The Realm of the Dead. I had only heard stories of this place from when I was a little girl, a fantastical place of monsters, vampires, snakes, ghosts and more of the sort. Thinking back, what a weird choice of bed time story to tell to a sensitive eight year old, but my father wasn't usual, and he was never going to conform to stories of 'Red Riding Hood' or 'Goldilocks and the Three Bears.' He drew horror comics, comics that I was never allowed to see.
"As you enter the realm, what first lies before you is a plain of nothingness. Nothing. It is barren land, dry and cold and evil. Your face will sallow with dread, as sand dances to the glorious song of silence, blocking your vision. Without you knowing, snakes carrying unknown poisons will slip from underground and charge towards you, their mouths fiercely open with hunger, and you, in your weakness, your disadvantage at being human, you will never see it coming. And when you get bit..."
"AAAAHHHHH!! DADDY, STOP!! It's too scary, I don't wanna listen."
I folded my arms and pursed my lips, the light from the fireplace was dimming but there was enough to make my small diamond tears visible and glistening. I was always a sensitive girl, who's greatest asset was poetry and flower naming, and her greatest weakness, horror.
My father would get silent when I interrupted him. He would lower his face, a shadow cast upon so that I could not see his expression. But when he lifted it slightly, I could see a remorseful, almost afraid look thread upon his face, before instantly switching back to his usual smiling self.
"Honey. Listen to the story. It's all for you."
"Huh?" He was now wiping my tears away with his thumb.
"Yes. One day, Dahlia, you'll understand. For now, steel your heart, open your mind, and listen."
And so, from that day forth, I intently listened to his stories of the Realm of the Dead, even if they terrified me, gave me nightmares, made me cry and wake up in a cold sweat, I listened like a good daughter. Because I trusted my father.
One day, however, curiosity got the best of me. When I was eighteen, I was old enough to wonder. Why had my father never let me see his comics when he told me horror stories every night? What could possibly be worse?
So in the middle of the night, I tiptoed out of my room on the second floor, and lightly tread down the stairs, down the short hall, and stood before my father's work study. I bent down, and stared intently through the keyhole - but such a small opening wasn't very useful, as I could only see the bottom half of my father sitting before his desk, his legs crossed. Understanding the futility, I turned my head around and gently rested my ear upon the door. Nothing. Nothing. Still nothing . And then - a snore! He was asleep! Overjoyed, I gently jumped up and down with my hands to my face - the way I celebrated when I beat father in a game of golf. Except of course - this was alot more toned down.