My Horrific Upbringing

Films and Books Nurtured Me in This Genre, Too

The first time my mom allowed me to stay up late to watch a “scary” movie, I was 10 years old. Dr. Evil’s Theater of Terror broadcast every Friday night at 11:30 P.M., and I had begged mom “Please let me stay up, please, I promise I won’t get nightmares! Please!” This campaign had dragged on for about a month when she finally relented with a stern (for her) warning, “You’d better not get me up, boy! And if you dream about it, stay in your bed! Don’t wake me!”

That week’s offering was “Werewolf of London”, a famous creepy 1935 flick. I knew it was famous because I faithfully read the magazine “Famous Monsters of Filmland”, and the articles there said it was famous. So, there it is. My dad was on second shift at the textile plant back then, so he came in through the front door right beside the television set as usual. Not expecting me to be up that late, he stopped in the doorway and asked in that father tone of voice,

“ What are you doing up? Your mother know you’re in here?” He didn’t appear more than curious, and I could safely answer both questions, “Yes sir! She said it was OK with her. I’m watching a werewolf movie”

Dad came on into the room, closing and locking the door behind him before he checked on what I was watching. He laughed and told me about one of his own monster movie experiences.

“When I was older than you, a teenager,” Dad began, “my friends and I went to the Midway Theater, the same one you go to on Saturdays. Me and Jack , my best friend, and some others had been to see The Mummy. It was dark when we got out and we had a couple of miles to walk to your grandpa’s house. So, we’re walking along and being brave — as boys, we never let on that we were afraid of anything. We’d got down to that creek that runs by the cotton mill when we heard a noise in the bushes. Like to’ve scared the shit out of us, and we all let out a yell then took off running like scalded dogs, flat out til we got home.”

As much as I liked his stories about growing up — except when they illustrated how I was paid too much to mow the lawn, or how easy we kids had it, the movie was coming back from a commercial. Fortunately, he left me to get ready for bed pausing long enough to remind me to not leave the TV on all night and not to make much noise.

Watching alone in the semi-darkness of our living room on a black and white TV imparted a special magic unmatched by the dilapidated movie house, the Midway. It just seems spookier with the glow of the TV as the only light in the room. At the movies, we all goofed around around, throwing popcorn and sailing the flattened boxes at the screen. But alone, the story sucked me in to the point that if anything sudden had happened, I might just have wet my britches.

Of course, when the show was over and the station played the national anthem, I made sure to switch on some kind of light so I could make it to my bed. Those things I had seen just might really be lurking in the shadows!

That was the start of my love affair with horror in general and the movies in particular. My all-time favorite has been the werewolf in all of the permutations I’ve read and watched. After all, to change from an average citizen into a beast that is larger, stronger, has great hair, plus free to let the ego blossom in all of its terrible glory. Damn, what thing that would be! I don’t know about the blood lust, random mauling, and killing; I’d still be the baddest mother on the street.

I still like a dreadful atmosphere with less explicit gore; my imagination can usually supply some pretty danged good visuals. I credit that ability to learning to appreciate horror stories in the printed versions. My elementary school had what I thought was a pretty decent library— my favorite thing about school by a long shot . Its shelves contained several hardcover anthologies titled Alfred Hitchcock Presents Stories to Amaze You, Stories of Suspense, etc. They were enormously popular with my friends and me because we had all seen episodes of the TV show anthology hosted by a droll Hitchcock. The one story that made me feel that a monster was true, that grabbed me by the collar and refused to release me was Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper by Robert Bloch. The author builds a sense of dread that caused my breathing to quicken, my neck to tingle like it does when thinking I’m being watched, as if Jack could be stalking me; I was in his world and shiver went through me. I had been well and truly hooked by this macabre creation.  

Reaching adulthood, I remembered what a delicious treat Yours Truly… was and I furthered learned that Robert Bloch had not only written the novel Psycho, but co-wrote the screenplay, my admiration for Mr Bloch scooted on up the scale. If you think about it, who has watched that shower scene and found themselves wary of the shower or forswearing them? 

I searched relentlessly until I found the particular Hitchcock anthology in which I had originally encountered the story and secured a copy. One could term me a fan, I suppose. That story remains a touchstone and I would add others as my reading fueled this fascination.

Dropping back to when my friends and I read the classic novels on which the monster movies were based, we had a few adjustments to make on how we felt about these classics of film and literature. We devoured Frankenstein; or The Modern Prometheus, Dracula, The Invisible Man, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (they were the Core Four to us) and learned that the films’ key scenes, sometimes the entire plot, bore no or little resemblance to the books. This startling development culled those of us who could not reconcile the texts with the films. When the credits informed us that the screenplay was “based on”, they weren’t kidding! The texts did not include any hunchbacked lab assistant for Victor Frankenstein; Dr. Jekyll did not transform into a hideous man-beast, rather, his ego was unleashed without restraint.

It took a few years for me to appreciate in full the lack of cheap thrills in the books; absent a detailed description of scenes, my imagination supplied the necessary sickening images in their stead. This changed in 1973, as The Exorcist by William Blatty made the rounds of my unit where I was stationed at Shaw AFB in the middle of South Carolina. 

Brought up as a child to attend a Southern Baptist church, my religious education was conservative, involving a broad understanding of both testaments and cultivating skills to quickly access any reference. My beliefs formed then have changed a bit, but here is what hasn’t: belief in God logically demands a belief in Satan. Belief in angelic hosts logically requires the same of demonic armies.

But believing there is evil and confronting such a detailed depiction are different things. The demon as presented in the novel made my skin crawl and goosebumps pop up on my arms. 

Yes, the novel produced those feelings within me because I can lose myself in fiction of all types, but what sprang from the screen in that darkened theater amplified those same reactions,flooding me with dread. That was the first time I was ever as scared in a film audience and no other film has approached that . 

A few years later, I read my first Stephen King novel, Salem’s Lot which chronicled the subsuming of a small New England village by a vampire assisted by a human bonded to him. King paints scenes that crawl with shadows and fear of what may lie hidden by them. My favorite scene is the confrontation between the local priest afflicted with a crisis of faith and the vampire. The crucifix thrust forward to ward off the creature glows at first with a blue fire arising from within it. As the vampire’s aide taunts him, his newly charged faith lessens and the bluish glow fades to nothing as the vampire grabs and crushes the cross in his hand.

I had drifted away from church, belief, and religion some years prior to the movie experience, yet I maintained superstitions such as a deep respect for the objects of crosses and Bibles; making sure that I did nothing to bring harm to these physical trappings. A mental image blossomed to life; the vampire with a scowling leer exercised dominance over the priest and by extension scoffed with intention at God. In my chest was a heaviness and the blood drained from my face. sleep came with some wariness for several weeks as I could imagine that creature in the shadows that darkened the corners of my bedroom. Exquisite, rich with sensations that could be produced by nothing else.

I still watch The Exorcist on occasion, it’s a classic and it still gives me the heebie-jeebies; the demon scenes still get a startle reflex even though they are no longer a true surprise. I have maintained my love of that feeling of uncertainty and fear, it has morphed into something I can’t let go of, don’t want to let go of; it is a part of what makes me want to write, to share the love.

The creature at the root of my passion, the werewolf, remains my favorite manifestation of a monster. The pathos of being changed against your will, coping with urges and hungers that are so unnatural, loping across the moors, both drawn and driven by the ancient power of the full moon, or howling through the dark old-growth forest, both prey and predator. That is powerful stuff. That is what my love of horror is all about.