Prompt Entry 7

At the base, my heart begins to palpitate. A succession of steps, no more than twenty, ascending to a height no more than 12 feet. The walls-- I am not entirely sure they won't close in on me. They never have before, but, after all, a thing can never be proven, only disproven. It only needs to happen the one time.

A creak with the first step. My right foot hesitates briefly. I weigh the importance of the trip, clutch the rail and proceed to the second.

There's no one here but me. Sure. No one else.

I break into a running climb. In less than 30 seconds the whole ordeal is over. My ribs relax a little around my lungs and heart. I do the thing I want to do the least; I have to be sure.

I look back. Nobody's there.


It was probably the horror movies that did it. I've been watching them since childhood. Much to the chagrin of my parents, my grandmother used to let me stay up late every weekend watching marathons with her. The Omen, Psycho, The Good Son, Salem's Lot, Halloween. I devoured them happily and with as much pleasure as the chocolate bars and 2 am popcorn. I love to be scared of a movie, to give myself over completely to the terror of the storyline, to take simultaneous comfort in having control over my actual, physical situation. Michael Myers wasn't in Grandma's living room; my only company was her and the dogs.

The problem is that I am a severely anxious person. I cannot and won't blame horror movies for this. In my mother's words, I come from "a long line of worriers." My mom won't watch a scary movie if you pay her. She will, however, spend every minute of a flight obsessing over the remote possibility of a crash. Horror movies don't make people fearful-- they simply posit new things to fear.

I am afraid of stairs. Well, not exactly. I am specifically afraid of being followed up the stairs, of the sensation that someone is behind me. The classic mistake of the female lead in a horror movie is to flee the killer by climbing the stairs. She ascends, glances over her shoulder and- SLICE. Her neck is cut first. The killer proceeds to slice and stab her vulnerable frame.

Every time I am confronted with a set of stairs, panic grips me. If I am in a group of people, I make them climb first-- to the point of being "weird" about it. It doesn't matter who's behind me; I am afraid of any and everyone following me up a set. The rhythm of footsteps so close behind me makes vomit rise in my throat. I become clammy and faint. I run. This becomes problematic in public places. Perhaps that's the secret reason why I sought acting as a hobby- to learn how to mask my anxiety.

Masking as the innocuous bottom of the wall-ceiling-wall rectangle, the base of the staircase forces me to question whether or not the trip is warranted. Do I absolutely need to go up? It is the last place for questioning. Slats of wood (bare in my home, fabric-covered in others) rest atop one another in the seemingly narrowing corridor. This optical illusion raises my blood pressure. Surely I won't fit through. Surely something will trap me before I reach the top.

The railing is my enemy in disguise. I can grip it for support, but what if it collapses? What if it slows my pace and gives the killer a split second advantage? What if I forgo it and trip, shattering my occipital lobes and nose, beginning the killer's work for him?

The victorious feeling of reaching the top stair is short-lived. That horrible moment must come immediately afterward. The look. Over the shoulder and down.

No one's there.