I have always, always, always been afraid of the dark.
I think something is chasing me. I’m not sure what.
When we would eat dinner with the family across the street, and my mother would make me go home to get ready for bed alone, I would sprint, usually barefoot, across the street and make my hands go “BAM” into the storm door before I pulled it open and ran inside.
I would imagine some one tackling me. Grabbing my legs.
If I were ever in a scary movie situation, where you “just can’t get away,” I know I would eventually stop running, be too afraid and tired to pull my leg through the window just before it gets cut off. After awhile, I think I would just ask to be killed quickly.