I remember the day vividly. My small fingers fumbled through the frayed edges of my grandmother’s ancient blanket, desperately trying to shield myself from the screen. I squeezed the fabric tighter and closed my eyes, but it was no use; the images seeped through, igniting a profound terror in my young heart. Despite my fear, I couldn’t resist peeking. On the screen, a girl my age was reaching out to a sinister ghostly hand that emerged from her television. It was disturbing, and I was transfixed.
Questions raced through my mind: How could ghosts interact with technology? Do all TVs come with a lurking ghost limb? And most importantly, what were my parents thinking letting me watch this? The moment Carole Anne was about to step into that terrifying dimension, I felt as if I was crossing over too. I was a first grader watching Poltergeist, and it changed me forever.
Thanks a lot, Steven Spielberg.
You’d think that such a shocking experience would deter me from ever watching horror films again, but instead, it sparked an unwavering passion for anything that could frighten me. It’s a painful truth: horror movies have ruined my life, yet I remain unable to stop indulging in them.
Regardless of how absurd the storyline may be or how much I need to suspend my disbelief, every horror flick pulls me into its intoxicating realm. It doesn’t end there. I start to connect what I see on screen with reality, and my subconscious convinces me that these horrors are bound to happen to me.
After watching Candyman, I found myself taking turns in the bathroom with my little brother, both of us too terrified to be alone. It had me avoiding storm drains like they were portals to another world. When I saw A Nightmare on Elm Street, I was left paralyzed before sleep, convinced Freddy Krueger would appear above me. And let’s not even talk about how long I stayed away from the woods after The Blair Witch Project.
After each movie, I’d spend days convincing myself I wasn’t the protagonist in a real-life horror film. I’d swear off scary movies for good, yet when the next trailer dropped, I’d find myself lured back into the fray.
Now, as a thirty-something adult, I can’t fall asleep without checking every corner for lurking ghosts and monsters. I sleep with the lights on and keep my feet tucked beneath the covers. I refuse to turn my back to the edge of the bed, and upon moving into a new place, I negotiate with any potentially nonexistent spirits residing there. Essentially, I’ve become a walking sage stick.
Logically, I know I should stop watching horror movies, but I just can’t. I often wonder what scares me more: the films themselves or the lengths I go to in my mind, treating them like they’re documentaries. Halloween doesn’t help; haunted houses and spooky hayrides drive me insane, yet I find myself paying for tickets, gripping someone’s hand tightly as I navigate the terror. Once, I was chased by a man with a fake chainsaw, and I genuinely thought I was going to be murdered.
Despite knowing I need to quit, the thrill of fear is unbelievably addictive. I’m a fool who believes I can conquer this addiction to screams and chills. Maybe one day I won’t wake up in a panic, fearing that the entity from The Conjuring is lurking nearby or that I’ll see Toni Collette’s character from Hereditary in my room. Until then, I’ll keep my feet buried in my covers and leave the holiday lights up all year long.
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Summary
This introspective piece reflects on the author’s tumultuous relationship with horror films, detailing how early exposure to scary movies left a lasting impact on their life. Despite the fears and irrationalities that arose, the allure of horror remains irresistible, leading to a continuous cycle of watching and regretting.