The freaks come out at night.

It should be known that I am scared of the dark. I have been ever since I was a little kid. And not just scared of the dark, but throw in a set of stairs, and fear is definitely a factor for me. Having someone walk up the stairs behind me gives me the creeps. Maybe it's the anticipation of having something potentially happen to me while I'm not looking. Or maybe it's just sensing another presence behind me that makes me want to run as fast as I can. Of course doing that then makes that person want to run after me because they know they're freaking me out which therefore freaks me out even more. (Ahem. *husband*) When I was a kid, we lived in a house with a basement. The steps leading down to the basement had a small light that illuminated just that area. Once you descended the stairs, there was another light along the wall that lit the entire room. I, of course, would turn on the light at the top of the stairs to lead me to the light at the bottom. This way, I could turn off the light at the bottom and still have a light on to get me back up the stairs. And if someone turned off the light at the top? (Like, say, an ornery big brother?) Turn off the light at the bottom and run AS FAST AS POSSIBLE back up the stairs. When I still lived at home, we always had at least five (...or nine) dogs in the backyard that would bark at the slightest provocation. Instant alarm system. Not to mention, my dad is a hunter. If my parents went on vacation, I had a gun in the house. They don't call me Sally Sure Shot for nothing. (Not that I've ever shot anything more than a clay pigeon. But still.)

So it should be fairly obvious that the one thing I was most concerned about with my husband deploying for a year was the being home alone part. Darkness, stairs, empty house, no manly Marine to protect me while I sleep? Oh, the horror! I check, double-check, and then, right, triple-check the doors to make sure they're locked. Sometimes I'll already be in bed and have to run back downstairs to check just one.more.time. Also, make sure the garage door is down. Because you never know when you might shut it and then, magically, it rises without your knowledge. Now, I actually live in a pretty nice neighborhood. When Dan's car was towed overnight and I found it missing in the morning (another story for another time), I thought it had been stolen. My roommate laughed so hard, I thought she was crazy. Really, she just thought I was crazy for thinking I lived in an area that even had car thieves. Yet, I still hear noises every night. I swear people are walking up my stairs. There's someone hiding in the spare bedroom. My walk-in closet is not only storing clothes, but a serial killer. I don't have any dogs, but I do have a pretty fierce cat who meows (and, um...purrs) at anyone and any thing that moves. So I've got that going for me.

The keeper of the stairs.

I successfully scared myself last night while I was in the shower. (As all good horror stories start in the shower.) I shower with the bathroom door open so that Mateo and I can still see each other. (We're pretty attached. Don't judge.) I could see him in the large mirrors on the closet doors and I could also see the reflection of the bedroom door. So the thought occurs to me, "What if, while I'm looking at the mirror, I see someone sneak into my room?" Would the scary man head for the bed and nightstand? (Not that I have anything fancy over there. Just two Nooks and three "real" books. And a booklight. A lamp. A camera memory card. A Disney "Happy Birthday!" button.) Or would he hear the shower running and come straight for the bathroom? I couldn't just lock myself in there and leave my sweet kitty to fend for himself. I would have to grab Mateo first and then lock us in while calling 9-1-1 on my ever-handy iPhone. After much consideration, my final plan of action (which is pretty dynamite, if I do say so myself) is to sneak out of the bathroom, while keeping the shower running so as not to draw more attention to myself, put on my robe that hangs on the bathroom door, gather up my kitty, and then sneak out the fire escape. (California law: If there are three stories in a house, there must be an escape route.) Which then of course led to the fact that I've never actually been in the fire escape because...it's dark. And...there are stairs! My latest email to the husband? "When you get home, we're going on a tour of the fire escape. I also need a flashlight to aid in my getaway. And to make sure there are no dead bodies down there."

And this is why I'm no longer allowed to watch 48 Hours Mystery by myself.

Alternate use for fire escape door? Necklace holder.