As this journalist has noticed in this vast and growing world, population somewhere in the billions, there are many scary people. The purpose of this column is not to point fingers, but to tell my stories of my conflicts with scary people.
   My parents scared me at first. As a child, they would do some of the scariest things to me. I'm sure none of it was deliberate, but if they knew now that what they did then would have a permanent effect on my life as an adolescent, I'm sure they would not have done it.
   I remember, at age six, when I was still afraid of the dark, praying at my bedside, asking God to protect me from the monsters. Once in bed I cuddled under my blankets and didn't utter a word except for the occasional "who's there?" While I spent my nights in bed I was unaware that my parents were conspiring against me. My father, whom I love dearly, was chosen to carry out the mission. He crept into my room while I stared at the ceiling.
   "Who's there?" I asked timidly. No answer. "Who's there?" I asked again. By this time I had grabbed my bear, Pooh, and clutched him, starting to cry. "Who's there?" I asked again, waiting for an answer, but I did not get one. Instead, my father appeared at the foot of my bed and gave his best lion roar. I scuttled to the opposite corner of my bed, clutching my bear even harder, tears pouring down my childish cheeks. My mom turned on the lights, revealing my father. I was relieved to see that it was good ole' Dad. But if you're thinking I didn't retaliate, you're wrong. I left him my wet sheets to clean up for me, and Mom made him spend the rest of the night on the couch so she could comfort me.
   The next scary person I can remember wasn't scary to me until I got to spend the night at her house. Mom and Dad wanted to go away for a weekend, so they left me with Grandma.
   As they dropped me off and we said goodbye, I turned to Grandma.
   "Grandma," I said, "Do you have any cookies?"
   "Um, I have fiber crackers! Would you like some of those?"
   "No, yuck." As an eight-year-old boy, I had the one common characteristic of children all across the world: honesty. Children don't lie. They say what they mean. "No, yuck. I want a cookie, mommy has cookies."
   Grandma took my complaining personally. I could tell she already regretted having taken me under her wing for the weekend. She showed me my room and sent me to bed at seven o'clock.
   Being a little child in a strange room in the dark, I was finding it difficult to sleep. I decided that a midnight snack would do the job. I jumped down off the bed and tip-toed into the kitchen, so as not to wake Grandma. But she was already awake and had beaten me to the fridge. Her little bottom was the only visible thing, as she had placed her entire body in the refrigerator to get the mayonnaise on the back shelf.
   Along with honesty, eight-year-old children always love the opportunity to sneak up on people, especially when they'll never expect it. Well, Grandma was never expecting it. As I approached I could hear her munching away at a pickle. I crept up behind her, a smile rising on my face, because I knew she'd never see it coming. "Boo," I said as I pushed gently at her back.
   "Poor Grandma was scared, I frightened her really bad," I thought as she banged her head on the inside of the fridge.
   "Honey," she said, biting her lip.
   I knew then that I should not have scared Grandma.
   "Honey, why did you do this to Grandma?"
   She was trying to hold in her anger. "Grandma," I said, "I'm sorry, but it was your fault you hurt your head." As a youthful boy I didn't know when to stop. Grandma had had enough of me. As she opened her mouth to reprimand me her teeth fell to the ground and bounced twice, before landing between my feet. We both looked down at the sight; she smiled, I ran. It was scary to see a full rack of teeth staring up at me. I screamed, running back to my room and back under the covers. "I broke Grandma's teeth," I kept saying, "I broke Grandma's teeth!" Right then and there, and idea struck me. "Pray, pray. I'll pray...Dear God please don't let Grandma's teeth fall out never, ever again, and don't let her be mad at me and don't let her fridge be empty 'cause I'm still hungry and please get me a red bicycle with a horn for Christmas. Amen."
   Many people have permanently scarred me with fear. I can, however, link the beginning of my nightmares and fear of the dark to Grandma and Dad. Thank you. If I've learned one thing through my experiences, then it has been all worthwhile, for it is more fun to scare people than to be scared by them; and if there were to be a moral of this story, it would be to make sure Grandma's head is not in the fridge when you plan to scare her.

-Buster, Vulture staff