What scares you?

Darkness. Mirrors. Silence. Windows.

Those things which conceal. And reveal.

When you stare out into the darkness, are you really afraid of what the darkness might hide? Or that at some moment, something, somewhere will look back at you? That for a fleeting instance, you will see those baleful orange eyes, pinpricks staring from the inky blackness at...into...you.

The mirror shows us ourselves, but how many times do you glance at a looking-glass from the corner of your eye and see....something that shouldn't be there? Something that can't be there. Something that your rational mind knows isn't there.

Silence confounds and reveals. In deep silence you can hear every twig, every rustle, every creeking board in the hall, every fingernail scraping against the window. Do we want to hear it all? And what about the footfalls behind you? The softsteps of a silent walker creeping up on you even as you read this?

Windows, they let in the light. They let out the light. They are a way of escape, a means of experience, and the way into which every manner of killer crawls. Is there anything more frightening than an open window that you know was shut? And while the window lets in the light, does it also let in the darkness?

Eyes...are the windows to the soul, they say. So into our eyes creeps the darkness. And from our eyes. Every looked into someone eyes and seen a dead stare? Or into the night and seen those eerie green cat eyes looking back? Do you ever wonder if when you look into the mirror, those eyes you see are also looking back at you?

So why do we feel these things? Why do eyes in the dark scare us? Why does the dark itself promise not just fear, or terror, but unmitigable horror? Have we stumbled such a short distance from the savannah that we still huddle around our stick of flame, hoping the great predators will pass us by in the night?

Power

Some stories make us laugh. Some stories make us cry. Some make us angry. Some make us frustrated. Important stories touch us in some way, evoking emotion in our heart. I've read stories that have had that kind of power before, but none has impacted me in the same way that Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian has. The power in that story to inspire dread, horror, and a sense of utter futility defies description.

I can't even put a finger on how the author accomplishes that power. The story isn't that different from a dozen other westerns, even if it's told in a unique way with a different point of view. Usually, when a book sucks me in, the characters to most of the work: I become emotionally involved because I relate to the people I'm reading about. Not Blood Meridian though, I can't think of characters that could be more alien. I don't feel empathy for them. But the plot still drives into my heart like a spear thrust.

The story is almost hypnotic, drawing you further and further into madness, and at the end, I felt like I was staring the devil in the eyes. It was an uncomfortable feeling. That slow revelation of dread and insanity works well. It isn't so bad at first...and it gets worse...and worse...and then, by the end, I put the book down without comment. I haven't been able to read sense then. It shook me. I still turn it all over in my head, trying to make sense out of what McCarthy was saying with Blood Meridian.

What story was he trying to tell, and what moral lurks in layers of peeled madness? I haven't riddled it out yet. I'm just now beginning to be able to reflect on the how he accomplished that emotional power. I'm not quite ready to understand the why yet.

Updates

Yeah, it's been a while; four months, give or take an eternity. I do mean to get back to this, whether anyone is reading or not. It's just taking me some time to get to a point where I can.