NYCTOPHOBIA

“Before I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take,” the little voice whispered; the closing “Amen” left lingering on her quivering tongue. Each palpable tic of the clock viciously coursing through her veins; collapsing her breath; accelerating her pulse; stopping her heart with each pounding tic toc. Frantic, the little voice urgently prayed for divine salvation from her nightly fate; hysterically brokering future actions for immediate reprieve. Yet, despite her desperate pleas, her prayers went unanswered. Like every night before, a whispered “Amen” cruelly triggered the casual flip of the light switch; immediately casting her into complete darkness – distressingly unleashing a perpetual night of terror. The little voice knew it was in the complete darkness that her nightly companions lurked; her dreaded nightly nemeses; the shadows that secretly skulked outside her bedroom door.

Like every person, every house has a past; a history cloaked in periods of secret darkness and suppressed shadow. Whether it be a blessing or a curse, the little voice knew her house’s darkest secrets. In its depths, spirits prowled; a haunting collision of the natural and supernatural; an ever-thinning veil between two dimensions. A slight breeze, a cold shiver, heavy footsteps, unexplained sounds or simple movement in her periphery soundlessly announced their arrival. The lady sauntered the halls during the daylight and twilight hours – frighteningly revealing herself most commonly at the top of the basement stairs; the man, like a ghostly soldier, stood guard in the midnight hour as the house slept.

The lady, an ethereal siren, each night beckoned the little voice to her subterranean lair under the cloak of darkness; gently rousing the little voice from her deepest slumber; telepathically summoning her silent footsteps toward the basement door. Spellbound, the little voice always answered the silent call; supernaturally suspended between slumber and awake – she made her nightly pilgrimage to the staircase. Transfixed, the little voice blankly peered from the top of the staircase into the darkness that covertly shrouded the steepness of the stairs. The pitch-black staircase was fraught with danger; one small misplaced step for a sleepwalker could prove disastrous.

Who was this apparition; what lay in wait in her ghostly lair? Perpetually suspended between life and death; light and dark; good and evil; the apparition desired the one thing that only the little voice could give: an unadulterated soul. See, evil is not always black and white; it can be found in the endless shades of grey; in the darkest hours, evil can drive the intentions of a ghostly soul desperately locked between two worlds.

Unbeknownst to the little voice, it was the “Amen” that dripped hesitantly from her lips each night that cloaked her in divine protection. It was the man, the dark shadow, that protected the little voice each night; it was he that battled against the ghostly siren – immobilizing nightly at the top of the stairs the little girl he was sworn to protect. As if tethered by a supernatural chord, the little voice never embarked into the darkness; always found safely by her parent standing or sitting at the top of the stairs – gazing into the darkness. While he only sought to protect, it was he that triggered the greatest trepidation. While others encountered the lady, it was the little voice alone that beheld the man; the man that faithfully stood guard each night.

The supernatural terror that reigned at the home on Banning Court savagely seared deep-seeded fears into her psyche; leaving the little voice helplessly trapped in an endless cycle of nyctophobia. With each passing year, the fear intensified; every nightfall triggering flashbacks of the nightly pilgrimage to the staircase; handicapping her; leaving her eternally terrorized by the silent beckoning of the ghostly siren at the bottom of the staircase.

But what we do not face, controls us. It is only in facing our greatest fears that we liberate ourselves from the chains and cages that bind us. It is only in facing our greatest fears, in facing our own pilgrimages to our own personal staircases, that our power is found. Yet, the fear of what beckons us to that subterranean lair paralyzes us; leaving us trapped in endless cycles of fears and phobias.

“The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.” – Joseph Campbell

The little voice, at 37, now understood that her greatest gift lay in wait in the lady’s ghostly lair. It was the ghost of a woman past that stood between her and liberation. At nightfall, with her eyes closed, alone, tears streaming down her face, the little voice bravely allowed her mind to transport her back to Banning Court. Like every night before, the little voice prayed for her nightly salvation; bravely whispering “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” With the man, her ghostly divine protector by her side, the little voice whispered her final “Amen”; fearfully flipped the light switch and embarked on her final pilgrimage to the staircase.

Thank you again for joining me on this journey! "Nyctophobia" is the first of three installments of the “Staircase” trilogy series. Please subscribe to receive new blog entry notifications. From my heart to yours. Love, K.