Scared

Summer 1976: sixteen years old and much to my surprise my parents trusted me, trusted me enough to leave me alone for a long weekend.

Being rather staid and somewhat boring they in reality were not taking much of risk. Therefore I was not looking to test fate and lose my parents faith by staging my own “Risky Business” weekend. I followed the rulebook to a T. No friends over, no drinking, no sex, no drugs a quiet weekend alone at home. If I did borrow the car I was anal enough to have back in the garage before dark.

My time was spent watching a bit of television, eating a Swanson’s Turkey TV Dinner and did what I was most prone to doing, losing myself in a book. The main course this particular weekend was a novel based on The Omen written by David Seltzer. I had not seen the film, which allowed the book to completely capture my attention.

I shared a room with my brother, which meant for the first time since I was six the room mine.

Eleven o'clock Saturday night found me sprawled across my bed lost in the eternal battle between good and evil. Damian and his satanic forces had eliminated most of the forces of light allowing the antichrist’s mission to go forward.

The book left me a bit unsettled. I was tired and ready for a good nights sleep. Turning off the light I buried myself beneath the covers awaiting the sandman’s arrival.

Before sleep could claim me for no particular reason I felt a tickle in the back of my brain. Primordial in nature electrical signals were being sent preparing instinctively for fight or fright. Sense’s on overload I felt the psychic pressure of someone or something watching me.

Nervous laughter erupted from deep within my chest, surely it was nothing but the Omen messing with my imagination. The feeling was unignorable, growing stronger by the moment.

Wrapping myself in a cocoon of blankets I buried my head beneath several pillows. Repeating a silent mantra: nothing is wrong.

Nothing is wrong.

Nothing is wrong.

Failure scented the room my imagination had a faulty wire caught in a loop of illogic insisting fear was the order of the day. The sandman himself must have sensed something amiss, his appointed rounds passed with sleep but a distant memory.

With previously untested resolve I resolutely tossed off the covers back removing my head from beneath the pillows.

Turning my head towards the opposite wall and my brother's bed I paused eyes tightly clenched. With trepidation I opened on eye only to be confronted by a menacing red glow originating from beneath his bed climbing with malice toward the ceiling. Vivid imagination provided accompanying sound effects the otherworldly screech of the gates of hell as they opened.

My heart raced, lungs failed and I swear that might first gray hair sprang forth that evening. Collecting what little courage remained I flew from room to room lights on, radio on, television on. My parent's room became my refuge, for the simple reason that it occupied the furthest geographic point from my room. Ragged breaths chased each other around the room sounding more like a ninety year old with emphysema than the lungs of a sixteen year old. Collecting my thoughts was time consuming but a small particle of rational began to develop.

Once logical thinking returned I began to understand on some level that evil had in fact not conquered the dust bunnies residing beneath brother's bed. Convincing myself to check took nearly an hour of silent debate.

Finally wrapping myself in a coat of fractured wits my weak and weary legs carried me with little resistance to the room. With a yardstick for a sword I raised my brothers blanket from the floor quickly tossing it onto the bed. Lowering myself to hands and knees I took a quick peak beneath. To quick I failed to see anything.

Taking a deep breath, laying myself prone on the floor and opening my eyes I found…

A red t-shirt belonging to my brother covering a still lit flashlight, forgotten remnants of a ten year olds game.