Scare

My sisters and I use to love to scare each other. It didn’t matter where we were, if it was spontaneous or if we had planned it for weeks. We thought it was hysterical. And it wasn’t just the kids. My Mom was known to jump out at us, and she often got the best reaction. Scaring someone took planning, patience and a little bit of cunning. I remember waiting hours under my sister’s bed, waiting until she got close enough that I could reach out and grab her ankle. I was met with silence. No movement, no scream, nada. I peeked my head out and looked up. Nancy was frozen, her mouth open in a silent scream, unable to move, too scared to do anything. That was the reaction we all wanted: absolute terror. It never lasted long, and was usually followed by a horrendous scream and maniacal laughter, then the usual yelled vow, “I’m going to get you!”

Pulling the perfect scare was a lot like pulling a perfect heist. It took planning, patience, coordination and sometimes you had to pull in more than just a couple of people. Often the surprise of the unexpected person playing along could shoot you to the top of the Best Scares Ever board. When Kjersti’s boyfriend patiently waited under the pile of blankets we had put in the backyard for our camp out, we had no idea what we were walking into two hours (yes, you read that right. He waited two hours) later. Having someone slowly stand up out of your pile of sleeping bags and blankets was absolutely terrifying. I have no recollection of running, screaming, or grabbing any of my friends and dragging them to safety. I’m told I did all of those things and more. I doubt I breathed until I was safely inside. It was awesome.

My poor Dad. I think when he had five girls the thought may have gone through his head, “I’ll probably have a quiet, orderly house.” If he did, well, he was proven wrong. There were times when the surprised gasp, the scared squeal and the full-blown scream were the background noise to the nightly news. I remember one time in particular my sister was on the phone, talking about a scary story. Dad told her she was too loud and to go outside. When she opened the back door, she surprised my Mom who was coming inside. Mom gasped, scaring Kjersti into a squeal, startling Mom into a scream. Dad didn’t even turn around, just stuck his fingers into his ears and complained, “I can’t hear the news!” Somehow he knew the difference between a got-ya scream and the terrified I-just-stepped-on-a-slimy-thing-that-crawled-from-under-my-foot-HELP-ME! scream. He was the fastest and the first one there when a real scream was given. I still don’t know how he knew the difference. One of his greatest talents, I guess.

When I was old enough, the month of October became a month of the haunted houses. Again, a place where screaming was just the background noise. I loved haunted houses, until they passed all those laws banning a bunch of things, like grabbing you, and they got lame. I have always loved scary stories, the folk lore kind, not the gory kind and was thrilled in college when I had an entire quarter of Folk Lore. It was a great class that inspired Scary Movie Tuesdays with two of my roommates. I was a great source to have around a camp fire when someone wanted a story told. I was pretty good at scaring people, which took me back to the top of that imaginary score board my family had.

Nowadays I’m not so brave with the scary stuff. I cover my eyes during previews in movie theaters and have to tell people I don’t want to hear scary anything. I’m not sure when I turned into such a wuss about scary stuff, but here I am. I guess I get my adrenaline rush from watching my kids learn to climb the ladder at the playground. That’s a harrowing experience, let me tell you. Or turning around in Costco and one of my kids has slipped away. Last July in Utah we went hiking and Lucy suddenly was unaccounted for, I freaked out. Nancy and I started yelling her name, running down the path. Fortunately we passed a sympathetic mom who told me there was a little girl singing in the bathroom. Sure enough, Lucy had needed to go potty and didn’t bother telling me. When we found her, she was merrily singing away as she washed her hands. Jon was cool as a cucumber, secretly laughing at my nervousness over what amounted to a couple of moments of not knowing where Lucy was. A small thing, I’m sure, but my heart rate stayed high nonetheless. .

I think my love of scary things changed when I started to grow up, when I was truly in charge of my own well-being all the time. I noticed it mostly when the boogeyman changed from hiding under my bed, to hiding in my mailbox, in the form of my car insurance bill. Real life is scary enough, I guess, that the imaginary things get pushed aside for the worries and scares of every day living.

I still love a good ghost story and one of these Octobers, Jon and I are really going to go on a ghost walk in Leesburg. Until then, I’ll squeeze my eyes tight and maybe even cover my ears during the previews, and time the scary stuff for when I know Jon will be home at night so he can be the one to go check when I ask, “Did you just hear that?”