Fear of the Dark and Subsequent Scars

For a good while during my early childhood, it never occurred to me that the darkness of night was something to be afraid of. Back then, I had no idea that malevolent spirits lingered in the shadows, or that vampires and demons flourished under the cover of night. How could I have known that spectral figures were watching me through blackened windows, from the corners of poorly lit rooms, or from the limitless void of black revealed through my open closet door during the late hours of the night? I’m not entirely sure how I became aware of the dangers of darkness, although I suspect the influence of television and movies probably had a lot to do with it. All I know is, I formed an irrational fear of darkness around the age of five, and I insisted on sleeping with a night light for a very long time. I think I was close to twelve or thirteen when I stopped relying on the comfort of protective light to fall asleep.

Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like if nobody had ever taught me how to be afraid. I spent so much of my childhood living in mortal fear of ghoulish spooks that never existed, or who at least never cared enough to benefit from my fear. How and why did I ever begin to believe in something so ridiculous, so destructive, so disruptive to my otherwise happy and uneventful youth? I look back on all of those anxious nights, those times when I would desperately lurch towards a light switch whenever I was confronted by the blackness of an unlit room, and I recall those echoes of my earlier days with a hint of sadness. I wasted so much energy, and effort, and time, fearing for my safety in the face of some fanciful, macabre uncertainty. Of all the stupid things that a young mind could venture to understand, why did I have to fixate on such a poisonous form of make-believe that crippled me so completely? It all seems so juvenile and silly from my perspective as an adult nowadays, but I still remember the grip of frightened significance that used to tinge my every attempt to fall asleep at night.

I’ve had plenty of years since then to look back and remember. I’m still wondering who exactly it was who originally planted those fears and thoughts into my head. Maybe it was television. Maybe it was my peers on the playground. Maybe it was a demon in a forgotten dream. Or perhaps I’ve only ever had myself to blame. In truth, that’s probably the best answer. Then again, back in those days, I was just an impressionable kid. Maybe I learned about ghosts and ghouls and spectral fiends from the same people in life who insist on propagating the lie that Santa Claus is a real person. Without the proper guidance, the minds of children might ignite with all sorts of ferocious notions. It’s not all just harmless fantasy, and fun and games out there, you know. I’ve got the emotional scars to prove it.

I’ve also got some physical scars to prove it. Just the other day, I totally got scratched on the arm by a pissed off ghost while playing a game of Bloody Mary. No fooling. Want proof?

There you have it then. I know what some of you naysayers are probably thinking. You’re thinking to yourself: “KZ, that wound looks remarkably similar to the kinds of scratches you get while playing with your aggressive cat, Momo”. My response to that is, you know nothing about cats; and furthermore, you know nothing about the devious realms of darkness, the sinister and spectral happenings which transpire on the edges of the Shadow Empire. Tempting the darkness is a dangerous game, my friends. Think of that ghostly gash on KZ’s arm, and remember.