What is our fascination with monsters? This strange incurable desire, not to contest their existence, but to confirm with severe prejudice that monsters are real. As a child I was thrilled with the notion of mysterious beasts lurking deep in the forests, buried in the far off lakes and oceans, creeping in the lost corners of rusted city blocks. Terror never felt so near as when the unfamiliar places wrap around into a uniform shadow while the quieted steady whispers of far off echoes send electricity through the occipital lobe into the back of the skull. The jolt charges the nerves, unwinding each strand, extending them beyond the fleshly barrier into the cool open air, letting the cold soul of the outside world to inject itself into the shaken body.
I found immense pleasure in entertaining wild thoughts of exotic creatures and violent demons… Books, school yard legends, internet videos, shows, movies, anything… The more brutal the better. The intrigue of the mysterious that would inevitably result in staring blankly into the darkness of my bedroom, terrified as the surge of biochemical drugs intoxicates.
I earned many nights of sleep deprivation as a result of my childhood curiosity. The stiffening joints, the heightened awareness of sounds and shadows, the sensitivity to the length and weight of the blanket succumbing to the frail pull of the corner hanging from the side of the bed.
Something was in the room...
I slept with the light on.