I’ve had more than one person over the years to ask me, “Why do you like horror?”  I’ve had family and friends ask me before, “How can you watch that?” or “How can you stand to read that stuff?”  I guess the best answer is something my cousin once said in response to those same questions, “I don’t know, I just do.”

I guess it can be a difficult question to answer.  Fans of comedy can say, “It makes me laugh.”  Fans of mystery can say, “I like a good whodunit.”  We horror fans can always say, “I like a good scare.”  It may seem odd to want to be scared, to have our hearts leap to our throats, or to have to think twice about looking behind the door.

When I was about five years old I saw my first horror film.  It was John Carpenter’s The Fog.  It was on television; my brother and cousins were into it, and I was hiding in a green sleeping bag with my head covered.  I wanted them to change the channel, but they wouldn’t.  I guess I could have left the room, but I didn’t.  They kept telling me it was only a movie.  Eventually I ventured out of the sleeping bag and watched it.  It scared the bejesus out of me.  And I instantly fell in love with it.

I watched as many horror films as I could after that, even though they continued to scare the bejesus out of me.  I read any story I could find in my school library that remotely looked creepy and  resembled horror.  My brother and I used to sit up late at night on the weekends, many times sneaking out of bed, to watch Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, and her weekly selections of madness.  Our mother didn’t really approve of Elvira and her film choices.

Somewhere around twelve years old I discovered Stephen King.  Read a lot of him.  ‘Salem’s Lot is one of the greatest books ever written, I don’t care what anybody says.  When I was about thirteen I discovered Clive Barker and very nearly lost my fragile little mind.

But why do I like horror?  I honestly don’t have a clear answer.  Maybe it’s the imagination it takes to cook up all those legions, trying to find new ways to scare ourselves after having become so numb by years of Jason, Freddy, Michael, and Pinhead sticking it to us.  Not to mention all the other monsters  waiting to jump when we least expect it.

Why do I like horror?  Why do I like the scary stuff, the creepy stuff?  Why do I like graveyards after dark, overcast days, things that go bump in the night, things that scare the bejesus out of me?

Maybe it’s like what Mr. Barker once said, “Fear is a place where you just tell the truth.”  I’ve qouted that a lot in my responses to people who want to know how I can read such books and watch such movies, or even write such little missives.

But what truth am I trying to tell?  What truth am I trying to discover?

I don’t know.  I guess I’m still looking.

the_novacula