What is it about a dark room that scares me? Why do I dread the oppressive dark? My bedroom is familiar and comfortable. I’m surrounded by things I love. My shelves of beloved books line the walls, the lamp is in the same spot it’s always been in and the creaky bed has worn four grooves into the hardwood floors.

But when the lamp is out, I lie in bed with my terrified eyes wide open and my imagination in overdrive. Shadows I don’t recognize play across the wall opposite my bed. Any stray breeze passing over me becomes magnified into a gust and I whimper. I jump at every floorboard creak and tighten my grip on the sheets. I stare at my open door into the dark, empty hall beyond it and wonder if it would be better or worse to shut the door. But I’m too paralyzed with fear to find out. Afraid to leave the thin safety of my bed.

There is no comforting arm to reach for me, pull me close, tell me to shhhh and kiss my head. It’s just me and my fear.

It’s going to be another long night. I hope I survive it.