Horror movies haven’t fixed my family, but they’re helping

Horror(ˈhôrər) movies haven’t fixed my family, but they’re helping

By Chris Campeau

I’m seven years old and I can’t sleep; a woman’s screams are lifting from the vents(vent) in my bedroom floor.

Gingerly(ˈjinjərlē), I make my way downstairs(dounˈsterz), and to my relief(rəˈlēf), the shrieks(SHrēk) aren’t coming from my mother. On our two-foot-deep television, my oldest brother is watching a teenaged(ˈtēnājd) girl try to evade(əˈvād) a man in a striped(strīpt) sweater(ˈswedər). Beneath(bəˈnēTH) a fedora(fəˈdôrə), the man’s face is a mess of sores(sôr) the likes of which I’ve never seen (and shouldn’t be seeing at an age as tender as his skin). My brother, with his back to me, has no idea I’m in the room. Fright-stricken(ˈstrikən), I tiptoe(ˈtipˌtō) back to my bedroom. There, I live out the first of many nightmares in which Freddy Krueger fillets(fiˈlā) me. My pledge(plej) is obvious: to stay as far away from horror movies as I can.

That year, 1995, my parents separate, and something comes over me. I watch Stephen King’s It, John(jän) Carpenter’s(ˈkärpən(t)ər) Halloween(ˌhaləˈwēn), and Frank Marshall’s Arachnophobia(əˌraknəˈfōbēə). Fear sticks to me like blood on bedsheets, but I can’t get enough. Remorseful(rəˈmôrsfəl) for disrupting our familial(fəˈmilyəl) foundation – and eager(ˈēɡər) to please us – my father permits(pərˈmit) my brothers and me to rent whatever R-rated movies we want. Every other Sunday, when I return from a weekend at his house, I beg my mother to allow us the same liberty(ˈlibərdē): “ … but Dad lets us watch them. I’m not scared!” Irritated(ˈirəˌtādəd), she shuts me down. It’s just as well. She knows Pet(pet) Sematary(ˈseməˌnerē) chilled(CHild) me dry.

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