Nighttimes became torturous. As I laid in bed, I’d look first at my bedroom window, then at the window down the hall, waiting to see the giant bat scratching at the window or the claw-like fingers forcing the window open, followed by a lithe figure slithering its way into the house.
The way my parents tell it, that Sunday evening they found me, obligatorily sitting on the floor with the other kids, facing away from the TV, huddled up in a ball, and crying quietly. Something about the film had petrified me.
I try to turn on the lights before I walk into a dark hallway or room. I check behind the shower curtain every single time I walk into a bathroom. And I get jittery when there’s not another human being in the house with me, especially overnight.
Where is that dirt coming from? I remember wondering. Then, Why is dirt falling from the ceiling? And then, That’s not dirt—it’s moving!!!
Gurumapa loves to eat children, but is “easily reasoned with,” which I would call a glaring weakness.
It didn’t take long for the panic to set in.
Is that plane outside flying really low? Oh God, it probably doesn’t have pilots because they’ve been raptured and the plane is gonna crash!
Did you watch the movie in the afternoon or evening? It doesn’t matter. You have to go to bed eventually.
The police bushwhacked their way to us after triangulating my dad’s cell signal (it was 2008).
A small girl sits at the water’s edge, staring broodily into a sparkling blue sea. Around her is the bustle of a July beach day.
