A thousand headlines, all shouting for my attention: warring countries, sleazy politicians, debates over basic human rights, Real or A.I.? It’s a lot to digest, especially when sandwiched between funny dog videos and an ad for makeup remover. After enough time spent scrolling social media, my eyes begin to glaze over, reflecting the colorful glow of the phone screen beneath them. Still, this mask of mindless entertainment isn’t impenetrable, and every now and then I feel a prickle of panic. With the growing fear comes a stream of unanswerable questions: How has the world come to this? Will things ever get better? How can I be so helpless? 

Finally, I put down the phone, rubbing at my face with clammy hands. Adulthood was promised to me as an abundant amount of freedom and fun, but all I feel in this moment is stress. Not for the first time, I imagine going back to my childhood, when fear was something to be conquered and not a lingering state of mind. 

At seven years old, I was selectively skittish. I had no problem when it came to heights, snakes, or spiders, but I often found my imagination conjuring things that were just as scary. Darkness wasn’t just the absence of light, it was a thousand squirming black ants, crawling across the ceiling and walls until their antennae brushed against my cheeks. A posse of monsters, each with sharp fangs and spiked fur, resided under my bed, ducking out of sight whenever my parents checked to reassure me. After watching movies like Freaky Friday and Brave, there was always the constant concern that the wrong set of words might transform me into a mystical creature or even my mother. 

My afternoon at day camp had been utterly spoiled. All of the kids dragged their feet as we were herded inside, away from where the summer sky had been blocked behind a barricade of grey storm clouds. As I plopped down with the other members of my age group inside of a classroom, I tried not to feel too disappointed, instead turning my attention to wonder what new activities the counselors had planned for us. Before they could say anything, however, the boy to my right shot his hand into the air, wiggling his fingers in excitement. 

“Oooh, can we tell scary stories?” 

My stomach plummeted. Every head, including my own, whipped around to look at Hannah, our head counselor. She nodded wearily, probably figuring that having to shepherd a dozen rambunctious second graders while indoors was already her own version of horror. The group dissolved into squeals and chatter as kids fought over who would get to tell their story first, but all I could hear was my heart pounding in my chest.  

I hate scary stories. Whatever frightening things they mentioned would get stuck in my brain like burrs to a sweater, and I’d never be able to shake them loose. I bit my lip as I glanced around at the other kids, who all seemed so giddy to get to share their tales. Little did they know, their words had the ability to give me nightmares for weeks. 

“Okay, listen!” one boy announced, the same one who had raised his hand. “There was this old, haunted house, and –” 

I couldn’t take it. Lungs tightening, I pushed myself to my feet and bolted out of the room. As I barreled down the hallway, I was vaguely aware of the counselors calling after me, but I was too upset to care. Sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor, I rounded a corner, then collapsed against the wall. What’s wrong with me? Pulling my knees into my chest, I took deep breaths and blinked back tears. 

“Nora, what happened?” 

I looked up to see Hannah standing over me. Her eyes, nearly the same color as the green of the camp staff t-shirts, were rimmed with concern. With loose strands of brown hair framing her round face, she was college-age – which, by my logic, was basically as old as my parents. 

I opened my mouth, and the truth came spilling out. About how I didn’t like scary stories. About the things my mind made up to scare me. About how easily the world frightened me. Hannah sighed, quietly sitting down by my side. I waited for her to scold me, to tell me that I was being silly.  

Instead, she told me that she didn’t like scary stories, either. 

“Really?” I wondered in disbelief. As far as I’d known, grown-ups weren’t afraid of anything. 

“Yep,” she nodded with a small smile. “And do you know what I do whenever my roommates like to watch horror movies?” I shook my head. “I laugh at them.” 

My forehead wrinkled in confusion: how could someone ever find fear and funniness in the same thing? It seemed impossible. But when Hannah described how she liked to make fun of the characters of the horror movies (“I think my cat has more common sense than those guys do!”), I couldn’t help but let out a small giggle, making her face brighten. 

“See? Sometimes things aren’t so scary if you learn to laugh at them.” She stood, then held out her arm. “Why don’t we go back to the group, and you can give it a try?” 

I hesitated, thinking back to the crawling ants, to the fanged monsters, to Freaky Friday. Then, slowly but surely, I unclenched my fists. Palms dotted with tiny, crescent-shaped dents from my digging fingernails, I reached out and took her hand. 

Years later, when I open my eyes to find that my vision has gone completely red, it’s as if I’ve fallen into one of the spooky stories told at my old summer day camp. Sitting up against my pillow, I blink over and over again, but that doesn’t change the fact that my entire bedroom is bathed in ruby light. Even though I’m only half conscious, my mind whirls for an explanation and lands on the last thing I watched before falling asleep: a TikTok of a scraggly-looking man predicting the Day of Reckoning was about to be upon us. 

Ears pricked for trumpet calls of the heavenly angels descending onto my college apartment, I throw back my covers and slide out of bed. Was that TikTok guy actually right? The floor is cool against my bare feet as I inch towards the window that the illumination is coming from. Head still fuzzy from sleep, I rack my brain to remember any Sunday School lessons on Revelation. My heart is lodged in my throat as I lean forward to peek between the blinds – 

– Only to find that outside, a large truck has backed up directly in front of my first-floor window. For a few seconds, all I can do is squint into its cardinal-colored brake lights, finally registering that the Rapture is not, in fact, taking place. In the middle of this stunned silence, a chuckle bubbles out of my lips. The next thing I know, I am throwing my head back in a fit of laughter at my own ridiculousness. 

My soul has been spared from divine judgement, at least for the moment. As I flop back down onto my mattress, I wonder who is more out of their mind: the man chasing Internet clout by claiming to predict an event that is Biblically-proven to be unpredictable, or me, for believing him. If my roommate can hear me from the other side of our shared wall, she’ll most definitely pick the latter. The world, in all of its chaos, will continue to spin on, and the Rapture may very well happen tomorrow for all of the control I have, but with every breath I am blessedly stuck in the here and now. I am helpless; I am happy.