Thriller

Fear as an emotion can be categorized as rational and irrational. On the scale of rationality, I consider myself above average. However, there are situations in which I’d score embarrassingly low.

Put me in a cabin in the woods at night and show me a Friday the 13th marathon and I will (most probably) not lose a moment of sleep. Show me The Blair Witch Project, and I will be a blubbering mess halfway through. My reasoning is that Serial (and Psycho) killers, however scary they are, are forces one can fight. They are flesh and blood and can be hurt (back) or brought to justice. Look at Shawn and Gus in ‘Tuesday the 17th’: The homicidal maniac was scary, but he was caught pretty quickly and unable to harm another again. And he didn’t even have to be killed before he finally stopped. Bonus!

In bright daylight (or you know, after 8 AM), I do not believe in the Supernatural, but when the sun goes down, my heart does not always agree with my mind.

As Nikki proved with her column last month, most fears, whether they are rational or not, are born in childhood.

When I was little, we used to watch Mr. Ed on the BBC with the whole family. My sisters and I adored anything having to do with horses, and this black and white show about a talking horse was a family favorite. In the winter of 1983, I’m not sure whether I’d turned six yet but let’s just say (for the cuteness of the image) I had not, I sat on the couch with my eldest sister at 7 PM, expecting to be entertained by Wilbur and his golden Palomino. Instead, I was traumatized for life. For reasons unknown (to me–my sister claims not to remember this incident at all), we were watching the new video clip from Michael Jackson: Thriller.

I stared at the screen with big, round eyes, unable to breathe or swallow as the story unfolded; creepy zombioids crawled out of their graves and the beautiful dancing boy suddenly turned into a monster as well. We were shown a short version of the clip, my thirteen year old sister explained to me with disappointment, because in the longer version, Michael and his graveyard buddies forced themselves into his girlfriend’s apartment. When they reach for her she wakes up and Michael is normal again, but when he turns around we can see that he’s still a monster.

I do not know if I’ve ever taken a moment to thank my sister for sharing this with me. If I have not, here it is: I hate you.

In all seriousness, I’m sure it was a matter of youthful ignorance and she did not plant this trauma on purpose. Fact is though, that night was the first in many I had to switch on the light before I found the courage to walk (nee sprint) up the stairs.
Thankfully, this irrational fear of monsters does not make my life unlivable. What it does make it, is inconvenient at times.

Soon after the incident, we visited my grandfather’s grave and I noticed I could not put the image of the graves opening and the dead coming after me, aside. I made sure to walk on the side with the trees, not the graves, and at all times someone had to stand beside me to protect me just in case. I do not believe anyone in my family knew of my fear, I was very good at keeping it to myself. Not because I was embarrassed or due to trust issues, oh no, that was not the case. It simply didn’t occur to me to share my most inner thoughts and fears as long as I was able to deal with them myself.

It became harder when my mother died soon after my eleventh birthday, and the yearly trips to the graveyard became more frequent. Her grave wasn’t as close to the entrance as my grandfather’s, and it was surrounded by an ocean of decay.

I didn’t realize how terrified I actually was until I went to visit my mom all by myself.

Our annual Day of Sports was held at a location only a couple of minutes away from the cemetery and it felt wrong to me not to pay a visit while I was that close. So that’s how my twelve year old self, ended up in front of the gate to my nightmares at 7.45 AM, holding a bouquet of flowers I picked in the field nearby. Honestly, walking to my mom’s final resting place wasn’t too scary, probably because I was mostly occupied with finding the way. It was when I turned my back towards her head stone when the immensity of the distance I had to cover before reaching the exit grabbed hold of me; I could feel a lump forming in my throat, my heart beating faster than I could ever run, and a pressure on my chest the weight of an elephant. Yup, my first ever panick attack was traveling its way towards me and the only way to avoid it, I thought, was to just play it cool and walk.

And so I did. At first.

After passing the second row of graves, my pace went up. And up. And up. Until I was running for my life. My imagination told me that as soon as I’d passed a grave, it’s occupant would shove open the door from their underground living quarters and creep out. As tears rolled down my stricken face, I envisioned an army of rotting flesh moving behind me. I didn’t know their intentions, but I was dead certain I was not going to like what was in store for me once they’d gotten ahold of me and I sure as hell wasn’t going to make their hunt easy!

I escaped an unimaginable fate when I passed through the gates. That didn’t make me feel any better though! As fast as I could, I got on my bike and rode to the closest population of the living: My fellow school mates gathering for a healthy day of sport. I’ve never been so happy to throw a ball as that particular day.

These days I only visit a cemetery when accompanied by an adult, usually one of my sisters. After all, if I outrun just one person when nightmares come true, I’m safe.

Right?!