The day ran away like an unattended suitcase, rolling down a steep ramp.
I'd wanted to hike the mountain behind our house, but nighttime was approaching. As we drove home, I asked Tony, "What time is sunset?"
"6:38," he answered.
It was already 5:30 and we were still five minutes away from home--ten minutes away from being ready to hike. But I calculated that it could be done. I might have to cut the mountain romp short, but I was still set on going.
As I neared the last uphill of completing the usual hike, I checked the time. It was 6:20. I'd almost made it to the end of my regular hike. I hated to quit but I'd chickened out. In eighteen minutes the sun would set, and shortly thereafter, the early evening light would turn to darkness. I didn't want to get stuck in the dark--when mountain lions, vampires, and zombies begin to venture out.
Let me return to the year 2010, when the first episode of The Walking Dead came out. We didn't start watching it right away. It was only after everyone else was watching the television horror series that we joined the macabre wagon. It was intriguing. It was spooky, and we were hooked.
But I didn't realize the impact it was having on me, until one night when I'd taken a late night swim. After closing the pool and turning off the pool lights, I was stuck walking up two flights of stairs, in the dark, back up to the house. I was possessed with fear.
Shortly thereafter, I'd taken the garbage out the night before, in the dark, and imagined zombies coming my way. I ran the short distance back to the garage door, slammed it shut, and could hardly breathe.
I made the intelligent decision to quit watching such a realistic show about unrealistic possibilities.
It's been fifteen years, and I've long let go of my fear of zombies. But when I started thinking about them in my rush to beat sunset, the landscape began to change. In the fast-dimming light, a giant rock looked like a tortoise. The valleys seemed to be hiding golems, and a flock of birds taking off looked like witches on their broomsticks. A rafter of turkeys looked like vultures planning to attack. Their little squeaks sounded like they were laying out their plans of ambush.
I was calm until I started climbing up the last hill to my house. Light had almost completely faded and the tumbleweeds I'd uprooted the day before wiggled like spider legs. Twisted wood of scrub oak trees looked like bony witch fingers and arms. I quickened my pace and when I finally came to the hillside beneath my home, tree trunks in the shadows looked like monsters.
How relieved I was to be home.
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