The Past in Memory

Author: Anydinh

Was the night truly terrifying in the old days?

Back then, nighttime wasn’t the dim glow of modern streetlights—it was pitch black, thick and inky like Chinese ink.

In the countryside, light was a luxury. A tiny flickering lightbulb was already considered fortunate. But electricity wasn’t cheap, so people only dared to turn it on during dinner, then quickly switched it off, relying instead on oil lamps. These lamps cast a faint, wavering glow, illuminating only a small corner of the room—and whenever the wind blew, the flame danced like it was about to die out.

Village roads were completely dark, swallowed by the surrounding blackness. If you were lucky, a clear sky and a shining moon would light the path ahead.

Children back then weren’t afraid of phones running out of battery or losing Wi-Fi—they were afraid of losing their way home. The road from one house to another, no matter how close, felt like an expedition into another world when taken at night. Each step crunched on gravel and stones, and one wrong move could mean a stumble.

The shadows of trees swaying in the wind could easily be mistaken for ghostly figures reaching out to grab wandering children.

But that very darkness also gave birth to countless thrilling tales. On porches under the flickering oil lamp, children would gather around their grandparents, listening to ghost stories: spirits lurking near ponds, waiting to snatch naughty kids who snuck off to swim; demons in ancient banyan trees that hung above temple gates, ready to shove disobedient children who skipped naps to climb trees; or mischievous spirits hiding among banana groves, leaping out to scare unsuspecting passersby.

Each story layered more mystery onto the already suffocating night. Though terrified, the kids still listened eagerly—partly out of curiosity for the spiritual world, partly out of the joy of being told stories by adults. Some tales frightened them so much they couldn’t sleep alone, choosing instead to huddle together under blankets, too scared to even let a foot dangle off the bed.

Even though they were afraid of the dark, kids still loved to roam the village in the twilight or late at night. Back then, there were no mobile phones for parents to call their children home—only a mother’s voice, loud enough to echo from one end of the village to the other:

“Hey! Are you kids coming home for dinner or what? It’s getting dark already!”

The moment they heard that call, every child would dash home, sandals flying.

Nowadays, that darkness no longer exists. It has been replaced by the bright lights of cities and well-lit village roads. Children no longer run around in the yard—instead, they stare at phone screens, playing virtual games. Parents no longer need to shout from the gate to call their children in; a simple message on Zalo or a text is enough to bring them back.

Times have changed. People have changed. Society has changed. Each generation lives differently, and everything becomes more modern by the day. But sometimes, I still miss that old darkness—the kind that drew people closer, sparked conversations, and taught children to fear in the most innocent way.