Growing up, I wasn’t your typical horror fan. In fact, I was far from it. While other kids might have dared to watch horror movies with a sense of bravado, I was the kind of child who kept a safe distance from anything that even hinted at the supernatural or terrifying. Yet, I had an odd fascination with the world of horror. My mother, a lover of all things cinema, exposed me to a vast array of films. One day, it could be a Star Wars marathon; the next, a deep dive into the intimate, gritty world of John Cassavetes. She introduced me to everything—blockbusters, art films, and everything in between.

But for me, horror was the forbidden fruit. I loved to read about it rather than experience it. I’d pore over copies of Famous Monsters of Filmland and Fangoria, devouring articles about special effects, makeup, and the behind-the-scenes wizardry that transformed actors into terrifying creatures. I adored seeing the technical side of horror—the fake blood, the latex masks, the intricate designs. It was safer to explore the genre in glossy print than to confront it head-on.

Then came the day I finally took the plunge: Halloween. The movie was airing on TV, and for some reason—perhaps a moment of youthful daring, or maybe a foolish sense of readiness—I decided to watch it alone. I sat there, the glow of the television casting eerie shadows across the living room, the weight of silence creeping up behind me. From the very first note of John Carpenter’s iconic score, my heart pounded. I was scared, but intrigued. As the tension built, I tried to hold it together. I wanted to be brave, to finally prove that I could handle the same films I had admired from a distance. But halfway through, I cracked. It wasn’t the knife-wielding Michael Myers or the eerie quiet of Haddonfield that broke me—it was the slow, mounting dread that became too much to bear. Desperation set in, and I bolted from the living room, straight to my mother’s room.

With wide eyes, I begged her to change the channel. She gave me a bemused look but complied, perhaps thinking that watching it with her would make it less terrifying. I climbed onto her lap, thinking that if I stayed close, the fear would vanish, shielded by the comfort of her presence. But the movie marched on, and so did my growing anxiety.

Then came the scene that truly did me in: Michael Myers, standing silently in the doorway, disguised in a ghost sheet and glasses, his blank, emotionless mask hidden beneath the innocent costume. He was motionless, but the tension in that moment was unbearable. The silence, the anticipation—it all led to a primal fear that surged through me like electricity. As the great P.J. Soles, oblivious to the danger, playfully flirted, I felt a surge of panic I couldn’t control. I jumped off my mother’s lap and bolted out of the room without a second thought.

My mother was not amused. After all, I had begged her to change the channel, insisting I could handle it. And now here I was, abandoning her in the middle of the very movie I couldn’t bear to watch alone. I had, quite literally, run from the fear—and she wasn’t going to let me forget it.

Looking back now, there’s a strange fondness for that night. It was my initiation into the world of horror films, a genre I once only admired from afar. While I couldn’t handle the fear that Halloween brought me, it planted the seed of fascination with how horror can control, terrify, and enthrall all at once. And though I ran that night, I eventually found my way back—ready, one day, to face the horror head-on.

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Stan, a native of Union, South Carolina, found inspiration for his passion for horror in the
haunting image of an abandoned house consumed by kudzu that lingered in his memories. These
days, Stan likes to watch horror movies as well as dabble in screenwriting and writing about
horror.
Find Stan on X.com/Deathlok38