When I was eight years old, one of my aunts took me to see Amityville Horror. My eleven year old cousin and I insisted upon sitting in the front row of the darkened theater. That lasted for all of the opening credits. The screen suddenly showed pouring rain and as soon as the first bolt of lightening flashed, we flew up the aisle to the safety of the back row, where nothing could grab us from behind.
For years, I had trouble being anywhere near houses that have faces, and when my cousin and I found a splash of red paint in an empty room of our grandma’s cellar, I didn’t go down there for a long, long time.
That’s when it started. With Halloween fast approaching, I’m letting the world know…this chick does NOT like the scary.
Though I really don’t have to tell the world. I think I’ve made it quite obvious.
There was the time I hid the entire top half of my body under my husband’s jacket as we made our way through a haunted forest. And, once we went to a haunted house with another couple. The evening ended on a sour note, when the three of them went on to enjoy the terror festivities and I stayed in the car and cried.
That wasn’t the first, nor was it the last, occasion that I’ve cried when someone scared me. As an adult. That’s right. In order to get the tears flowing, you don’t have to hurt my feelings…you just have to jump out and say boo.
So, if you want to find me as the season of ghosts and goblins draws near, I’ll be the one sitting in the corner, possibly sucking my thumb. With two solid walls behind me, at least I’ll know that nothing can grab me from behind.