I’ve always been in some state of fear.
For as long as I can remember – in childhood and yes, even now in adulthood – I’ve sensed something just around the corner, in the dark, watching. Waiting. I can never put my finger on it. That vague sense of not being alone, even when we are.
As a kid, it waited in every basement in every house. Didn’t matter who’s. The something had melded with the ether or transcended physics – become metaphysical – to be below me in whatever abode I was in.
It waited just behind the trees beyond my view in the woods. In the backseat of the car. Watching from the dark sky. Taking the form of a deer, how they look at you through the soul, an animal somehow able to decipher your secrets. Tear you apart, layer by layer.
I wrote recently about Josh Malerman’s new book, Incidents Around the House. The narrator reminded me of me, my childhood fears never finding a conclusion in memories that should fade with adulthood. Instead, they stick with me.
My short story, The Schlikt, may contain the best manifestation of this lifelong haunt. My poem, The Ghosts in the Walls, at least showcases the feelings. And maybe there’s a more mature version that watches me: The Man with a Thousand Hands.
We all have a fear, lifelong or perhaps temporary, locked within a certain chapter that’s now closed. I’ve been asked before where I get my story ideas from, the inspiration. I wouldn’t call it inspiration, but a haunting reality that’s just beyond my reach.
In the dark.
Watching.
Waiting.