjust, but they didn't.
The office door opened and, in a cascade of moonlight, a small figure emerged. It looked like a boy. My brain boiled with questions and confusion. I did put my son to bed, didn't I? His bed is in the other room. What the heck?
In the weak light from the open door, I could see it wasn't my son. It was a boy. He hesitated at the threshold. Confusion mutated into rage. He was a trespasser. I could hear the pounding of his heart, the flowing of blood in his veins. I could smell his fear. I wanted to taste it, oh I wanted to taste his panic. I stretched out my arms, my claws reaching for his neck, almost there. But then he bolted. The light and sound from the living room checked me.
Now I sit and wait. I'm not afraid of the dark. I am the dark.
Pakeha