Scary at Night

Almost every night when I was a child, I would ask my parents if I could have the fan on in my room as well as the washroom light on at the end of the hall. They would usually allow this, at least until it was time for them to turn in. When they went to bed, they would switch the fan off and then there was nothing. They would turn off the lights and there would be even more nothing, just my imagination, which at night, was a hellish tinderbox of despair.

I was a scared little kid. Not the kind who was frightened of jumping my bike off a ramp or playing tackle football with the older kids, but the sort who was afraid of scary movies and dark basements, walking home at night and sounds outside my bedroom window. Basically, any time when I was alone with my thoughts, I had the tendency to scare the shit out of myself. To do that, my brain needed some fuel and in the seventies, there was plenty of it. Once, during this time, my cousin Laurie watched the movie “Omega Man” on TV while babysitting us. This film was an early seventies version of “I Am Legend.” The zombies in the movie are light sensitive and have creepy glowing eyes. For the next couple of weeks, I had to search my closet for any sign of these creatures, for fear that when I turned out the light, I would see a pair of those glowing eyes staring out through the gap in the closet door. When morning arrived, I wouldn’t even give it a thought, but after dinner when the sun went down and bedtime drew near, the fear would creep back in.

Another film that screwed me up was “The Exorcist.” I didn’t see the movie, but knew the story, saw the commercials, and heard the haunting theme, “Tubular Bells,” regularly on the radio. Things weren’t too scary after bedtime while my parents were awake and I could hear the TV downstairs. I thought if I could just fall asleep before they went to bed, then I wouldn’t have to worry about anything. Have you ever tried to go to sleep on a deadline? It doesn’t work. So, they would turn in after switching off all the lights and extinguishing all comforting background white noise, and I would lie there staring into nothingness. One night, I finally just went to my parent’s room and said that I couldn’t sleep because I am psychologically disturbed, or something like that. My mom suggested thinking about something pleasant and turning on the radio very softly. It wasn’t the solution I was hoping for, but I took it. I tuned to a station, found just the right volume, then laid down, thinking good thoughts. It wasn’t long before the disc jockey decided to play “Tubular Bells.” I leaped out of bed to switch it off as fast as I could and climbed back under the covers, my heart beating wildly. I tried to think happy thoughts, but there were none to be found. I would have to sweat it out until morning.

I didn’t understand why everything had to be so freaky. Why was my closet so dark and ominous with weird, lumpy shapes? Why did the roofline of the garage run straight up to my window, where someone could crouch down, open it up, and crawl inside? And why were there multi-species events happening in our yard virtually every night? On any given evening, there could be raccoons pulling the tops off of the garbage cans, a cat snatching baby rabbits from their nest outside my window, and one night, an injured animal screaming so loudly and sounding so much like a person, that the entire neighborhood was on the street in their slippers and robes to find the source.

You know what, that’s it! I’ve had it! Now listen up, this is what little Jeff requires at bedtime. One gently whirring fan next to my bed, a warm, pleasant light (again, next to my bed), the windows closed, the shades drawn, and a stack of Charlie Brown books to read in case I can’t get to sleep. I may be needing someone to get me a drink on occasion and after a bad dream, to sit on the end of the bed and assure me the sun will come up tomorrow. Please do this every night until I leave for college. At that point, the R.A. on my dorm floor will assume these duties.

Unfortunately for me, I also possessed an all-consuming need to investigate any scratching, pounding, or creaking sound that woke me up in the nighttime. I’d sit up in bed, think to myself, “What was that scary noise?”, then get up and seek it out. I’ve thought about this dichotomy and have yet to reach any conclusions, except that maybe deep inside, I knew there was nothing there, that none of this shit was real. Still, even though I know it wastes energy I would still rather have the lights on all night. As a concession, please divert all of my future allowances to ComEd.