As a creator of horror stories, a frequent question I get is, “You seem like such a normal person…why do you like horror?” Beyond being flattered to be regarded as “a normal person,” I have to admit that I really have no idea.

I have some theories.

I’ve noted that bullies in horror stories, especially movies, usually get punished in some incredibly gruesome way, and I like that.

A lot.

So you might surmise that I was bullied often as a child.

I wasn’t.

Horror movie enthusiasts and fans of live haunted attractions say they like the adrenaline rush of a jump scare.

I hate that.

I love the artistry involved in the presentation of the traditional, iconic Victorian haunted house, like the one Shirley Jackson describes in The Haunting of Hill House and that Mike Flanagan created visually in his very different treatment of her story for Netflix.  When done well, the house becomes a character, too, and I get delightful chills just thinking about it.

Side note: I’ll let you in on a little secret. My greatest wish, aside for world peace and a cure for cancer, is to physically create my vision of the best haunted house ever. Not just a description of one in a story. One that people could actually visit. It would be all atmosphere, with really creepy actors, but no jump scares.

I love horror movies, all kinds, but I rarely go to the theater to see them because I hate being startled that much. I love the idea of going to haunted attractions, but have gone to only a few for the same reason. Walking through Eric Lowther’s fantastic live Halloween attraction Haunted Overload in Lee, New Hampshire was one of the greatest thrills of my life, even in the daytime with no actors or music. At night with all the lights and sounds turned on it was, of course, even better.  

But I will not walk through it again when it offers its main attraction, filled with live actors crouched behind every door and bush, waiting to surprise the patrons. (Yes, I went through the jump scare version once, but I didn’t enjoy that experience nearly as much as the walk-throughs without the actors. And should you be wondering if given the chance, would I ever be one of the actors who jump-scared other people…oh, hell yeah!)

So my love for horror is not for the rush.

I understand that some people who have been traumatized and/or abused as a child say that they feel reading or watching fictional horror gives them a sense of control when they had been stripped of that in their past, and that makes sense.

But I have no memories of having experienced anything that would come close to being recognized as trauma.

I am extremely disturbed, frightened even, by the present circumstances in America currently threatening our democracy, and yet, rather than shunning horror movies and books, I continue to turn to those guilty pleasures for comfort. It’s possible that I, like trauma victims, derive a sense of control over that kind of horror, unlike what’s going on in the world.

But I still don’t feel like that fully explains my love of horror.

I’ve always loved everything about Halloween, from the classic, non-threatening images of skeletons, witches, and black cats that decorated my elementary school to the genuinely frightening walk-throughs of the best yard haunts and haunted attractions.  Apparently, it wasn’t the trick-or-treating that was my favorite part of the holiday even as a child because I don’t have one single memory of going house to house. I know I did, for many years, but the specifics of the activity are gone. It’s the feel of Halloween that I love, if that makes any sense.

Loving the essence of horror more than specific events may explain why I have trouble remembering the details of a beloved horror movie or book when asked. I’ll remember the feel of the work more than the actual story. I love the music and darkness in movies and TV shows that anticipate the dreadful thing about to happen even more than the dreadful thing itself.

A review of my favorite things in life in a very general sense is maybe revealing, too.

I love the gloom of a foggy morning and the sound of rain on the roof. I love walking through a tree-lined path in a cemetery in the fall. I love walking alone through the long shadows of woods at twilight when the twisted limbs of trees that had seemed innocent and majestic in daylight become sinister and threatening. Those things make my spine tingle with the most uniquely pleasant chill.

So what does it say about me that I like these things more than a beautiful mountain sunset, even though I literally sit on my front porch every evening to catch one? I like them more than a warm walk on a sunlit beach, even though I crave the soul-soothing sound of the waves and the screeches of the gulls when I’ve been away from the shore for more than a year. I like them more than the ripple of pleasure that washes over me with the first snow of the season, or the first sighting of Christmas lights. I may even like them more, though I hate to admit it, than the laughter of friends at a party.

I simply cannot explain it. One thing, perhaps, is that as a child I often found more pleasure in reading than playing with friends; it’s safe to say that while I do enjoy the company of others, I have always been most comfortable enjoying solitary pleasures. And sometimes I enjoy it if that solitude has a tinge of creepiness. I love that tingle up the spine, the eruption of goose-bumps as the tiny hairs on my arms stand up when no one else is there.

I guess I’m a little twisted.

I just know that the thrill of horror is enough to drive me to create stories that I hope will spook someone else, tales for a kindred spirit, stories that will temporarily feed that grinning, drooling fiend that lurks deep within the veined, cavernous walls of their own twisted psyche craving another fright.