My father always had a sick sense of humor.
He was the man who introduced me to horror, albeit unintentionally. As a physics professor working late into the night, he’d come home at odd hours, find me awake, and decide to watch reruns of the Twilight Zone with me. The fact that I was five didn’t really help with fighting back what my imagination conjured up later.
One thing he loved to do was scare me into going to sleep early when I was a little too hyped up to stop running around the house. He’d tell me the story of the witching hour, and how all ghosts, demons and monsters wandered around during that time. When I was a kid, the witching hour to me was ten o’clock when he’d want me to get to bed. But as I grew older, it was always a topic that intrigued me. And the fact that I grew up near Hartford, Connecticut, didn’t really help, what with the witch trial history and all.
I always wondered that, if the witching hour were real, what exactly popped up. I’ve pulled enough all-nighters to dispute the myth, since there is yet a monster to knock on my door at any fateful hour after midnight and ask to be let in. Still, the idea scares me, and even as an adult, I make sure all the lights in the house are on after midnight, and that someone’s awake around me until I go to sleep.
I just don’t want to be alone when that monster finally decides to show itself.
A.I. Nasser and Team Scare Street