Childhood Fears

When I was six years old, my father allowed me to stay up and watch a show called "Werewolf". I had thought it was on the USA Network, but after researching I have found that it was initially on FOX. That aside, all I know is that the show scared the living shit out of me.

I was intrigued by it and also didn't want to look like a pussy and run out of the room. The idea that a man, or many men, could change into a wolf and then hunt down fellow humans was completely mesmerizing. The effects ran much deeper, though. This stupid show really got into my head.

At the time we lived in an old white farmhouse right across the road from a corn field. Now, if you've ever spent any time around corn, you know how menacing it is all by itself. When the wind blows the dry stalks and leaves rub together and make a hissing, scraping noise. The stalks all wave in unison and the thought of wandering in there opens up an whole other box of possible terrors. The corn wasn't the worst part of this whole package, though. The real problem lay within the house itself.

Off the dining room was a short hallway that ended at the door of the bedroom where my brothers and I slept. The door is the kind that has the old-style skeleton key hole seen in movies. The hallway had two other "doors" to each side of its short length. One was to the bathroom, the other was to the upper floor. We didn't use the top floor, nor did we venture up there much. The entrance to the upstairs was covered with a piece of paneling that was nailed into the door frame. Around the time that I watched the werewolf show, however, the paneling came down occasionally. This was the beginning of the most horrifying time in my life up to then.

You see, my father and the neighbor, who was actually our landlord, thought that there was some good use to be had of the upper floor. Another bedroom, perhaps. When they took down the paneling and walked up there, I foolishly followed. It was daytime. It was safe.

I remember looking at all the dust and cobwebs and feeling a bit of trepidation. This place hadn't been inhabited in a long time. The paint was all peeling and there was a bit of a claustrophobic feel to the whole thing. I can remember looking out the little window and seeing the driveway below. So far and so remote this little room was.

Now, after we came back down I can't remember whether they put the paneling back up. I would imagine they would; just in case a kid decided to go exploring. In my memory of that time, though, the paneling was only leaned up against the frame. Just enough of an angle so that it wouldn't fall on passersby. It might have been three or four inches from the frame at the bottom.

That night, with my bedroom door fully open and the night light plugged into the socket in the bathroom, I lay in my bed and looked down toward my feet. The view was straight down the hallway, the dining room table in sight. Around the open area between the paneling and the door frame a furry hand with long nails, more like a paw than a hand, reached through and gripped the paneling and moved it; just slightly, but I saw it. Then came the snout, ugly and wrecked by its own overeager dental display. One sniff, two. Then it was gone.

I was scared to the point of temporary paralyzing. I couldn't scream, I couldn't move. It was probably for the better. I didn't want to move. I didn't want it to see me or smell me. It would surely have me before I could run through the hall and across the dining room and living room to my parents' room. It would have me and they wouldn't hear.

This went on for a while. One night the paneling was completely gone for some reason. The werewolf came to the bottom of the stairs and peeked around the corner at me. He snarled, I tried not to shit my pants. He must have gotten tired of it eventually and just went back upstairs.

Now, these were all, of course, hallucinations brought on by intense emotional distress and fear. I don't remember if I ever told my parents about it. Even if I had, there was nothing they could have said that would have eased my fears.

All these years later, after more than twenty years of roaming the earth and living life, only one thing scares me: Werewolves. I'm not even kidding. I fear no man. I fear no official. I fear no beast (werewolves excluded).

It's such an irrational fear. Science has no proof of the existence of werewolves. They are only a folk legend. Believing in them, or being afraid of them, is stupid.

However, when I see that the moon is full and the clouds shine high in the sky, I WILL NOT get out of my truck in a rural or wild area. If I have to piss so bad that my bladder is going to burst, I would rather piss my pants than step out for a leak.

A little over a week ago I was listening to CT & Jivin on XM Radio and a guy called in saying he had seen a werewolf at a Rest Area in Delaware. As he told his story I could feel my skin puckering up and goose flesh popping up. Even as I write this in a truck stop laundry room, every time someone walks by the door I jump a little. This is how deep this stupid little fear goes.

Now, do I hold it against my dad for letting me watch that show? No. That's ridiculous. I had seen many other monster movies and saw many after that had no effect on me whatsoever. In fact, The Exorcist is my all-time favorite movie. The werewolf show just clicked something deep within me and still clicks it today. I actually watched The Howling a while back and, even with all the shitty effects, it still scared me. Fucking werewolves.

I'll probably die with this fear. But I think I would rather fear something ridiculous like a werewolf and have no other fears at all. At least if what I fear kills me, it'll be one hell of a story.