The Haunting of Chad House
Why I love horror and maybe you should too.
When I was little, red barrel-curls on the sides of my head, I’d slide my tiny present-hungry self down in front of a Christmas tree draped with tinsel and twinkling with colors I’m convinced could only be found before 1987. It was, like most kids, my favorite holiday. New G.I. Joe’s to stage battles with, robots to transform, and paper to manically rip and toss aside. Then, at some point I can’t pinpoint, my favorite colors shifted from red and green to orange and black.
At first, it might’ve been the decapitated head-like pumpkins full of candy and dressing like monsters and super heroes that drew me in. But I haven’t trod dimly lit streets begging for candy in years, and I still look forward to the time of year when I might see plastic mummies juxtaposed against signs for the new chicken strip combo at restaurants, and giant, inflatable black cats in people’s yards.
In the last few years, that love has crept into my fiction. While I will always love a good fantasy novel or a bit of sci-fi, there’s something about horror that speaks directly to a quiet, deep spot in me like nothing else. I think it’s because behind the bloody knives and otherworldly monsters there’s often someone whispering to our deepest pain.
Reanimated corpses surrounding our favorite characters to devour their yummy brains speak to us more about the dangers of losing our individuality, and our fear of death and loss, than the eating habits of the rambling dead. Haunted houses remind us that the trauma we don’t deal with is inescapable, and not only devours us but everyone we care about. The movies and books culture tends to see as mindless, bloody fun (or the glorification of evil) are often rife with meaningful messages on the darker aspects of society, the pain of grief, isolation, and every other emotion and experience we tend to avoid. Horror often helps us scale the improbable heights of these psychological and existential terrors from a safe distance.
It's no wonder it’s been said that horror might be the most honest genre. It’s so heart-wrenching because the wicked thing on-screen usually represents something equally horrifying in life. Even horror that doesn’t readily point to a grander idea points us to the suddenness and cruel nature of death. Its reminder that death is inevitable, forever pursuing us, comes with a gift—the greater reminder to live before death sinks the rusty edge of its blade into our skulls.
Maybe it’s not for you. Maybe the scariest thing you can watch are Hallmark movies featuring a successful businesswoman falling in love with a down-to-earth bed and breakfast owner who turns out to be Santa’s son (Trademarked). Please. Enjoy. But as October stalks past us with inhuman, silent speed, I thought it was important to offer a reminder to those already putting that judgmental elf on his shelf. Behind the unkillable masked stalkers and haunted real estate; behind the scantily clad sorority sisters and demonic possessions, there’s something deeper. Often spoken through the gurgled last breath of every victim is a passionate plea for us to better love ourselves and one another.