MY GREATEST FEARS

It happens time and time again at social gatherings. I meet someone, I discuss my home life. And the questions always come. “You live alone?” someone will ask, and I always wait for the inevitable question that almost always follows: 

“Don’t you ever get scared?” 

The honest answer? Not often. Not about what they are probably thinking, anyway. 

I’m great about locking my place up. My cat, Salem, who is petrified of everyone but me, would immediately alert me if someone had invaded our territory. And I keep a baseball bat by my bed for good measure. I’m not afraid to raise hell, or break skulls. Whatever the case may be. For better or for worse, home invasion is not really on my radar.

It’s other things I’m afraid of. Less orthodox things. And since I’m someone who thoroughly enjoys rubbing elbows with my fears, let’s talk about them - the ridiculous ones and all. 

6) OOMPA LOOMPAS 

I know, I know, you’re probably cackling right now. But hear me out. Oompa Loompas are unnerving as hell. I don’t like their white eyebrows, or their orange skin. Despite loving green hair myself, this doesn’t give them a pass. Even now as I write this, I can hear their incessant chanting in my head and I repress the urge to shudder. 

You might assume I had some unsettling exposure to them at too young an age, but I didn’t. I never watched Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory as a child. I was more of a James and the Giant Peach type of girl. My exposure to those creepy, chanting dudes happened sometime as a full blown adult. And no part of me understood the appeal. 

This fear is a very mild one. I avoid the movies at all costs. Oompa Loompas show up in my nightmares on occasion, but that’s as bad as it gets. If I happened to see someone dressed up as an Oompa Loompa and my baseball bat was handy, I probably wouldn’t take a swing at them. Probably. 

5) CLOWNS 

Clowns are a fantastic and well established trope within the horror genre for good reason. Clowns are creepy. Clowns giggle a lot. Clowns feel like pedophiles under white war paint. Many people are afraid of clowns.

I, too, am afraid of clowns – just never the ones on screen. I once had a surprisingly romantic date while watching Killer Klowns from Outer Space. I also once fell asleep in the movie theater while watching It: Chapter Two. Seriously, right at the climax. Doesn’t matter if the clowns on screen are making people-cocoons or nibbling off arms in sewers, I’m usually as calm and cool as a cucumber.

That calm demeanor gets blown to bits the moment I see a clown in real life. 

We aren’t talking about clowns at birthday parties, oh no. I have successfully avoided those all my life. We are talking about clowns that have randomly popped up into my life like deranged daisies. 

The first instance was on the road. My brother and I were driving back home from our hometown library when the car in the next lane slowly caught up with us. I looked over to see two fully dressed and painted clowns in the front of the car, their expressions grim. This sudden, wholly unexpected appearance terrified me for days. 

A couple years later, my mom took me to a furniture store. She wanted a second opinion on some coffee tables. We were halfway through the floor displays when a clown walked into the building, holding a yellow balloon by its string. A furniture store, people. Why? I spent the rest of our time there staring down the clown, wringing my hands together so many times I’m surprised I didn’t start a fire. 

4) SEEING MY DOPPELGANGER

One day, I fear that I will descend my staircase and find another me, just hanging out on the couch. When I sit with this scenario, I try to imagine what could happen next that I would fear the most. Do I fear that my doppelganger would attack me? Assimilate to my life like a twin? Eat all the snacks in my pantry? 

The answer is I don’t know. Or maybe it is yes, all of the above. It doesn’t matter what my doppelganger will do, I’m going to be afraid of her. And since I assume my doppelganger is a carbon copy of myself, she will likely (perversely) use this knowledge to her advantage and toy with me. Jerk. 

3) ROLLER COASTERS

There are some things I have always known about myself. I hate mushrooms. I do not wish to procreate. And I have always disliked roller coasters. I couldn’t have been more than five when my parents placed me in a cart on my very first kiddie coaster. I cried the whole ride and then some. 

So as I grew into a kid, I already knew to avoid them. I passed them by at local fairs. I never had to save up babysitting money for a ticket to Cedar Point. I was content to have my jelly shoes flat on the ground, thank you very much. And nobody pestered me to do otherwise.

That is, until an extended family vacation during my late teens. We had all agreed to go to Universal Studios for the day. The weather had been pleasant but the lines had been short, and everyone was in a cheerful mood. I accompanied my family on every virtual roller coaster they wished without complaint. 

And then they wanted to ride The Mummy coaster. It’s long gone now, but it was an indoor coaster – one that most roller coaster enthusiasts could probably take a nap on. Come on, they said. It’s no big deal, they said. But I was petrified. When even my mother joined in on the verbal peer pressure, I finally caved. 

The moment our car began to move, so did my mouth. I cried and cussed and pleaded throughout the whole ride. The photograph taken at the end of the ride? My face is buried in my dad’s armpit, like the true coward that I am. 

2) BEING ABDUCTED BY ALIENS

If you’ve already happened to read my post about watching The Fourth Kind then this fear will come as no surprise to you. Ever since that terrifying (and dumb) experience I have been low key permanently bothered by the thought of being abducted.

I imagine waking up in the middle of the night, only to discover I cannot move or speak. My bed is surrounded by beings, staring at me, emotionless. I can feel myself being levitated off my bed, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it. All I can do is scream inside my head. I’m awake and aware of every single moment when they place me on a cold metal table and begin to dissect me. 

Cheesy (and questionable) paranormal shows like Dead Files have featured guests who experience such things on a routine basis. When I think about the fear, the utter lack of empathy and control, I am not sure I would be able to endure such a life. All the murder-suicides in The Fourth Kind felt all too reasonable to me. 

Thankfully, I’ve never exhibited any sign of being abducted or being visited by aliens. My father and several members of his baseball team did see a ufo one evening while playing a game during the early 90s, and I will be forever jealous of him for that. To witness evidence of an alien – but not be witnessed by them – is the ideal. 

1) BEING IN A PLANE CRASH 

Out of all my fears, my biggest fear happens to be the most rational. I’ve had the privilege of flying since I was a little girl. My mom has relatives in Florida and we spent a week down there nearly every year for practically a decade. I have memories of being sandwiched between my parents on a flight, working away in a coloring book on my tray. I don’t recall being afraid. 

Then again, I was probably six or seven and had yet to learn about airplane crashes. 

The moment I did, however, I became a nervous flyer. Be it an airplane or rollercoaster, I experience no joy in ascending or plummeting rapidly. 

When I was seventeen, I moved to Chicago for college. I typically took the train back to Michigan for holidays and monthly visits, but things went haywire in November of my sophomore year. It was Thanksgiving break and ticket prices had skyrocketed. I only had a few days off, and my mother convinced me to fly home instead to save time.

Being in an airplane is bad. Being alone in an airplane is worse. We had taken off and my heart had finally started to calm down a little when the pilot made an announcement over the intercom. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid we have a problem…” and then the man fucking paused, and I nearly threw up all over the place. 

I counted five gut-wrenching mississippis in my head before the captain resumed. The airplane’s de-icing mechanism was malfunctioning. We were going to make an emergency stop. 

It was a smooth ride all the way down, but the damage had been done. I’m pretty sure I called my mother crying from that airport. I’m pretty sure I told her I was never going to fly home again. 

I have been on multiple airplanes since then. I’ve even flown overseas and will hopefully be able to do so many more times in my life. But the fear never lessens. 

Nowadays, I’ve learned to embrace it. A relaxing evening at home for me often equates to watching Mayday Air Disaster while eating a grilled cheese on my couch. Plane crashes typically don’t happen because one singular thing goes wrong. It is a complicated and tragic string of events – often part mechanical, and part human. It is a Rube Goldberg disaster in the making, and I’m equal parts fascinated and afraid of how these tragedies unfold. 

I hope to never be in an airplane crash. But if I am, it better take me the hell out. 

HONORARY MENTION

Being in an overly crowded Cost-Co. There’s always people milling around everywhere, like ants, except I don’t mind ants, and I REALLY mind being in a busy Cost-Co. 

Demons and ghosts are totally fine, just don’t put me next to a bunch of bargain hunters with shopping carts, I guess.