“I’ve seen this one before, somewhere,” I said, squinting at the fuzzy black and white on the screen, “Jamaica Inn, right?”

“Yeah,” Claire said, “You know, I can never watch Alfred Hitchcock films by myself. There’s something about them that ignites all this inner fear inside of me.”

“I get that from him too,” I agreed, “And they aren’t exactly terrifying either. There is just some hidden thing we can’t see that scares us. Maybe it’s what we can’t see that frightens us.”

“Although,” Claire began, “Remember that one show where there is that creepy monster outside the airplane and that guy is the only one that sees it? Oh wow, that face, it still haunts me. For awhile I couldn’t ride on an airplane just because of that.”

“It’s funny,” I said as I sifted through my pile of yellowed photographs, “The things that scare us. Sometimes they are completely illogical, yet somehow they define us as people.”

We pondered that final statement in silence. Claire rejoined me back at the pile of photos.