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…and zombies in the alley

Reasoning is a daytime activity. The night is a different dimension.

“Dad, if something can’t be proved it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, right?”

“What are we talking about exactly?”

This as we slip and slide through the inches of slush and snow accumulating on the sidewalks and streets of the city.

“God, devils, zombies, that kind of thing.”

For the last while, he’s been waking nights in a state of fear. Ever since we set up a loft bed in his room. After two weeks of effort, he’s finally decided that the bed freaks him too much, so I’ve pulled the mattress down and he’s sleeping at ground level. We need to wait for help to undo the bed, it takes two adults, and his old bed is at my sisters’ so his room is a little odd.

Maybe that’s why he wakes and gets afraid. Or not.

“I don’t know Noah. There’s a lot of stuff that’s mysterious and unexplained but that doesn’t mean they’re magical or supernatural. It just means we don’t understand how they work, yet.”

Daily reality is enough of a challenge without going magical.

“You know, people used to think the moon and the stars were gods and goddesses.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Science has explored space and now even kids know better. Well, I think a lot of weird explanations are just filling the blanks until we find real answers.”

“Yeah, but when I hear noises like at night when it’s dark it freaks me and I think that some monster is crawling up the house to like eat me.”

“Midnight monster snack.”

“Dad, it’s not funny.”

“No,  it’s ridiculous. In all my years I’ve never met even one devil or one vampire or anything like that. First, look for reasonable explanations. In winter wood and bricks and cement contract when it’s cold and expand when it’s warm.”

“Yeah, yeah, we learned that in Mad Science.”

“So the house creaks and groans not because it’s alive but because it’s wood and mortar.”

“Yeah, I guess. It still freaks me because I start like thinking what it could be and then I think of dragons and stuff and magic and then scary creatures going after me.”

“Just tell your head to shut up.”

“Wha…..?”

“If one of your friends starts telling zombie stories that are too scary or too gross, you can tell him to keep quiet or just walk away right?”

“Yeah, I do that all the time…there’s one kid like he has all the most sick stories and when he starts I just don’t listen.”

“Well your imagination is like that kid. It talks to you in your head, right? Great to tell stories and invent fabulous stuff, but sometimes you just have to tell it to shut up.”

“It’s hard dad, because like once I think of one thing then the next and the next and ahhhhhh….you know?”

“That’s the slippery slope of fear. One idea leads to the next and then you slip ever more quickly into fear and then you can’t control the slide anymore.”

“That’s exactly how I feel dad. How did you know.”

“Because I spent a good bit of my life afraid of a lot of stuff. Some things are still scary to me.”

“Really?”

No kidding. He thinks being a kid is frightening. Wait till you grow up and find out that the witches and goblins of your childhood have become the lovers and bosses of your life.

“Which is why as soon as your imagination says ‘monster in the alley’ you say ‘shut up, it’s just wood cracking in the cold’, and then you think of great fun stuff like the next Pokemon card release, or your girlfriend.”

***

1h25 a.m. The door to my room blasts open. Noah’s face is lined by the tracks of tears flowing down his face.

My body bolts up. My brain struggles to make the leap from pillow to upright.

“Noah, what’s wrong?”

He’s sobbing. I cradle him in my arms.

“Noah, what happened?”

“Daaaaaddd…daaaadddd.”

“Noah, talk to me.”

“Daaaadddd….there’s zombies in the alley and they’re crawling up…..”

He buries his head in my body.

“Oh come on!”

He looks at me, fear superseded by surprise.

“Shut up, Noah’s brain. Tell your scary stories some other time.”

“But dad, I’m reaaally scared. There’s these noises, they woke me and I started thinking it was someone and then it made sense that they could crawl up the wall in the alley only if they were like you know…”.

“…zombies.”

“Yeah.”

I scoop him up. Sometimes he’s no heavier than a feather. I go to his window and pull the blind aside.

The frigid winter wind blows eddies of snow in the alley. It howls and slaps against the apartment. Some piece of something on the balcony is flapping.

“You see. Tell your brain to stop imagining stuff at night.”

“Can I sleep with you tonight?”

“No, you gotta train your brain. Go to bed and as soon as your brain puts one neuron on the slippery slope, you tell it to change the subject and you keep telling it. You might still be afraid and maybe it’ll take a long time to fall asleep. But your brain will learn. Leave me alone at night, brain!”

“But, dad….”

“No, go to bed. You’re safe. Fight your fear. Get over it.”

My tone is unsympathetic.

He slips quietly under his covers. The cat jumps in with him. He hugs the warm beast, which looks at me with what seems to be resignation.

“Good night, Noah. I love you.”

“I love you too dad.”

I lie in bed, exhausted, listening to the noises in the house, imagining what he’s imagining. For a little while, I hear Noah rustling, whispering to the cat. I resist the urge to call him into my bed, to comfort him. Eventually, I hear him snoring.

I’m fully awake, standing at the top of a long slope. I can feel my feet slipping out from under me. My mind races forward, imaging all the horrors that could befall Noah. I suddenly see my own death.

Stop!

My hand to hand combat against fear has begun again.