Ah, Halloween. A holiday filled with witches, mummies, cobwebs, candy, and costumes.
Growing up in Northern Minnesota, where the temperature is never above freezing, Halloween costumes are required to fit over a snowsuit, so while they aren’t very creative, they are practical. The last Halloween my mother allowed me trick or treat, before I was deemed too old, my costume was a large piece of red burlap wrapped around my pink puffy nylon coat and blue snow pants which I belted with a colorful strip of fabric. I used lipstick to draw “war paint” on my face, tied a striped headband around my forehead, put a feather in it, and announced I was Pocahontas. It was the 70s, so I got away with this.
By the time I was 13, I was barred from trick or treating, but I still managed to sneak away and go in a friend’s neighborhood. When going door to door, asking for candy wasn’t cool anymore, we stayed inside and watched scary movies and told frightening stories. This fascination with being scared went beyond one night a year. We the passed time on weekends by watching every "Friday the 13th", "Halloween", and "Nightmare on Elm Street" movies and told too many of the baby sitter is in the house alone and the call is coming from inside the house stories.
I’m convinced this is the root of my present-day neurosis. All those horror movies and scary stories manifested itself into a phobia that there is always someone right around the corner, ready to do me harm. Any noise I hear coming from bowels of basement, I rationally dismiss it as the house is settling or more convincingly the cats are fighting again. Nevertheless, the irrational imp sitting on my shoulder says, "there is a man sitting on top of the washing machine and you will be blinded by the glimmering butcher knife he holds in his hand when you turn on the light.”
I use my cats and dog as a litmus test to gauge the level of my paranoia. If I hear a strange noise, I look to them to see if they heard it. Most of the time, they don’t move a muscle, so I dismiss it as the house is settling.
One night last Spring, my husband was out, my daughter was sleeping, and I was in the basement watching a movie. A romantic comedy, of course. The dog slept at my feet and the cats snored on the back of the couch. A loud, inexplicable noise came from the living room upstairs and all three pets snap their heads up from a dead sleep and looked at me. My lizard brain shifted into rational mode: Someone has just entered the front door. It was not my husband because he comes in the back door and besides, he knows of my phobia and announces himself. My daughter sleeps in a crib and does not climb out. Who and what could it be?
I resign myself to fighting off the intruder; but how and with what? What length will I go through to protect myself from the interloper? My dog is no different from most dogs – he follows me from room to room, and is excited and befriends strangers. But, I’m banking that his mere presence will temporarily distract the intruder while I make my move. I pause the movie and quietly walk up the stairs – dog at my heels.
Unfortunately for my prowler, I pass through the kitchen where I grab the largest butcher knife from its wooden block holder on the counter. I send the dog ahead of me as I leap through the doorway into the dining room, landing in a Ninja stance, with my legs bent at the knees, holding the knife with both hands in front of me. I might have even said “ah ha” as my feet hit the floor.
The room was empty.
I Ninja-leap into the office, flip on the light. Empty. Okay. He probably made his way upstairs by now.
I walk up the steps in the dark, sliding my back against the wall like the police do in the movies when they sneak up on the kidnapper. I snake my hand around the doorway to flip on the light to my bedroom. No one is there. Yet, some how the dog managed to get ahead of me and is comfortably resting his head on my pillow. Back in the hallway, I pause outside my daughter’s door. I hear nothing but the whirling fan that lulls her to sleep. Sanity and reason snaps me back. If I walk in that room, flip on the light, the hell I pay would be worse than seeing the (imagined) interloper. I listen a while longer and conclude, he’s not in there.
Maybe he’s behind the shower curtain.
Maybe I’m insane.
I return my weapon to its resting place in the kitchen. The cats have not moved from the couch and the dog re-assumes his position at my feet. I press Play.
