always carried the trump card of reassurance.
But as the years passed, my nightmares lingered. My mental maturity had ignored its assigned task. Instead of leading me away from these fabricated scenarios of nighttime killers, my supposedly wiser mind paved a straighter road to the elaborate plotlines and frightening characters. I wondered why my older brother, the source of all the slasher flicks at the farm, never required Mom to offer him a reassuring explanation or Dad to shine a flashlight under his bed before he could fall asleep. What was it about me? Although the youngest, I was significantly bigger than Jimmy. It didn’t make any sense. When asked, my mother would always answer with the best of intentions, blaming my hypersensitive imagination, saying it was just “so big” that it made it easy for me to get scared. “You’re the creative one, like me,” she would say with a wink. “Remember, Iain, a vivid imagination is a blessing.”
I must have dozed off. I’m startled awake by a strange noise coming from outside. I’m not really sure how to explain this sound — something like a high shriek. Growing up in the country, I’m familiar with the nocturnal orchestra that performs each night, the odd sheep baaing or the customary bark of the dog. But this wasn’t a dog bark. I sit up straighter and brush some curd crumbs off my chest. Maybe in my drowsy state I assumed that a sound effect from the movie had come from outside or, better yet, maybe I just imagined it altogether. I probably dreamt it.
Fuck! I hear it again. This time there’s no mistaking its validity. It’s coming from outside. The TV room is on the second floor and has two large windows, one at each end. I spring up and shut the drapes.
I sit back down and take a long, deep breath, peering around the room. I’ve never really noticed this before, but with its second-hand furniture and grandfather clock ticking away, this room is bloody creepy. I’ve never cared much for the collection of black-and-white headshots of Mom’s grandparents and great-grandparents mounted on the wall. I examine the faces of the relatives I never knew; their colourless eyes stare back at me.
I flip deliberately through the channels until I find the soothing banter of the sports station and raise the volume several notches. I start to relax as the glib commentators review the night’s Maple Leafs game. Sure, I’m living out in the secluded country now, but I used to live in the biggest city in Canada, where I walked home alone at night without fear or hesitation. I was happy to stroll through dark alleys or deserted parking garages, at all hours, without apprehension.
I’m squeezing a white line of toothpaste onto my brush when I hear the noise for a third time. It’s louder now, closer. Whatever is responsible for the wail must be right outside the window, perhaps even close enough to see me. I freeze in front of the mirror, giving myself a cold stare, slowly setting the wet brush down beside the sink. The venetian blinds are open, but instead of making a move to close them I continue to stare straight ahead and remain motionless.
Only a few days earlier I spotted my first grey hair marking out territory in my beard, giving me an instant air of maturity and dignity. And now here I am, rigid as stone, too scared to close the blinds in my elderly parents’ bathroom, too frightened to stay in the room with them open. I count silently to three, rinse the remnants of toothpaste into the sink, and slip quickly and quietly out the door.
I am a full-grown man, an adult. I’m twenty-seven years old, stand six feet two inches, and weigh 190 pounds. And whether I like it or not, the time for action has arrived. There’s a disturbing noise coming from outside; it’s not right, and it needs to be investigated. I know what I have to do. He was complaining about his sore back yesterday, but I think it’s best if I wake up Dad so he can take a look outside for
But as the years passed, my nightmares lingered. My mental maturity had ignored its assigned task. Instead of leading me away from these fabricated scenarios of nighttime killers, my supposedly wiser mind paved a straighter road to the elaborate plotlines and frightening characters. I wondered why my older brother, the source of all the slasher flicks at the farm, never required Mom to offer him a reassuring explanation or Dad to shine a flashlight under his bed before he could fall asleep. What was it about me? Although the youngest, I was significantly bigger than Jimmy. It didn’t make any sense. When asked, my mother would always answer with the best of intentions, blaming my hypersensitive imagination, saying it was just “so big” that it made it easy for me to get scared. “You’re the creative one, like me,” she would say with a wink. “Remember, Iain, a vivid imagination is a blessing.”
I must have dozed off. I’m startled awake by a strange noise coming from outside. I’m not really sure how to explain this sound — something like a high shriek. Growing up in the country, I’m familiar with the nocturnal orchestra that performs each night, the odd sheep baaing or the customary bark of the dog. But this wasn’t a dog bark. I sit up straighter and brush some curd crumbs off my chest. Maybe in my drowsy state I assumed that a sound effect from the movie had come from outside or, better yet, maybe I just imagined it altogether. I probably dreamt it.
Fuck! I hear it again. This time there’s no mistaking its validity. It’s coming from outside. The TV room is on the second floor and has two large windows, one at each end. I spring up and shut the drapes.
I sit back down and take a long, deep breath, peering around the room. I’ve never really noticed this before, but with its second-hand furniture and grandfather clock ticking away, this room is bloody creepy. I’ve never cared much for the collection of black-and-white headshots of Mom’s grandparents and great-grandparents mounted on the wall. I examine the faces of the relatives I never knew; their colourless eyes stare back at me.
I flip deliberately through the channels until I find the soothing banter of the sports station and raise the volume several notches. I start to relax as the glib commentators review the night’s Maple Leafs game. Sure, I’m living out in the secluded country now, but I used to live in the biggest city in Canada, where I walked home alone at night without fear or hesitation. I was happy to stroll through dark alleys or deserted parking garages, at all hours, without apprehension.
I’m squeezing a white line of toothpaste onto my brush when I hear the noise for a third time. It’s louder now, closer. Whatever is responsible for the wail must be right outside the window, perhaps even close enough to see me. I freeze in front of the mirror, giving myself a cold stare, slowly setting the wet brush down beside the sink. The venetian blinds are open, but instead of making a move to close them I continue to stare straight ahead and remain motionless.
Only a few days earlier I spotted my first grey hair marking out territory in my beard, giving me an instant air of maturity and dignity. And now here I am, rigid as stone, too scared to close the blinds in my elderly parents’ bathroom, too frightened to stay in the room with them open. I count silently to three, rinse the remnants of toothpaste into the sink, and slip quickly and quietly out the door.
I am a full-grown man, an adult. I’m twenty-seven years old, stand six feet two inches, and weigh 190 pounds. And whether I like it or not, the time for action has arrived. There’s a disturbing noise coming from outside; it’s not right, and it needs to be investigated. I know what I have to do. He was complaining about his sore back yesterday, but I think it’s best if I wake up Dad so he can take a look outside for
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