There was nothing to fear – there, under the bed and in the closet – they told me over and over again, but it wasn’t the bed, nor was it the closet, that would keep me awake at night, jostling and turning in my childhood bed. It was the clock, downstairs, reaching upstairs with fingers born from a time as old as the night itself. I never got rid of that fear. Even now, as an adult, it is still there. Nowadays, however, this fear sometimes pays off in unimaginable ways. Like now, for example, as I lie awake in my bed, listening to the footsteps that ascend the stairs in time with the ticking of the clock.
Did I not lock the door?