The Fantasy in Horror

Spanish translation of Clive Barkers' Cabal.
Film adaption: Nightbreed.

From the age of six, I have been a fan of horror. It began with an old Jerrold cable converter box in a small living room in the small apartment of a small town. On weekends, my parents and I would snuggle up on the couch under blankets, switch the converter dial to HBO or Showtime, and watch a family movie. 

Except sometimes my parents would fall asleep, and I would fall asleep.

Then I would wake up. It would be Midnight, the TV still on, the dial still set, and I would peek out from under the blankets. In these glimpses, I caught gruesome scenes from Child's Play, The Nightmare on Elm Street, some sick twisted movie in which a man is tied to table-saw in a meat packing plant, and a vague recollection of giant, frothing, rabid, killer rabbits. 

I loved Jaws.

What I find curious about all of this is that, as a six-year-old girl, it never occurred to me to wake my parents during these films. Perhaps I was afraid of getting into trouble, but more I think I was fascinated by these horrifying worlds, somehow attracted to the fear of the unknown. I found pleasure in them, particularly the ones that portrayed a supernatural or fantasy element. The table-saw, honestly, I could do without, but the dream scapes and the ghost stories? Yes, please.

The way my mind compartmentalized terror manifested itself in a rather comic way: the first nightmare I remember took the form of a Woody the Woodpecker/Frankenstein-type character. In typical Looney Tunes fashion, I ran, terrified, through a Bugs Bunny animated forest, chased by the monster who wielded a machete. I awoke screaming, the only time I recall ever making the long trek down the dark hall to my parents' bedroom. I crawled into bed with them, but I don't think I ever told them why. 

Until one evening, my mother and I sat on the couch and watched The Lost Boys. I hid under the blankets, disturbed by the Doors' song in the opening credits that lead to a creepy carnival in Santa Monica.

I never wanted to move to California.

Then a curious thing happened: my mother assured me that the movie was not scary and that I would like it, if I just watched. So I did.

Why my mother assured me this movie, in particular, was not scary, I can only guess. It is light horror, and what she gave me then was a respect for the genre, a profound understanding of the good in evil, the complicated, beautiful, fantastical realm of the undead.

I began to understand the macabre through an awareness that not all monsters are bad, a lesson I think every child should learn. 

Now it is the 1st of October in 2011, and I am 29.  It has been years since I indulged in horror (literary or film), but I am excited to embark on it again during the month of hallows. I will steer clear of the torture and horror porn - I have no time for senseless brutality and bodily disfigurement - but I do have time for ghosts, for tricksters, for the walking dead, for the misunderstood, for the monsters, for the gorgeous and complex story behind each tale of darkness.

For fun, I will tweet horror trivia each day until Halloween in order to summon what lurks under the bed at night. I will also embark on writing my first piece of horror fiction, inspired by the masters, Stephen King and Clive Barker, works by whom I have read nearly everything.

I will now attempt to turn off all the lights in my house without making a running leap to my bed. It is cold in here, and the chill in my bones convinces me that there is a spectre in every corner.

Read your child a ghost story tonight. 

She will thank you later.

From The Orphanage