The genre of horror is one thing that quickly cleaves people into two groups. Some of us just love a good scare, while others avoid it like a vampire avoids a crucifix.
I’m in the former group. A good horror book or film strikes me as positively delicious. I’ve felt that way since childhood. I always watched the monster movies, the atomic mutant bug movies, the thing from outer space movies. I delighted in werewolves, witches and all things delightfully spine-shivery.
My mother didn’t wholly approve, but she took an enlightened approach. Her rule was that I could watch whatever I liked, as long as it didn’t give me nightmares. That was an easy rule to live with. Those images rarely disturbed my sleep. I wasn’t frightened, I was lit up.
Over my entire life, that has never changed. I still love a good gotcha in a scary movie and I still relish a page-turning suspense novel. Raise the hair on the back of my neck and I’ll have a real good time, yessir. And that hunger has been well fed by the likes of Bradbury and Lovecraft, King and Jackson, Matheson and Poe. Give me a good spooky story and I’m in heaven.
Did you hear an eerie sound coming from the dark basement? Let’s go check it out!