Nicolas Cage, the man in the attic and other irrational fears

As Halloween swiftly approaches, I hear my friends speak of their favorite scary movies, and I think to myself how nice it must be to have the ability to watch one without having three weeks of chronic, incessant insomnia.

Oh, yes, the frightful commercials promoting possessed infants, homes haunted by vengeful poltergeists, regular teenagers plagued by some supernatural presence . . . . these are the obviously panic-causing, tear-inducing, old-fashioned examples of horror.

But then, when asked of what I am truly afraid, I often lean toward the irrational example — the sort that makes our friends laugh and scoff at us and still makes us cry, the sort that has no sense of logic whatsoever. The sort that embarrasses us.

The sort like Nicolas Cage.

To explain exacerbates the ridiculousness even further. As a sufferer of daily nightmares (no hyperbole; literally, every night I am awakened by some imagined creepy-crawly or stalking murderer), I am a victim of Nicolas Cage’s fictional, fatal rage — in my dreams. So, despite once loving “National Treasure” and “Face/Off,” I cannot enjoy these films anymore without being terrified by the notorious actor’s frightening face.

Nor can I sleep at night without thinking of the old man who lives in my attic. No, there really is no man in my attic; however, I have been convinced since childhood that something lives in that ominous annex. You may ask, have I ever been in the attic? Why not simply check, and eradicate the issue?

Well, that’s the problem with irrational fears. Logic doesn’t resolve anything. Thus, for as long as I’ve possessed the fear, I’ve refused to enter my attic.

Despite its strangeness, I really am not the only one with such fears, according to my friends, unless they are mercifully deluding me to allow me my (partial) sanity.

My friend since elementary school shares a fear of a closet-ensconced killer, though hers is in the form of a clown. Another fears the possibility of going blind, spontaneously and without reason, and when she is hit with a sudden bout of this irrational fear, must cover her eyes for a period of five minutes until it subsides.

My friend Caitlin admits, “I’m afraid of my stuffed animals coming to life. And of a tree falling on me. And of falling on scissors. And driving on bridges or being punched out of the blue. And especially of other people double-dipping.”

Another confides in me that he is afraid of the strangely small appendages of children, as well as bear attacks. My mother is afraid of losing all her teeth and has frequent, related nightmares; it must be hereditary.

Reader, you may be looking at this list and thinking how strange my circle of friends must be, and how strange I must be. But I hadn’t known these things about them before I inquired. Ask around; you’ll be equally shocked at what you find out!

Because, who knows? Maybe your neighbor is deathly afraid of Abraham Lincoln or cheese; perhaps your older sibling is terrified by mannequins or trumpets, or your dad of staplers and drowning in his sleep.

They might be good for a laugh — at their expense, of course.

Coming in two weeks:

More of our crazy fears