When Darkness Falls

When Darkness Falls
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday August 23, 2014

It was the wind that startled me awake. A gust outside the window buffeted the hibiscus against the gutter. The screeching of wood on metal unsettled my ears. A branch thumped loudly and my heart joined in. I closed my eyes, chastised myself for being lily-livered, and tried to summon sleep. It was no use. I was spooked.

I swung warm feet onto cold floor and padded out to the kitchen, catching sight of the oven clock: 05.22. What now?

I put on my running gear and tiptoed out the door. The dark was thick and soupy. I couldn’t see where the slabs of footpath beetled over one another, eager to trip me. My street felt foreign and menacing. Was I stupid to run at this hour?

Only the house on the corner was aglow. At a desk behind a sash window, I could see a man in a dressing gown, outlined in cheery yellow lamplight. I felt briefly comforted, then turned into the next street and the gloom enveloped me anew. I strained my ears, hoping to hear the first kookaburras calling to each other from the salmon gums, but the wind had dropped. The air was still and silent.

My imagination goes into overdrive at night, especially when my husband is away. Eldest son keeps me company until 9pm, but at 11.30, I’m squirming in bed, sleepless and watchful. A floorboard creaks. Is someone in the house? That’ll be Freddy Krueger coming to fillet me with his razor gloves! (I’m sixteen again, living out my Nightmares on Elm Street).

In my first year at University, (back row, Pysch 101), Sigmund Freud taught me that my fear of the dark was maternal separation anxiety. (Or more likely, having the wimp gene). But lately, I’ve conducted a straw poll of girlfriends and all but one is still scared of the dark. We’re not frightened of the dark itself, but of the bogeymen who still inhabit our nocturnal minds.

My childish terror of lights-out began when mum and I moved in with my Nan when I was seven. It was my nightly torment to dash from back door to outdoor dunny. The brick thunderbox, roofed with an arch of corrugated iron, sat on a cold slab of concrete. The pedestal was white porcelain, with a chain flusher and a fat wooden seat.

On wintry evenings, I’d stand on the back veranda in my pj’s, hopping from one leg to the other to steel my nerves (and distract my bladder). The umbrella trees that loomed over the fishpond threw witchy fingers of shadow. When the wind gusted, those old crones grabbed at my ankles as I leapt off the veranda and tore across the damp grass. From porch to dunny was fifteen steps – fourteen after a run-up. I slammed the dunny door on the umbrella tree witches, only to have relief turn to shock as warm bum met chilly seat.

It was only ever a one-way terror. The return journey was a doddle as I aimed myself at the lit kitchen.

As a teenager, I was both electrified and petrified by horror movies. The bathtub scene in The Shining rattled me for days. One Friday night when we were 18, my girlfriends egged me into watching the late session of Aliens at Cinema City. I thought two bourbons and cokes would give me the requisite dutch courage. But even Sigourney Weaver couldn’t soothe my jitters. Half way through the movie, unable to bear the suspense, I fled the cinema. Sitting on the foyer steps, I waited for my friends, polishing off my popcorn and admiring the plush blood-red carpet under the reassuring neon brightness.

Thirty years later, I’m still a sissy. I can only watch re-runs of the X Files with all the lights on. Even then, I grip my husband’s hairy left thigh, screw shut my eyes and repeat “Is it over yet?” “Yup,” he says, and I open my eyes to confront the gory climax. “You rotten sod!” I poke him playfully where his tummy spills over his trousers.

My fear of fear is irrational but ingrained. Yesterday, I went out running again before dawn. Stretching my hamstrings on the corner, I looked up the street and saw a big bloke shambling towards me. I stuck close to the picket fences as he came closer. True to form, I ascribed Hannibal Lecter to his motives, Quasimodo to his gait.

‘Morning!’ the man said brightly as he passed. Feeling idiotic for my panic, I told myself to grow up. I watched him as he merged with the dark. And then he stopped. For an instant, I thought I saw him glance at me over his shoulder. I brimmed with fear. What’s he picking up? A big stick? Nah. It’s only his newspaper.