Jumpscares

and brothers.

It was the tail end of 2002 or else the beginning of 2003. We had moved to New Jersey late fall of ‘02 and spent the winter living in vacation homes just off the beach while my parents were house hunting. I’m not sure how many short term rentals we had lived in by this point, but it had been several. Trying to house a family of eight while relocating was its own adventure.

The house was beach themed. Not a particularly original decor choice as it was only a few minutes walk from the shore, but whatever. It was a really nice house. I had my own room, but that wasn’t new. At thirteen, I was the only girl and would be for several more years.

It was night and I had engaged with my typically nightly routine - get ready for bed. Try to find a way to get into bed without being eaten by monsters. Or worse, having them feed off my terror via some horror induced paralysis.

I eyed my door, trying for nonchallance - though who was I performing for? Myself, really. Trying to prove I could be cool and mature. Trying to reason my way through the what I knew was an irrational fear. Trying to fricking CBT myself through my unease long before I knew what the heck CBT was.

Reach through the space between the door and the frame, flip on the light, walk in.

Easy-peasy.

Reach in.

Flip on the light -

Walk in.

I got this.

Dear reader, I did; I totally rocked it. Reach, flip, walk.

I stood just inside the door, beside the bed - heart pounding and pleased as pudding, having conquered the stupid dark and all its stupid monsters.

I pulled back the sumptuous comforter - one of those faux-down ones: airy and soft as if you were slipping into heaven itself -

and I felt it.

Warm and strong - soft as moth wings and tight as hands around your throat - it slipped out from under the bed and grabbed me by the ankle.

Reader, I screamed and boisterous laughter exploded beneath the bed.

Heavy footsteps pounded through the hall - my father, running - and my brother came crawling out from the hellish void between the frame and the floor, hooting and chuckling hysterically.

I could barely hear my father’s scold or my brother’s response over the thundering in my ribcage. But all too quickly the room had emptied of all but me.

Dear reader, I had visions of vengeance.

While my brother was in the bathroom, I made my way into his room and situated myself into his closet. I was going to show him. Stupid little brothers. Stupid jump scares. Stupid beds. Stupid dark. See how he likes it.

I’m not sure exactly how long it takes for an eleven year old boy to brush his teeth, but it felt like a small eternity cramped there in the closet. Long enough for anger to take back seat to my typically peace-keeping nature. Long enough for irritation to settle into guilt. What was I doing? Crap.

Guilt grew until it settled so heavily in my stomach that I couldn’t do it - I couldn’t scare him.

In a perfect instance of poor timing, I finally talked myself into leaving the closet just as he entered the room. Wanting to kick myself for waiting so long I grumbled to myself, watching him climb into bed and trying to figure out how to actually get out of his room without - ironically - scaring him.

Finally determining that the only way out was through, I stepped from the closet, hands raised placatingly, with a simple, “Hey, it’s just me”

The look of sheer terror on his face is permanently imprinted on my brain.

He sat bolt right up in bed, hands clutching the comforter, and screamed.

Despite my best efforts to shush and reassure him.

Of course my dad, once again, came flying into the room.

This time, I was sent to my room while dad tended to my brother.

By the time dad came to see me I had been stewing in my guilt long enough that I was prepared for whatever consequence I would receive.

Dad came in, shut the door, put his hands on his hips and was quiet a moment. Then, a snort escaped him.

“You know,” he said, an amused smile breaking over his face and a huff of a laugh breaking his words, “he kind of deserved that.”

---

Yes, I got the lecture not to scare him again. No, I didn’t really get in any kind of trouble for it. Did Joe learn his lesson? Also no. He continued to terrify me for the next several years, including one particular incident on the stairs - yes, dear reader, he thought it was a good idea to scare me at the end of a long day as we went up to bed - and when I shoved him on instinct, he bumped and thumped down a flight of stairs laughing hysterically the whole way.