Scaring Up Some Memories

Growing up, I was all about a good ghost story. Even better if it was read in my darkened bedroom with a flashlight under the covers, which I would be petrified to peek out from, as directly over my head in the ceiling was a crawlspace door that accessed the attic, home to every ghost, goblin and creature in my stories. I swear some mornings when I woke up, that cover would be slightly askew, with dust particles on my covers suggesting something had entered or exited as I slept.

What wasn’t living in that crawlspace took residence under my bed, which I crammed with shoes, books, suitcases and anything else I could find to take up hiding space so there would be no room left for monsters. But even as I could see the suitcase handle sticking out from under the bed skirt, I’d be in such fear of the ankle grabbing beast that I mastered a flying leap onto my bed from my doorway, a move that would undoubtedly score all 10’s in the scaredy cat Olympics. 

But my bedroom was not the only haunted place in my house, as the portal to hell was located in our cellar next to the oil tank. At a glance, it appeared to be just a door leaning against the wall in a far, dark corner, but as an educated monster hunter I knew too well that if I were to ever jiggle that knob, all the horrors of hell would be unleashed into our house, if not the whole city. You can thank me later for never testing that door, as it remains in place today, undisturbed and unopened.

Eager to share my frightful fascinations, I would drag my friends into such things as séances and Ouija board readings, a mixture of fun and fear which always left me wondering if the board really did answer YES when asked if the door in the cellar led to hell, or if someone merely pushed it in that direction to scare me. Eventually, I came to fear that Ouija board so much I buried in it an undisclosed location in the City far from my house, convinced I might accidentally call out an evil spirit that would attach itself to me for life, knowing even back then that life would be hard enough without dragging an evil spirit around with me.

My driver’s license gave me the freedom to broaden my circle of Halloween haunts, with my favorite being the now defunct Haunted Hammond Castle, a spooktacular oceanfront setting that made me freeze in fear as I entered a room in the castle with three doors, one of which I was told would lead straight to hell. My hand shook as I turned the knob, fearful I would somehow exit into my own cellar on the other side.

As I grew up, I ran out of friends willing to go spooking with, and resigned myself to watching TV shows like The Scariest Places on Earth, where regular people are dropped into haunted spots to survive overnight with nothing but a prayer and a camera. Of course the entire apartment would have to be dark with just a few flickering candles, and the volume would be very loud so I could hear the frightened whispers leading up to the predictable screaming. But what I failed to hear one night was my brother, who lived downstairs at the time, knocking on my door to find out what all the screaming was about, finally letting himself in- his giant shadowy silhouette filling the frame of my living room door- scaring me so badly the only sound I could manage from my voice box was a tiny squeak before the he said “What the heck is going on in here?”

Now middle aged, you would expect me to be too mature for such nonsense, but check under my bed and you’ll find it stuffed to the edges with storage boxes, shoes and luggage, leaving no hiding space for monsters. Just the way I like it.