Impending

I used to be afraid of the dark. I insisted that the light in the bathroom at the end of the hall be left on all night, and I kept my door wide open. Did nightlights exist in 1976?  I don't know, but I wish I'd had one to further protect myself from the unknown creatures that waited for me until everyone else slept.  My brother, whose room was immediately adjacent to the bathroom, had no such demons, and was compelled to keep his door closed to block the bright light that would have otherwise shone directly onto his pillow, keeping him awake like a Guantanamo prisoner.

Meanwhile, my fear kept me awake for weeks at a time. I would walk down the hallway that seemed so long, down to the cheerily lit bathroom. Even now I can feel the soft flannel of my long nightgown brushing my ankles as I walked, exhausted but with a tingling inability to sleep. I would touch the cold white tile around the sink and stare out the black window facing the back yard of our wooded lot. I would turn and walk back down the long hallway to my room.

Entering was easy - the smell comforting, the light from the hallway illuminating familiar objects. I would crawl under the covers of my twin bed against the far wall, under the window. And I would stare back out at the doorway. From this vantage, everything in the room was dark and malevolent compared to the safely lit carpet lining the hall. Stuffed animals or discarded clothes took on dangerous shapes, and the air about me swirled with the potential for harm. I felt the weight of the air right above my face as though there was a hand ready to touch me, to rip my covers off without warning, at any moment. My heart would pound in the otherwise silent house, and a light sweat would break out on the skin of my body from head to toe. I would contemplate throwing back the sheets to step out into the safe light of the hall once again for what seemed like hours.  The fear of something coming at me as soon as I closed my eyes was so strong that I often resorted to covering my head until I nearly suffocated.

But nothing, NOTHING was as frightening as the dark that hovered in the space above the stairs leading down to the living room below me. During that childhood time, my mother had a painting along the wall that lead downstairs, a painting of trees backlit by a fiery orange dusk sky. I would stare at the dark branches and at times they seemed to move. At times the orange and yellow would undulate under my unwavering gaze (heart pounding). And the dark from the unlit living room, in the quiet house where everyone slept soundly save me, seemed to move and undulate as well. Was it creeping up the stairs?

I would rise once again and move silently down the hall, but rather than enter the garish, formerly calming brashness of the bathroom, I would turn at the top of the stairs and look down. My left hand holding the knob of the banister would be clammy, and the spit on my tongue would take on a vinegar quality. The steps descended to a landing whose white carpet was barely gray in the dim light. I knew the living room just to the left of the landing was pitch black. Would something pop out of that blackness and rush up the stairs to pounce on me? Would a breath of angry whisper meet my ears if I listened hard enough? Oh, and how I listened.

This pattern of waiting and watching, testing and wondering, went on night after night. I never told my mother about it, though I wanted to. I remember opening my parents' bedroom door from time to time - very slowly. I walked up to my father's side of the bed (closest to the door), and listened to his deep rumbling breaths. The smell of sleep hung heavy around them both. I would creep back out and silently close the door without disturbing them.

Finally, one night I found myself, beyond exhausted, sitting at the top of the stairs with my chin resting in my palms, elbows on my knees, staring unblinkingly into the darkness at the landing. It was as though as long as I looked with my eyes wide open, nothing could get to me. Feeling desperate, I resolved to give myself up to the spirits that haunted me in the dark. I stood and grasped the handrail that ran along the wall with my right hand, and slowly descended.

When I reached the landing, I turned to the left and stared into the dark living room. It wasn't as black as I had imagined it would be, but it still filled me with terror. My hands were now icy and my breath came in gasps. I took in the shapes of the sofa and chairs and coffee table. But the most foreboding specter was the utterly black fireplace set atop the brick hearth. It seemed to be the core of the room, and I could almost hear breathing from within it.

I don't know what made me act then, but I took the two steps down into the living room, turned my back to the fireplace, and lay - stomach-down - on the steps with my head on the landing. I thought to myself, "Just come and get me. Get it over with, because I just can't take it anymore." I shut my eyes tightly and thought of what might come up, to strike. I even imagined I felt knives or claws tearing at my back, but the more I focused and held my breath in anticipation, the more those imaginings dissipated.

Gradually, all I was left with was utter silence and calm. I began to notice the wooly feel of the carpet under my chin, and how my arms - scrunched up with balled fists under my chest - we're beginning to fall asleep. I pushed myself to standing and took a deep breath. Without looking back, I walked up the steps, down the long hallway, and into my room. I crawled under the covers and promptly fell asleep. That may not have been the end of my fears, but something fundamental eased within me that night.

 I know a couple of little girls who will have fear delivered to them unexpectedly tomorrow, and I wish I could help them skip to the end of the story and see there's nothing really to fear. I want them to magically pass over the pain and land at the place where they realize the people who love them are nearby, and the demons of devastation can't get past the bond of love that surrounds them - though it may appear their parents are asleep and unaware. I wish I could do all this, but I can't.