By: Emma Richards
Updated: Oct. 25, 2019
Originally Published: Oct. 25, 2019
As a child, I found myself peering through the tattered fabric of my grandmother’s old quilt, desperately trying to shield myself from the terrifying images flickering on the screen. I squeezed the blanket closer, eyes tightly shut, but the horror was seeping through my feeble barrier. Yet, despite the fear coursing through my tiny body, I couldn’t resist glancing at the screen. A girl my age was reaching out to a ghastly ghost hand that had inexplicably emerged from her TV. It was utterly chilling and I had to know what happened next.
Questions flooded my mind. How could spirits interact with technology? Are all televisions equipped with sinister ghostly appendages? And why on earth did my parents think it was a good idea for me to watch this? As I watched Carole Anne about to plunge into that terrifying multidimensional portal inside her TV, I realized that I was taking a step into my own horror-filled journey.
Thanks, Spielberg!
You might think that such a traumatic viewing experience would deter me from ever watching horror films again. But you’d be mistaken. “Poltergeist” ignited a passion within me for all things terrifying, and while I despise the psychological toll it takes on me, I can’t seem to stop.
Every horror flick, no matter how ludicrous the storyline or how much suspension of disbelief it requires, pulls me into its gripping world. It doesn’t just stop at mere viewing; I start linking the events on screen to my own life, my subconscious convincing me that these horrific scenarios might just happen to me.
After watching “Candyman,” my childhood self spent countless hours sharing the bathroom with my sister, both of us terrified to be alone. “It” made me find every alternative route to avoid storm drains, while “A Nightmare on Elm Street” left me frozen with fear at bedtime, haunted by Freddy Krueger’s visage. “The Blair Witch Project” kept me away from forests for what felt like an eternity.
Post-viewing, I’d spend days — sometimes weeks — reminding myself that I wasn’t the lead in a real-life horror film. Each time, I would swear off scary movies forever. But then, out of nowhere, a new horror trailer would emerge, and I’d find myself drawn into the madness again.
Now, as an adult in my thirties, I can’t sleep without checking every corner of my room for lurking ghosts and monsters. I always sleep with a light on and ensure my feet remain safely tucked under the covers. I never turn my back to the edge of the bed when I sleep. Moving into a new place involves me attempting to negotiate with any spirits that might be present. Essentially, I’ve become a living, breathing sage stick.
I know I should stop watching horror films, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. The thrill of fear is intoxicating, and I foolishly believe that I can withstand my addiction to screaming.
Perhaps one day, I won’t wake up, convinced that the malevolent entity from “The Conjuring” is coming for me, or think I’ll spot Toni Collette’s possessed character from “Hereditary” lurking in the corners of my room. Until then, I’ll keep my feet buried beneath my covers and my Christmas lights twinkling all year round.
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In summary, horror films have left a lasting imprint on my life, one that I can’t seem to escape, despite the fear and anxiety they bring. The allure of the terrifying is too strong to resist.
Keyphrase: Horror Movies and Their Impact on Life
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