I am scared of death because I imagine it will be eternal nothingness. Cockroaches scare me because they fly. Heights don’t always scare me, but when they do, it’s because I’m picturing myself plummeting to my death, and now we’re back at square one. Death, cockroaches, and heights: many people would list these among their top fears. But then there are other things that give me the creeps—things that would not affect the average person. It would take intensive Freudian psychoanalysis to discover why I find these things scary. I should note that these things do not impact me in the same way my major, aforementioned fears do. My major fears usually elicit a physiological response from me. Thinking about death literally makes me shudder, and seeing a cockroach on the ceiling of my room makes me break out in a sweat. My obscure fears, on the other hand, just make me feel general unease. If you share any of these “fears”, let me know, and we can start a support group or something.
5. Confession Booths
When I was seven years old, I had to have my Sacrament of Reconciliation. That was just one of the things I had to do as a student at a Catholic school. At that age, I had no idea confession booths even existed, and my Reconciliation was a face-to-face interaction with a priest. It went smoothly. Eventually, I began watching American movies that contained confession scenes, and I noticed they all took place in this dark booth. The idea of it terrified me. I know what you’re thinking, but it has nothing to do with the possibility of molestation. When I was a kid, the idea that a priest would do something of that nature was unfathomable.
It just looks like a miserable setting to me. Sinners go in and fill the booth with their deepest shames, and the priest regurgitates a list of prayers for him or her to say. A partition separates the two of you, preventing the moment from becoming too real. A confession booth is not a place of happiness. It’s also the darkness and crammed space of the structure. I have never been in one, but I imagine it would feel rather uncomfortable and more intimate than is necessary.
What is this? A CPR dummy receiving fellatio? It looks like a still from a David Lynch film, or maybe from Harmony Korine’s Trash Humpers. I think the scariest part is how lifelike this inanimate object is. I mean, you can tell it’s a dummy, but the colour in its cheeks makes it look very human. If this picture were taken on a fancy camera and had a polished look to it, it would not be as unsettling. It would still be weird, but not downright creepy. Stanley Donwood is the man responsible for this cover. He has designed all of Radiohead’s album covers from The Bends onwards, and this cold visage is a far cry from the vibrant colour-fest that is In Rainbows. Donwood found this mannequin and filmed it on an old-fashioned video camera with a video cassette in it.
What makes it even scarier is that it’s for a Radiohead album. If an artist like Katy Perry used this for an album cover, it would be seen as a shift in her artistic vision. But this is a Radiohead record. It only confirms the dark hopelessness that many of their songs conjure up. How fitting that the final track onThe Bends is Street Spirit (Fade Out), a song which Thom Yorke described as “the dark tunnel without the light at the end.”
3. The Cough at the Beginning of Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here
Wish You Were Here is a fantastic song, right? Well, once its intro is over…yes. David Gilmour performed the intro on a twelve-string guitar, and the riff almost lulls the listener into a tranquil trance. Indeed, it was mixed so that the listener would feel like they are hearing the song over a car radio. It’s all very relaxing until we hear *BLERGH*, as though an elephant is sneezing. But that’s no elephant. That’s David Gilmour. Skip to 0:43 in the above video to hear it. It’s not really a sneeze, but it’s not quite a cough either. It sounds like a demonic growl, and it’s as freaky as hell because we don’t expect it. I mean, it’s not every day you hear a cough in a song. Heck, even Simon & Garfunkel’s Voices of Old People avoids it.It’s still debated whether the cough was intentional or involuntary. One theory posits that it was deliberate, supposed to add to the effect of a man listening to the radio and playing along with his guitar. Then there’s the story that Gilmour, a heavy smoker at the time, heard his cough (and subsequent sniffles) in the final recording and decided to kick the habit for good. No matter the reason for its presence, it will always give me chills.
I love eating crumpets, but looking at them is a different story. Heck, just doing the Google Image search to obtain a picture for this blog post made me uncomfortable. When you go to a cafe and order crumpets, it should be common courtesy for the waitstaff to offer complimentary blindfolds. You know what else I hate? Wasp nests, and not simply because they house wasps that can sting the fuck out of you. What do crumpets and wasp nests have in common? HOLES. CLUSTERS OF TINY HOLES. I was browsing the Internet one night and was relieved to discover that many people around the world share this fear. There’s even a term for it, although it’s not formally recognised in the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. It’s called trypophobia, derived from trypo, Greek for “punching, drilling, or boring holes.” Sponges, coral, and lotus seed heads are other things that repulse someone with trypophobia.
If you have synesthesia, your sensory experiences will overlap, or the stimulation of one cognitive pathway may trigger an involuntary experience in another cognitive pathway. You may think of the colour yellow when you hear the number 6, for example. In trying to explain my trypophobia to others, I compare it to synesthesia. When I see the holes, I feel them, too. It’s very hard to explain, though. The simplest way of putting it is that small holes clustered together are just disgusting. If you can make it through this BuzzFeed article without squirming, congratulations…you do not have trypophobia.
1. Wollstonecraft Railway Station, Sydney
In 2013, I undertook two internships at SBS. Their headquarters are located at Artarmon, meaning I would have to catch a train on the North Shore line—a rare occurrence for me. My stop was St Leonards, a very urbanised station. But right before (or after, depending on your direction) St Leonards lies Wollstonecraft Station. Now, this is a very peaceful station and it doesn’t look the slightest bit dangerous. The first time I passed it was just like any other routine stoppage. But I distinctly remember the moment that changed everything. Night had fallen and I was on my way home. My train pulled in at Wollstonecraft, and my eyes immediately darted to a woman sitting by herself reading a book. The station has a sheltered brick seating area, and this woman was the only person inside. She looked to be in her mid-20s and she was dressed entirely in black. A yellowish light above her cast a ghastly glow in her vicinity, almost shrouding her in an aura. This woman was a mystery. Who knows if she was waiting for a train? Maybe she goes there every night to read. I couldn’t look away. It was an image of perfect symmetry, but it gave me the creeps.
From that point on, whether morning or night, I would feel uneasy when my train pulled in at Wollstonecraft. I felt as though that woman was hiding in the wings, as though she lived within the station’s walls. It was like something out of mythology. When my train got to Waverton, I knew Wollstonecraft was only one stop away, and I would feel a sick sense of anticipation build in my gut. The platform is located on a sharp 200-metre curve, and I always had these Final Destination-esque premonitions of my train’s derailment. The signage at Wollstonecraft also creeps me out. See that large metal sign in the picture above? There’s ANOTHER one of those at the other end of the station, and because of their size, I imagine the station developing its own voice, shouting “YOU’RE AT WOLLSTONECRAFT! MUHAHAHAHA!” Lastly, ‘Wollstonecraft’ was the middle name of Mary Shelley, who of course penned the Gothic novel Frankenstein. Fuck, this station is just too damn ominous.