Month: March 2024

Hello, awesome people of Kindertrauma!

As a lifelong horror fan, I have heard time and again that scary movies are bad for me, will keep me from sleeping, have no socially redeeming value, and turn ordinary, sweet people into savage murderers. Sound familiar? I would take the fictional creations that scared me as a child over the real-life frights of being an adult. Taxes, the news, the cost of groceries and rent, the education system, the general public, influencers, skinny jeans, ads in paid streaming services? Far scarier than Jason Voorhees, Leatherface, Killbots, Buffy St. John, or Creepozoids. The gruesome, grisly, ghastly images seen in my youth may have traumatized me or caused me fear, but I loved it. I still do.

We wouldn’t be here together on this page if we didn’t love to be scared. The following are some of the horrors that scarred me as a kid and served as inspiration for my latest novel, The Felicitous, a story about a woman who moves to a ghost town—one that may or may not be inhabited by a malicious, murderous cult.

Scooby-Doo: Vampire Bats and Scaredy Cats (1977).

Scooby-Doo was my gateway into grown-up horror. My favorite cartoon then and now, Channel 11 in my hometown played reruns early every weekday morning. I watched as I got ready for school, learning that the real monsters were people. Then I saw this episode, where Daphne’s friend Lisa would morph into a fanged, bloodthirsty vampire (complete with wild cougar growl sound effect). It started a deep childhood conviction that vampires were indeed real, and I was on their intended snack list. We had a walnut tree outside our house growing up. When the walnuts

would fall and crash down on the awnings, I would shudder and hide, because it was clearly the vampires coming for me. That made perfect sense to me at the time. We didn’t have sparkly, or friendly, vampires in those days—or Buffy to protect us.

The Haunted (1991).

This made-for-television movie took all of my fears and combined them. Ghosts, demons, things that go bump in the night, and some haggard looking monster that tried to hump the men in the house. I’d seen haunted house movies before, but this one had an extra, bonus terror—the beings in the house followed the family. Until then, I thought, “Hey, you could just move.” Oh, no. That was how I discovered that some spirits aren’t attached to the house, they’re attached to you. And they’ll follow you to the park and eat your picnic lunch before they take you to hell. Every noise in the house seemed twenty times louder and more sinister after I saw this movie. That shadow in the corner of my vision? Clearly, it was the Brunhilda-esque hump monster who would be throwing my Peanuts covers off of my bed at night and kissing my face with her rotted, black teeth.

Slaughter High (1986).

I rented this one on VHS from a Mom-and-Pop video store in town. Though it’s not particularly scary and I was too young at the time to understand how mean-spirited it is, I liked it…up to a point. But when Shirley’s death rolled around, a new fear was unlocked. Poor, dim Shirley, who decided the best idea during a killer’s revenge spree would be to take a bath in an abandoned school. I get it, Shirley, you’re covered in blood and guts. It’s gross. I’d hate it, too. But Shirley’s decision to leave the safety of her friends and get into the tub has stuck with me my entire life. The water in the tub turns to acid and fries, burns, and strips the flesh off of Shirley’s body in vivid, practical special effects detail. Does she get out of the tub quickly? No. Does she somehow have trouble simply stepping out of the bathtub to save herself? Yes. Shirley, you were not too bright, but your death has haunted me. If my shower makes a single noise, I’m convinced it’s the acid getting ready to burst through the pipes.

A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984).

I begged my dad to let me watch this on television when I was twelve. He relented and my little brain was blown away. Up until this point, I thought dreams couldn’t hurt you. Now I knew—they could kill you. Some creep in a dirty sweater with a clawed hand was coming and I couldn’t escape, no matter where I went. No one can escape their dreams. I was unsafe. My bed was a trap, a prison. Freddy would find me wherever I went and manipulate my dreams. I didn’t sleep for a week after I watched it. One night, my dad came into my room to ask what was wrong. I asked him where we go after we die and what happens to us. Dad shrugged and said, “Nothing. We just lie in blackness and don’t even know we’re dead. Forever.” Then, patting himself on the back and thinking he’d just given me gold-star comfort, he left me alone to envision being mauled by Freddy and descending into infinite blackness.

Creepshow 2 (1987).

The segment entitled “The Raft” has never, ever left the dark recesses of my brain. Deke’s yellow bikini? That rapey jerk Randy, who got exactly what was coming to him? But more than any of those things, the brutal, drawn-out death of poor, sweet Rachel at the hands (tentacles?) of the slimy, oily, garbage bag thing floating in the water. When she screamed, “It hurts!”, my youthful brain was forever disturbed on a deep level. Water, especially murky water, is horrifying enough on its own, full of creatures and beasts ready to attack. “The Raft” is next-level gruesome tomfoolery. Whenever I am near any body of water, my eyes look for the black mass that eagerly waits to mindlessly dissolve and devour me. Not today, aquatic Glad trash bag. Not today!

Special mention goes to those hissing Sleestaks, Jaws (1975), 1988’s The Blob (especially when it traps lovable Fran in the phone booth), Michael Myers standing under the red light outside the hospital in 1981’s Halloween II, John Diehl in 1984’s Angel, Nickelodeon’s Into the Labyrinth, and that absolutely harrowing HBO short film where the film reels eat some unsuspecting guy. These have all remained in my subconscious for decades.

Thank you so much for reading! I will be signing copies of my books The Felicitous and You Better Watch Out at The Horror Depot’s Author Con at Rhode Island College’s Union Hall on Saturday, March 23^rd, so if you’re around, come say hello to me and share your childhood traumas!