It first happened in my grandparents’ basement.

I was eight years old. My nights as a child were typical: sit on the floor to watch cartoons in the basement with a nice glass of heart-clogging Kool-Aid. The world was my oyster for those few hours before bed.

But tonight was different. As soon as I turned off the television, my legs stopped working. A tight pull in my chest made breathing harder. I watched The Rugrats closing credits get swallowed into a tiny white dot in the middle of the screen. Then I waited. I kept my eyes on the blank screen in front of me, waiting for the monsters I knew were right behind me. I couldn’t hear them. I couldn’t see them. But I felt them.

I had no idea what was going on, just that I was frightened. My gut was telling me that I was in danger. The harder I willed myself to run up the stairs, the more leaden my limbs became.

I closed my eyes. I dug my fingers into the itchy carpet beneath me and hoisted myself onto my feet. My mother had the good sense to leave the stairway light on every night, and I followed the glow pouring over the steps.

I raced up the stairs to freedom, but the dark trailed me. Each step somehow brought me closer to the indescribable feeling I tried to abandon. I felt as if I was running underwater until I reached the top of the staircase. I flicked off the light and slammed the door behind me, leaving behind the cesspool of fears I didn’t know existed within me.

I went to my room without saying goodnight to my mother. I yanked the covers over my head and kept the light on. Confused and trembling, I tried to reassure myself. Just a bad day. No need to panic. It’ll be better tomorrow. But the voices, the phantoms, and the constant fear would follow me into adulthood. I just didn’t know it yet.