Not Your Usual Scary Stories

Pop Goes the Weasel

What a surprise to find a box of my childhood toys. Cleaning out my mother's house after her passing had been no easy task, but this was a welcome change.

I sit down on the floor and slowly open the box pulling out one thing after another: my baby blanket, my first stuffed animal, my favorite Dr. Seuss book. Each new object brings back waves of faded nostalgia, moments in time that have slipped away forever.

But at the bottom sits something different.

I reach in for the small box, hands almost shaking with hesitance. I know it's irrational, but I can't help the spike of fear as my fingers make contact with the source of my phobia.

The small Jack-in-the-Box looks just like I remember. Even the flaking coat of paint on the small box does not offer any comfort. I hated this thing as a child. My father loved to scare me with it. He would turn the crank all the way to the end, the last possible moment, and then give it to me. I always fell for it.

This kind of action continued until the night terrors started. Suddenly Dad didn't find scaring me so funny any more. Being woken up repeatedly by a screaming child will do that. We packed the box away, never to be seen again, but the nightmares didn't stop.

I smile to myself at the thought of my childhood fright. The box is tiny in my hands, so much smaller than I remember. Even my frightened instinct is weak now. Years have passed. I'm an adult. Surely I'm not afraid of a stupid children's toy anymore.

To test my courage I begin to turn the crank on the side of the box. For a moment nothing happens, but then comes the familiar tune that haunted my dreams for so long. There are no words, but they play in my head anyway as the song advances.

'All around the mulberry bush the monkey chased the weasel. The monkey thought 'twas all in fun.'

I pause for a moment, cold wave of fear rising up in me as I make the final turn.

'Pop goes the weasel'

And with that the horrifying visage bursts from the box promising a swift death. I throw it away from me in fright, and sit there stupidly.

Now, looking at it as an adult, the horrifying visage is actually kind of silly. The jester face that had so scared me as a child is little more than cheaply crafted plastic. The colorful lines of clothing are an obvious attempt at lightheartedness, though I can still only find them menacing.

I pick up the box again, marveling at my own silliness. It's just a toy. It's nothing to be afraid of.

I pack the box back up and return it to the closet. On a whim, I leave the Jack-in-the-Box out. It feels like it means something, my overcoming of this fear. After my mother's death I find that any assurance of adulthood is greatly appreciated.

I add it to the collection of things I'm taking from the house and head to my childhood bed for one last night. Tomorrow I'll return to my regular life. Someone else will come here to dispose of my mother's belongings along with any remaining childhood memories, but I've taken all that I need.

I lay down in that same bed I slept in so many years ago and close my eyes, drifting softly into the cool night.

---

"All around the mulberry bush"

My eyes snap open at the familiar tune. I almost scream for my parents, but then I remember that I'm not a child any more. There's no one here to wake me. There's no one to brush away the tears and nightmares.

I glance over at my pile of things. The Jack-in-the-Box rests harmlessly on top. I give a little chuckle at my own insecurity. It must be this bedroom. That in combination with all the memories brought back the nightmare one last time.