When I was little, my older brother used to scare me all the time with a mask he made. Well, it wasn’t really a mask— it was a cardboard box with a face on it. He usually chased me around the house, right on my heels. I remember how much it had shaken me up, especially when he tackled me. He used to laugh about it all the time behind my back.
I had nightmares about it. The mask always was on the face of a man— someone I didn’t know. He carried a huge weapon—often a scythe— that seemed weightless in his hands. The only noise he made was from the chains rattling around him. He used to chase me down a hallway, with an end that I couldn’t see. The sequence always ended in my brother’s laughter. These nightmares occurred often, and I’m glad they stopped.
Time moved on. We grew older, our interests changed, and my brother didn’t find the “joke” very funny anymore. He handed the cardboard box over to me and told me to do