When I was very young, maybe three or four, I saw a movie about a small voodoo doll that came to life. With an equally small spear, the doll ran around a house, spending most of the movie hiding under furniture, where it would launch sneak attacks at the main character's feet. The heroine of this god-awful movie eventually tossed this small terror into the oven, baking it to death. As silly as it sounds, this horrible horror movie affected me until my late teens. For years, I couldn't put my feet down on the floor after dark without fear, or reach for anything under the bed without a flashlight.
     Even now as an adult, I sometimes feel a remote twinge putting my feet down on the ground in the dark. I know rationally that the fear comes from the leftovers of chil...

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