As adults, we can usually reason our way out of childish fears. I know there aren’t monsters under my bed. Monster dust bunnies maybe, but nothing deadly. And I know that if the phone rings when I’m home alone, and the caller whipers, “Have you checked the children??” it’s just my husband on his way home from work and his voice sounds creepy because he has a bubble in his throat. It’s all good. Not scary.
As an adult I’m more afraid of death and taxes. Shadowy monsters and the Boogeyman don’t warrant more than a raised eyebrow from me at this point. I have bigger fish to fry. Speaking of fish, we adults are way less afraid of sharks now than we were in our formative years. Thank you Mister Spielberg—you twisted creep. You wrecked the ocean for me for decades.
Some fears, no matter how juvenile or preposterous, follow us into adulthood. We can’t shake them no matter how hard we try to rationalize them away.
When I reach into the dark cold storage room in our basement to grab for the light, I understand logically that the room is empty, but yet I hesitate before stepping inside because the fear of being grabbed by “it” whatever “it” is, always gets the best of me.
The last time I ventured into the storage room to grab toilet paper rolls to restock the bathrooms, I wasn’t at all nervous. Having to fight my way through the artificial Christmas tree obstacle blocking the door (left there “temporarily” by my husband) enraged me just enough to distract me from the fear.
But the second I stepped into the dark, cold room, I got chills. I wasn’t alone…
I smelled a man’s cologne, and heard his breath. I felt his evil eyes boring into me. And then I turned slowly and saw him grinning at me from the corner of the room.
This would be the end for me.
Well, turns out the cologne was actually “Scentsicles Christmas tree scent” my husband left slightly ajar on a shelf.
And the breath was an eerily timed alarm from my “Just breathe” app on my phone reminding me to do my relaxing breathing exercises. The app is has since been deleted. The breathy alarm sound intended to remind me to "breathe to relax" is disturbing, which is the exact opposite of relaxing.
And those eyes belonged to THIS face. Thank you to my husband for clearing out the garage. But no, this is not “the perfect place” to store Giggles the Halloween clown.
So I’m back to being afraid of our storage room. And for good reason. There’s a bloody clown in there!
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