scared sleepless
Mom was reading to us before bed. We had just started the second Nancy Drew book, The Hidden Staircase. At the end of chapter 5, Helen Corning, Nancy’s friend, screams in terror.
“Keep reading, Mom! We can’t stop there!” So she went on to the next chapter.
“Out there! Looking in that window!” Helen pointed to the front window of the parlor next to the hall. “The most horrible face I ever saw!”
“Was it a man’s face?” Nancy questioned.
“Oh, I don’t know. It just looked like a gorilla!” Helen closed her eyes as if to shut out the memory of the sight.
My mind filled with the image of a grotesque gorilla mask, and my stomach churned. After Mom finished the chapter, she sent us to bed. But I couldn’t sleep. What if there was a man in a gorilla mask outside my window? What would I do? I was not teenage sleuth Nancy Drew, as much as I wished I were. I doubted that seven-year-old Charlotte would have the intrepidity to explore the back yard for intruders. Eventually I fell asleep, but I didn’t truly relax until we kept reading the book.
Bedtime stories were thrilling as I tagged along with Nancy as she solved Helen’s mystery and unmasked the gorilla-masked culprit. When we finished the last chapter, I realized that being scared can be so much fun.
I haven’t changed much as an adult. I love reading scary books, love watching movies that make me jump. I love watching how the protagonist puzzles out answers, follows hunches, and fights her way out of predicaments. I love a good bad guy (and thankfully, most fictional villains are more savvy than the man in the gorilla mask). I love cliffhangers, well-executed plot twists, and even books that make me too scared to sleep.
I haven’t read Nancy Drew in many years. My love for the titian-haired sleuth roots more in nostalgia than literary merit. Nancy taught me that women are smart, savvy, and kind. She taught me that women can have adventures and use their brains to help others. She taught me that I can navigate my own life with moxie and intelligence. If I saw a man in a gorilla mask outside my window today, I’d be torn between wanting to laugh and being irritated enough to scold. My adrenaline might spike, but I’d probably be able to sleep.
I didn’t know as a seven-year-old that my obsession with Nancy Drew would carry me into Louise Penny, Veronica Speedwell, and even Stephen King. Nancy taught me many things, but maybe the most delightful lesson is that scary can be so. much. fun.
