As a child, I would often find myself burrowing my small fingers into the frayed edges of my grandmother’s old quilt, desperately trying to shield my eyes from the screen. The fabric, however, was a poor barrier against the visuals unfolding in front of me. Despite the fear gripping my young heart, I couldn’t resist sneaking glances at what was happening.
A girl, not much older than me, was reaching out to grasp a ghostly hand that had inexplicably emerged from her television. It was genuinely terrifying, and I felt an irresistible urge to see what would happen next. My mind raced with questions: How can spirits interact with technology? Do TVs come with ghostly appendages ready to reach out? And why on earth did my parents think it was okay for me to watch this?
At that moment, as the character Carole Anne prepared to step through a sinister portal in her TV, I realized I was embarking on a similar journey. I was just a first grader immersed in Poltergeist, a film that would forever alter my perception of reality.
Thanks a lot, Steven Spielberg.
You’d assume this traumatic experience would deter me from ever watching horror movies again. Instead, it ignited a relentless fascination with films designed to instill fear. The unfortunate truth is that horror movies have indeed disrupted my life, yet I find it impossible to stop watching them.
Regardless of how ludicrous the storyline may be or how much disbelief I must suspend, every horror film draws me into its captivating realm. It doesn’t end there; I often find myself connecting the on-screen horror to my everyday life, convincing my subconscious that such terrors are imminent threats.
After watching Candyman, I spent countless hours sharing the bathroom with my younger sister, both of us fearful of being alone. Stephen King’s It made me seek alternate routes to avoid storm drains. A Nightmare on Elm Street left me paralyzed at bedtime, haunted by Freddy Krueger’s visage. And The Blair Witch Project had me avoiding woodlands for years.
Each time I finished a horror film, I would spend days—sometimes weeks—reminding myself that I was not the star of a real-life horror narrative. I would solemnly swear to never watch anything frightening again. Yet, inevitably, a new trailer would emerge, and I’d find myself ensnared once more by that eerie allure.
Now, as an adult in my thirties, I can’t fall asleep without checking every corner of my room for lurking ghosts or monsters. I sleep with a nightlight on and ensure my feet remain tucked under the covers. I never turn my back to the edge of the bed, and when moving into new places, I often negotiate with whatever nonexistent spirits might dwell there.
Essentially, I’ve transformed into a walking, talking sage stick.
While I understand that I need to detach from horror films, the reality is I never will. The thrill of fear is simply too addictive, and I foolishly believe I can conquer this obsession with fright.
Perhaps one day I’ll no longer wake in a panic, fearing the demonic entity from The Conjuring will claim me, or look at my bedroom ceiling corners expecting to see Toni Collette’s character from Hereditary. But for now, I’ll keep my feet securely tucked in and my Christmas lights shining bright all year round.
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Summary:
In her candid reflection, Jamie Carter shares her lifelong addiction to horror films that began in childhood with Poltergeist. Despite the terror these movies instilled in her, she cannot resist their allure, leading to a complicated relationship with fear and a persistent need to check her surroundings for lurking horrors. Even as an adult, her fascination with the genre continues to shape her life choices and bedtime routines.
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