THINGS THAT
GO BUMP
four writers remember the creepiest
thing that’s ever happened to them.
By
Caro
Cooper
I’ve had scary things happen to
me, but reading the news puts my
‘scary things’ into perspective.
The creepiest things I’ve
experienced have only resulted
in heightened anxiety, a few calls
to the police, and sleepless nights
spent clutching baseball bats. I’m
grateful for that – it hasn’t made
me any less of a wuss, though.
I was never brave when it came
to intruders or the supernatural.
After my sister terrified me with
ghost stories in year 6 (from her
recollection, they were “ghost
jokes”), I slept in her bed every
night until I graduated. I’d fall
asleep in my own bed, then wake
in fear and creep into her room.
Anxiety was my hometown.
In my final years of school, we
lived in a big, empty house with our
dad; two useless, lovable dogs; and a
cat with scabby, fly-bitten ears. The
cat would scratch his scabs off and
shake his head, leaving knee-high
blood splatters on the white walls
at the very height I imagined blood
would spray if one were to, say,
stab a person on the ground. Our
blood-splattered house was in the
middle of suburbia, but isolated
enough from neighbours to be the
site of a horror film – at least, in
the imagination of a real wuss.By the time I reached my senior
years, my sister was at university
and Dad worked long hours. This
often left just me, the bloodied cat
and lazy dogs at home. If Dad was
home, he’d work upstairs while
I studied downstairs. Whether
I was alone or just separated by
rooms and stairs, the house scared
me. I was convinced every creak
was a ghost or the footsteps of an
intruder intent on slaughtering me
and stealing my maths textbook.My fear peaked while I prepared
for my exams. I was stressed, on
edge and overtired. I sat at my desk
in the empty house, hearing the
tip-tapping of a killer working
their way down the hallway. I
did what any sane kid would do:
grabbed a baseball bat and the
decorative sword-and-dagger set
my parents had smuggled back
from Madrid. Then, I waited.
Crouched in the gap behind the
study door, I unsheathed the sword.
I’m not sure what I intended to
do – stab them? Conk them on the
head with the bat? Wield sword
and dagger for a double-pronged
attack? My heart was pounding in
every limb; my throat closed over
and my mouth pooled with spit.I stayed in that spot for over
an hour, convinced the killer
was crouched on the other side,
waiting for me to make a move.
I could hear his breath, feel his
presence. I considered running
through the house, weapons
drawn, and straight out the front
door, but each time I prepared to
launch, my knees locked, keeping
me in that painful position.Finally, I heard the cheery call
of my dad arriving home. The
intruder’s breathing vanished.
My heart stopped pounding and
my knees unlocked. I sheathed
the sword and returned the
weapons to the shelf, before
skipping out to greet Dad, acting
as if nothing had happened.
I knew I couldn’t tell him
about my panic because, even
in my heightened state, I was
aware there was something
wrong with my behaviour.
This wasn’t the first time I’d
been paralysed by the fear of an
intruder in our house. It was
becoming regular. Too regular.Like big feet, I’ve grown into
my anxiety – it fits me better
now, but I’m still the same
scaredy-cat at heart. I don’t
keep decorative weaponry in
my house, but that’s entirely an
aesthetic choice. I do still have a
baseball bat handy, though. Some
things you just don’t outgrow.writers’ piece