I had nightmares as a kid, same as everybody. Most of them are lost in the fog of growing up, but one from when I was four or five stands out: My grandfather, who I loved, sat at the foot of my bed in the middle of the night, smiling and motioning for me to come to him for a hug. But when I did, the toys on my dresser behind him leered and leaped toward me like evil jack-in-the-boxes. (Jacks-in-the-box?) And so I sat in bed, terrified and torn between the loving patriarch and demonic playthings that he, of course, couldn’t see or hear.
I think the worst nightmares are those that take place in your bedroom, in your bed. Because upon waking, there isn’t that moment of “Oh, good, I’m in bed, it was just a dream.” There is no sudden relief, but just the exhausted peace as the dread slowly seeps away.
…Until you hear that sound again, somewhere in the dark of your room.
No bad dreams last night, but I did finish a new Worth a Thousand entry, a story of childhood fears called Under the Bed and in the Closet, inspired by the always-creepy artwork of Brad McDevitt. Give it read, give it a Tweet, pass it along to all your Facebook buddies, and be sure to swing by Brad’s site to say hi and thank him for the artwork.
