The Bear And The Bart

I shared this story recently, and I found myself thinking about it again last night.  Because it freaks me out.

One time, when I was a kid, my mom and I were staying up late watching a movie.  I was maybe five years old.  The lights were dim and the sound was down on the television because my dad was asleep.

We heard a strange scratching sound at the window in our living room.  My mom turned on the light and spoke loudly, hoping to deter what she thought might be an intruder.  There was a clatter outside, then the sound of retreating footsteps.  We rallied the troops and our courage and inspected our front porch.

There was a glass-cutting device on the ground; a semi-circle was carved on the window.  We’d gotten lucky and thwarted a break-in.

After that night, I had this recurring dream (nightmare) that would pop up every month or two for the next several years.  The frequency of the dream eventually tapered off, but it’s visited me a few times in adulthood, too.

I’m back in that childhood apartment, alone, and I hear scratching at the living room window.  In typical horror movie fashion, against logic or rational judgment, Dream Bart pulls the cord and opens the curtains wide.  Standing just outside is a bear, big and muscular, on his hind feet. He walks and moves like a large man—not a bear.  He opens his mouthful of razor-sharp teeth and smiles at me … taps his index finger claw on the window.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Dream Bart runs, through the apartment, to the dining room.  There are no curtains on the window. There should be, but there are not.  I stare for a moment through the glass, scared…

And—out pops the bear.

I continue running through the house and reach my bedroom.  I shut the door and lock it.  There is the sound of breaking glass in the house, and then silence.  I look around and the first thing I notice is that there are no curtains on this window either.  Dream Bart’s blood runs cold as he waits for the bear to show his face.

But he doesn’t.

I run to the closet and hide there.  Shrink into the corner.  Try to make myself invisible—part of the wall—and wait.

Silence.  Silence.  Silence.

And then awful laughter erupts from just on the other side of the closet door.  It builds to a deafening volume, and the door opens…

That’s when I wake up—shaky—glad it’s over.

And, you’re thinking, what’s the point of this story?  I don’t know. Maybe that it scared the hell out of me for years. In some twisted way, perhaps it even led to the pleasure I find in horror and thriller stories. Which, maybe, just maybe, eventually led to this short story I wrote called Donations.

But, that’s another story.

*This story was originally told in a guest blog on the Writer of Wrongs blog.*