I'm 17 years old, and I still can't dangle my feet over the edge of the bed in the dark. I know that clammy hands with coarse hair across the knuckles will grab my ankles and drag me down to a black hole of terror. Of course, this is never a conscious thought when my foot strays over the edge of the mattress, but an icy chill of fear shoots up my spine, and I quickly jerk my wandering limb back to safety.
I should have discarded this childhood fear a long time ago, but it's been with me for decades. It's familiar and comfortable. Besides, someti
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