I still remember the only real place that has ever scared me. It was dark, dusty and through the raggedy old curtains rested shapes that could be mistaken for any number of horrible things that rattle around the depths of your mind in times of fear. I’m not saying it’s the only time I’ve ever been scared, it’s not, but it’s the thing that scared me most consistently throughout my youth.
My grandmother and grandfather, or ‘Papa’ as I always called him until his death little over a decade ago, used to run one of the countries (at the time), three CIU Convalescent homes in Broadstairs, Kent. It was an intimidatingly huge, at times rather ugly, but always entertaining place that was busy all year round and jam packed full of lifes more interesting people, from the former Navy men and survivors of the two Great Wars who were only too willing to tell you these amazing stories of courage and brotherhoods to sweet shop workers who would fill my head with stories of Willy Wonkas chocolate factory type settings. I don’t think it would be stretching too far to say that some of the people who would holiday at this home for periods of a week or two at a time were some of the most interesting people anyone could ever want to meet.
I used to love it there, it’s one of the really, truly happy places in my lifetime, three huge gardens with summer houses, bowling greens, golf courses and ponds, three snooker tables, darts, dozens of huge fish tanks, and so much more, it was somewhere I would want to go at least once a year and I enjoyed it so much that it was worth the 6 hour journey each way every single time (of course it helped that I was a child and couldn’t drive.) For all its wonders and people there was always one place that would scare me. Upstairs there was the main flat where my grandparents would live, it had everything you’d expect from a flat as well as my own bedroom which was kept especially for me all year round. There was another private, smaller flat where my Uncle and my grandparents youngest child would live, another place where I’d spend a lot of my time, making my way there in the early hours of the morning and play on his Amiga 500 on classic games like Skidmarks, Sensible Soccer and Kick-Off.
It was the place between these two safe houses that would worry me. The flats were separated by a winding, darkened corridor of lefts and rights, each straight section being quite long, all in all it would take about 45-60 seconds to walk it, and in the longest section of this hallway was a curtain that was a thick, haggard almost shiny, heavy material, similar to those curtains your assembly hall at school probably had, and behind it was all manner of things that would be kept there for storage such as some hoovers, spare tables, spare chairs and more. I of course always knew that these things were there, but it was always the worry of something much more sinister, knife wielding maniacs, prisoners who’d broken out of prison, Pennywise the clown from the IT movies… There were any number of things and there was not one single day I’d pass that curtain without my mind racing by with all different ways I could be mutilated.
What’s worse is that I could never mention it to anyone because I always knew that given the opportunity, one of my family members would only be too willing to capitalise on my fear and come leaping out like some homicidal maniac, leaving me stood there, shaking, probably urinating myself.. or worse. Of course nothing ever happened, but the mind is a powerful thing and until the day my grandparents left that place, I was unable to ever simply walk past that damned curtain, it was always at full speed, or if I was with someone, with them between me and the curtain (hell, if someone is going to try and kill me then I ain’t going first!) The mind is a truly powerful thing and it is without doubt t
