Scared of the Dark

Older boys in my neighborhood, especially my older brother, took delight in frightening me when I was a toddler. They told wild tales that made me afraid of the dark. That fear crippled me, yet I became addicted to it. As I grew older, I cultivated fearful stories. I never missed an episode of Inner Sanctum, I Love A Mystery, or other scary radio programs of those days.

As often as I could get money for a ticket, I spent my Saturday afternoons at the local theater, where, frequently, there were movies about monsters. I saw all the Frankenstein movies, Wolfman movies and even movies like Abbot and Costello in the Haunted House that fed my fears of the dark. At that time, a matinee ticket cost nine cents plus a penny tax. Collecting discarded soda or milk bottles for the refund allowed me to accumulate the necessary amount fairly often.

Somewhere near the age of nine or ten, I began to be more rational about the “boogie man” and began showing less fear, though my confidence was paper-thin. When we moved to the country, it was sometimes necessary to work outside after dark. Consequently, I grew accustomed to carrying a flashlight or lantern, and being alone in the fields except for my dog or our cattle. Actually, it was usually quite light out in the fields at night and I became comfortable there. By the time I was about fourteen, I considered myself fearless. At least, that is what I told myself. I was no longer afraid of monsters in the dark.

We operated a dairy and milked cows for a living. Milking began about six in the morning but a number of chores had to be completed first, starting between four thirty and five. The barn had to be prepared, the milking equipment set up and the cows brought in.

Now, cows are sort of lackadaisical. Some would come to the barn when we called but most preferred to doze, chew their cud and ignore us. We had to go find where they were sleeping and drive them to the corral. They reacted about like adolescent children, ignoring me, stalling or stopping to pee. Sometimes, it was necessary to give them a little swat on the rump to keep them moving so I usually carried a small switch. Except in the middle of summer, all this was completed in darkness.

Hunting our sleeping herd in the early morning darkness became routine. It was even peaceful to take those walks with just my stick, my lantern and the dog. Occasionally, there was some excitement when my dog encountered a skunk on his rounds or a big tomcat on the prowl. Old Buck never learned about skunks, and that was awful. Tomcats were something he could handle, but over time, his nose became hairless from growth of scar tissue and his ears were fringed like a western leather coat.

He was tough, though, and many of those feral cats gave up all nine lives out there in the dark. These encounters were sometimes exciting but were far from threatening to me. I enjoyed being in those dark fields. Fear, in fact, never crossed my mind.

Then, circumstances forced me to assume responsibility for our family and operation of the dairy. I was successful, but it left me too tired and too busy to be afraid of anything, let alone the dark. At that time, I felt quite secure being alone in dark woods, dark fields or dark barns. Is that the sign of becoming a man?

On a frosty morning in late winter, the moon had set and it was especially dark. The herd had bedded down a few hundred yards from the barn in our lower pasture. True to form, they didn’t want to get up. Each one had to be prodded to its feet. It was cold and they didn’t want to move. It was exasperating.

I heard a peculiar sound from across the creek on the other hillside. It sounded a lot like a chicken coughing, except much louder. At least, that was the kind of sound I’d heard a chicken make when it got something caught in its throat. My first thought was about what could be over there making that strange sound. I flashed my lantern spotlight in that direction, but, while it was powerful, it didn't illuminate whatever was there.

Suddenly, the cows became alert, grew wild-eyed and stampeded toward the house. My dog came close to my heels and stayed right there. It is funny how curiosity about that sound changed and I felt my neck hairs standing up. My flashlight was trained on the source of those sounds but I could see nothing. It was coming toward me, however, and I started moving briskly toward the house. It was time to carry a shotgun, not just a little switch of a stick.

That morning was terrible. Getting the cows into the corral was nearly impossible. They were insane with fright. Even in the barn, they were jumpy. The slightest sudden movement had them banging into the stanchions, trying to get away. They produced little milk that morning. The source of that sound went away but the cows remained petrified by fear for hours. Even the dog crawled under the house and stayed there. He wouldn’t come out.

The fear was contagious, and I caught a bad case of it from them. I kept the shotgun near me throughout the milking and kept the barn door closed tight. That morning, all the fear I ever knew became a large cotton ball stuck in my throat. Once more, I was afraid of the dark. However, this time I wasn’t cowering in the corner. I was ready to face whatever it was with my shotgun. It is a good thing that no one came to visit then.

We never learned, with certainty, what had been in the dark field that morning. I never had heard a sound like that before and I don’t think the cows had either. Yet, instinctively, they were frightened by it. Even my nearly fearless dog climbed between my legs until he could get under the house, and I’m sure he never heard anything like that before either. It had the same effect on me, though my reaction may have been caused by the panic in the cows and dog. I thought I had outgrown a fear of the dark until that thing approached me, making those sounds.

Yes, I had outgrown a fear of monsters and “boogie men.” But a fear of the dark must have been hidden under a very thin veneer in my mind, where it had been planted and nourished from the time when men lived in caves. Nobody outgrows the fear of the unknown. Thousands of generations of men learned that that is how it should be. I was still afraid of what I couldn’t see.

Subsequent to that frightening experience, one of my neighbors told me that he encountered a large mountain lion crossing the road in his headlights and another found a very large pug mark in his garden. Reports of these lions killing people are rare, but caution in the dark is not a bad thing.