What Goes Thump in the Night

What goes thump in the night? Me, trying to get into my bed. Over at Authorblog, David McMahon’s weekly, Weekend Wandering question is, “As a child, were you afraid of the dark?” Below is my answer:

As a child I was so afraid of the dark that I rearranged my bedroom to get the bed as close to the light switch as possible. Then, with one finger on the switch, I would stretch out as far as I could go in a modified runners stance, flick my finger and dive for the bed, desperate to make it all the way up and under the covers before the light went off and the monster under the bed realized he could dash out and eat me. It never worked. I almost got eaten every night that sixth year of my life!

My ever practical Gram had little sympathy for my fears. She would yell, “Don’t run in the house!” And, “Don’t jump on the bed!” I often suspected she liked the dark monster more than she liked me, especially when she’d send me to the basement. She would say, “Go downstairs and get the peas out of the the freezer.” I would say, “I don’t really want peas tonight.” She would say, “Then get the green beans.” I would say, “Can’t we have canned corn?” And she would swing her wooden spoon in my general direction and send me off to battle the dark monster.

I hated going to the basement. Our staircase had a light switch at the top and the bottom. The staircase ended at the basement wall. One could turn right into the laundry room, or left into the family room (later converted to my cousin Rumble’s bedroom). From the family room one could enter the “old kitchen” as I called it. The basement had once been an apartment which my mother had lived in when my brother and sisters were little. The kitchen hadn’t been used in years for anything but storage. Where the fridge should have been was an huge upright freezer.

Gram's Basement

The thing is, the rooms in the basement didn’t have a light in them that one didn’t have to walk to — in the dark — and pull a string to turn them on. Not only that, I was short — just about an inch too short to just grab the string. I had to jump and grab for it. I never got it on the first try.

My attempts to turn on the family room light started much like my attempts to “race” my bedroom light, only in the basement I could assume a full runner’s stance. I would sprint to the light cord — running at an angle trying to stay as long as possible within the triangle of light that cut around the corner. Then I would jump for the cord. If I caught it I would pull. If I missed, I would turn in mid-air and land with my legs already pumping for my dash back to the light. Sometimes I made it just millimeters ahead of the dark monster’s claws.

I would stand in the rectangle of light at the bottom of the stairs, hands on knees, grasping for breath, probing the darker corners of the dark with my gaze. I knew the dark monster was there somewhere. Once my breath — and my courage — were under control, I would try again. Usually my second or third try would see the light come on.

Next came the kitchen, and it was worse. I couldn’t see the light cord from the door, and had to run blind into the darkest, scariest part of the kitchen. If you’re looking at the those windows thinking they let in light — ha! — they were covered in thick curtains made from ancient flannel-backed plastic table cloths. Plus, the furnace was coal or wood burning until I was in third grade. Between the thickness of the curtains and the sooty grit and grime, no self-respecting beam of light could fight its way in.

Not only that, the door between the family room and the kitchen, despite being so dang heavy I almost couldn’t move it from its latched position, swung back and forth at will — or so it seemed to my six year old mind. I’d not yet grasped the concept of pendulum motion. I’d swung the door open, it should have stayed open, not reached the apex of its swing and rebounded!

So, I’d swing the door and charge into the dark feeling as though I was storming straight into the mouth of the monster, and make a grab for the light. If I missed I’d rebound off the front of the stove and make a dash for the door — and the ever decreasing triangle of light — before it closed and latched on me. Luckily, the door never did manage to close behind me and latch, which is probably a good thing because I would have died of fright right there on the spot. Gram would have eventually tromped down the stairs to see what was keeping me and she’d have found me just inside that door, a little puddle of goo in a big puddle of pee.

Once I had the lights on and the vegetables in hand, I would take the veggies back to the staircase and put them on the third or fourth step from the top. Then I’d have to go back and turn off all the lights one at a time. I would go into the old kitchen, take my runner’s stance by the stove, and make a running grab for the cord as I charged from the room, more often then not clipping my left shoulder or knee on the counter or wall as I cut that corner too tight — and remember, all of this had to be timed with that damed swinging door — and often I’d have to make three of four tries before I got it right.

Once the kitchen light was off, I still had to turn the family room light off. Reversing my original process, I would sprint from the opposite side of the room and run toward the staircase. Because there were no curves in my path, I usually managed to turn the family room light off in one or two tries.

With the lights all off and me safely on the staircase, I would take a deep breath, pick up the vegetables, and climb to the top. Once there I would stop, grab the stairwell door and — just before latching it behind me — stick my tongue out at the dark monster, because I knew he was standing just out of the rectangle of light peeking around the corner and looking up the stairs. Then I would take the vegetables to Gram who always grumbled that they were half defrosted and then wondered aloud what the heck had taken me so long.