In the Deepest of Darkness

As children my brother and I were trained to be a ninjas. This training wasn't intentional. It was effective none the less.

Father worked nights through a long period of our ninja training. He'd work in the dark of night while his family rested; when he came home, we'd awake, beginning our day of work and play. I was told his job was "night watchman" and that he worked at the wood mill. I later came to realize this was just a cover. Certainly he was out practicing the dark Ninja arts while we all slept. The world was a terrifying place. My Father was at the heart of this terror.

Unfortunately for my family, Father's sense of hearing, at the time, was spectacular. During those long years when he worked nights you could drop the smallest objects, make a door squeak in the next room over, or dare to whisper to each other and he'd not only hear it, but he would leap from bed, stomping about like a giant; then, with a voice that would strike fear and paralysis of the body and the heart, he'd bellow, 

"What's going on in there"?

Thus, my brother and I were soon in training. We were learning to move across the squeakiest of floors, navigating slowly and carefully around the dangerously loud spots as if we were crossing a minefield. We were becoming educated in the ways to open and close doors so that they might not squeak or bump in the slightest (the trick to this is to turn the knob slowly and all the way, followed by lifting firmly on the knob while pushing the door open smoothy, thus stopping most squeaks). If we dropped something, even the most dangerous objects such as a knife, hammer, or bowling ball, a foot would swoop under it, our hands grasping to muffle the "ouch" that would follow as it's impact was muffled by our tender toes. 

We were soon startling cats with our silent way. We dropped nothing that wasn't foot-juggled silently to the floor. Our tiny feet could cross across rice paper and leave no mark. We hovered instead of walking. The slightest breeze was louder than our very step. We moved like ninjas.

This wasn't enough. Of course we still couldn't navigate well in the dark. Father fixed that as well. His sense of mischievousness was unparalleled in my world. The number of times he snuck about in the dark and scared us probably matches the number of stars in the dark night sky. No one was excused from these attacks, and there seemed no way to become immune to being scared. We tried. We trained ourselves by sneaking about and scaring each other. We learned to maintain our facial expressions, how to keep from jumping at loud noises. It was never enough. Each time my Father leapt from the dark there was a scream. Each time he growled from the dark you'd find your face scrunched in horror. It is my belief that over the years he calculated an exacting methodology of fright, so that just as you imagined there was no way he could possibly scare you again, he'd increase his effort in some slight way so that you were just as frightened as the last time. Only a Ninja has such skill.

I remember a time the family was watching television in the evening. It was dark. There was one light on in the house; we were forbidden the comfort of a well lit home because Father wasn't made of money. A commercial came about and my little brother, no more than 3 or 4, got up and trotted down the long dark hall to the bathroom. I noted his tiny pajama bottomed feet making scarce a sound, already his Ninja training was in effect; but, being older than he, I knew his training was no where near complete.

Father got up the very moment the bathroom door shut. Silent as a rolling cotton ball he moved down the hall and slipped into the first room, the room my brother and I shared. The television show came back on, but I was transfixed at the horror that was about to unfold. My mother sat eating popcorn, pleasantly oblivious to what was coming. I remember wondering what exactly she thought my Father got up to do. Did she think that his iron clad "we aren't stopping this car until we get there" bladder needed to be relieved this early in the evening? Didn't she wonder why he went down the hall, instead of in to the kitchen, to get his next beer? Didn't she see him slip into our room? To this day I believe she simply never even noticed Father was gone from beside her, until it happened.

I heard a flush. The door to the bathroom opened, light spilled out, the tiny elongated shadow of my brother appeared briefly before the light went off, land then the hallway was pitch black. What a fool I thought he was being. Opening the door before turing off the light was dumb, it was a signal that he was on the move. Why did he use the bathroom light at all? Hadn't he figured out that the nightlight was adequate, that it didn't leave you night blind, thus vulnerable to attack? Also, there was no way he had washed his hands between flushing and the door opening. I looked to Mother, she sat crunching and said nothing.

He came into view in the darkness, head down, humming a happy tune, his little feet pumping -- completely unaware. My eyes tried to shut but I was too full of fear, they would not close -- I trembled. 

I turned my head and winced in anticipation of my Father's legendary growl, his swift relentless Ninja hands reaching out for vulnerable ribs, the screaming, the dreaded tickling that would nearly induce one to wet themselves.

"Well", I thought, "at least he's just come from the bathroom". 

My eyes nearly closed I watched. Nothing happened, at least not right away. No hands, no shit inducing bellow, just the near silent pattering of little feet, just the happy little tune, just my little brother's grin. I had hope. He was going to make it.

Then my little brother stopped. He turned as if he heard something. I watched, thoughtless, in terror. His little head cocked to the side, like an innocent pup that hears something curious. I heard it then. It was a quiet scraping noise. The smallest of things, yet it froze me in my place. It grew louder, then stopped. My breath held for a small eternity. Then, peered into the room, seeing something out of my sight, my frightened and tender little brother, amazingly, stepped forward.

There was no growl. 

I beheld the dreaded hands jetting out of the dark and grabbing his miniscule torso. A nearly whispered "Gotcha!" reached my ears just moments before an unearthly scream boiled from my brother. His little body vented with a shrill whistle as he collapsed like a popped balloon. He pedaled backwards, looking like a strange inverted crab he careened supersonically, banging down the hall towards my Mother and I. As he came shrieking past us we lifted our feet up onto the couch. He rocketed backwards, nearly out of sight into the dark kitchen, his face contorted; eyes crazed and wide; his mouth encompassing the rest of the space left on his face. Endless high pitched air streamed from his little lungs as he disappeared into the dark.

I of course did only what any older brother could. I pointed and laughed.

All of this training couldn't prepare us for the consternation Father would release upon us over the years; yet, it often came in handy through childhood. Even as an adult I still feel the persistence of our Ninja schooling. A night doesn't pass that I don't want to reach out of the dark and grab some poor unsuspecting friend. I barely resist. I stand still in the silent knowledge that the world doesn't need any more people to be trained as Ninjas.  There are plenty Ninjas in the world, always ready to congeal the blood with a supernatural sound, always willing you to step just one more foot into the shadows, always waiting for the moment you breathe that sigh of relief, always lurking in the deepest of darkness.