Closet Phobias and Roller Disco Dreams: A Childhood Experience Remembered

on

Growing up, my world was full of tiny curiosities, unexplained fears and the occasional pinch of childhood magic. Our little yellow house in Mobile held many of those memories—some delightful, others downright chilling. And at the heart of it all was my closet, sitting ominously across from the foot of my bed, a source of both wonder and terror.

As a kid, I had two recurring dreams about that closet—dreams that came with the predictability of sunrise, yet couldn’t have been more different from one another. The first dream was pure joy: I’d open the closet door to reveal an incredible roller disco paradise. It was everything a kid could dream of, complete with ramps, flashing lights, and music that begged you to skate forever. It felt alive, magical, and surreal in the best way. Thinking back, it feels like a premonition to my Starlight Express experience.

But then there was the second dream. This one wasn’t a dream at all—it was a nightmare. I’d sit up in bed, cautiously open the closet door, hoping for the lively roller disco, only to be greeted by an endless black void. A dark, gaping cavern that pulled me in with an irresistible force, leaving me nothing to grab onto. I’d fall endlessly until either the sun’s rays woke me or Mama pulled me back to reality with her morning cough and raspy morning voice, telling me it was time for school.

Needless to say, I hated that nightmare. It scared me so much that I begged my mom to move my bed to the other side of the room, just so I wouldn’t have to face the closet at night. At that age, my phobia trifecta included three things: the closet (naturally), the aliens I swore had abducted me once in our house near Cody Road in Mobile, and, oddly enough, the vacuum cleaner.

When we moved from the yellow house on Easter Lane to a little blue house just a few doors down, the closet no longer felt threatening. It had a slatted, hinged door that didn’t seem to harbor mysteries. But when we eventually moved to Florida after the second grade, my old fears came roaring back.

The closet in our Pace Lane house was eerily similar to the one on Easter Lane—same placement across from the bed, same ominous vibes. Except this one came with an added twist: the doorknob on the inside didn’t work. If someone closed you in, you were stuck until they decided to let you out. My parents never fixed it, and my sister, ever the mischievous sibling, loved to exploit it. Sometimes she’d lock me in for a few agonizing seconds, and other times she’d just casually mention it, knowing the thought alone was enough to send chills down my spine.

Over the years, my fears evolved. I eventually outgrew my terror of the vacuum cleaner. The aliens didn’t seem quite so scary anymore, though I suspect that’s because I’ve since encountered much more terrifying beings: politicians, serial killers, and certain religious figures who’ve shown me what real horror looks like.

But closets? Small, dark spaces? They’ve never stopped unsettling me. I’ve learned to manage the fear—it’s no longer debilitating—but there’s still a flicker of unease whenever I encounter a tight, shadowy corner.

It’s funny how childhood fears stick with us, sometimes in unexpected ways. That little closet in Mobile shaped a lot of my early imagination—both the good and the not-so-good. And while I’m no longer that kid peeking through the door hoping for a roller disco, I still catch myself wondering what’s hidden behind life’s dark spaces.

Do you remember any fears or recurring dreams from your own childhood? Maybe a particular closet, attic, or even under the bed? I’d love to hear your stories. Drop a comment and let’s swap memories—you never know who might relate. And hey, if my story brought back a smile, a laugh, or even a little nostalgia, your kind support means the world to me. Whether it’s a thoughtful word or a small token of appreciation, it all helps keep these memories alive to share. 💛


Comments

Post a Comment