I remember the day vividly. My small fingers poked through the frayed edges of my grandmother’s worn blanket as I huddled beneath it. I squeezed the fabric closer, desperately trying to shield myself from the terrifying images flickering on the screen. But the blanket was simply no match for the horror unfolding before me. My eyes, despite my fear, kept darting back to the screen.
A girl who looked just like me reached out to touch a ghastly hand that had emerged from her television. I was transfixed. Questions raced through my mind: How could the deceased use technology? Are all TVs equipped with a ghostly appendage? And most importantly, what were my parents thinking allowing me to watch this film?
As the character Carole Anne prepared to step through that infamous multidimensional portal, I felt like I was crossing into a terrifying realm myself. There I was, just a first grader, watching Poltergeist, a horror flick that altered my life forever. Thanks a lot, Steven Spielberg.
You’d think this traumatic introduction to horror would deter me from ever watching another scary movie again, but you’d be mistaken. Poltergeist ignited an insatiable thirst for all things terrifying, and despite all the anxiety it brought me, I couldn’t tear myself away from the genre.
No matter how ludicrous the plot may be, every horror movie pulls me into its captivating abyss. I start connecting the frightening events onscreen to my everyday life, and my mind begins to convince me that these horrors could easily befall me.
After watching Candyman, I spent countless hours sharing the bathroom with my little brother, too terrified to go alone. It had me avoiding storm drains like they were portals to another dimension. A Nightmare on Elm Street left me paralyzed in bed, haunted by Freddy Krueger’s image hovering above me. And don’t even get me started on the lengthy period I avoided woods after The Blair Witch Project.
Once the credits rolled, I’d spend days — sometimes weeks — reassuring myself that I wasn’t the star of a real-life horror film. Each time, I promised myself I’d never watch anything scary again. But then, just when I least expected it, a new horror movie trailer would drop, and I would find myself ensnared once more.
Fast forward to my thirties, and the aftermath of those movies still plagues me. I can’t fall asleep without checking every corner for lurking spirits or monsters. I keep a nightlight on and ensure my feet are tucked safely beneath the covers. I never turn my back to the edge of the bed, and I find myself negotiating with nonexistent spirits whenever I move into a new place. In a way, I’ve become like a sage stick, trying to ward off any evil that may be lurking.
Logically, I know I should stop watching horror films for my own good, but the thrill is just too irresistible. The excitement of being scared has a grip on me, and I foolishly believe I can conquer my addiction to these frightful tales.
Maybe one day I won’t wake up in a panic, convinced that a ghost from The Conjuring is after me, or glance at the corners of my ceiling fearing I might see Toni Collette’s possessed character from Hereditary. But for now, I’ll keep my feet secure under the blankets and let the glow of Christmas lights chase away the darkness year-round.
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In summary, while horror films have undeniably disrupted my life, their pull is simply too strong to resist. The thrill of fear continues to draw me in, even as I navigate the consequences of my obsession.