For my tenth birthday, I had a slumber party. Half a dozen or so of my friends jigsawed their sleeping bags into place on the floor of our living room. Earlier, at Blockbuster, I’d picked out a movie, disregarding my mom’s gentle concern: Are you sure? It’s pretty scary. Pizza in hand, we sat down to watch . . . Poltergeist.
Reader, it was indeed pretty fucking scary. The tree. The swimming pool full of skeletons. The face-peeling bathroom mirror scene. That god-awful clown doll! My friends and I were a mess. At least one of us ended up in tears. We went to the bathroom in pairs for the rest of the night. We barely slept. My mom, I’m sure, caught some flak from the other parents, and I didn’t go anywhere near Poltergeist again for twenty-five years.
Man, I love that memory.
• • • •
Ask someone about a given horror movie and there’s a good chance they’ll tell you about how or where or with whom they watched it. God, my high school boyfriend’s older brother showed us that in their basement and I got so scared I called my mom to pick me up, or when I saw that in theaters, my friend jumped and spilled his popcorn on the people in front of us, or the crowd at the theater was yelling back at the screen, it was a blast. There’s a little bit of where were you when Kennedy was shot? to it—a trading of personal anecdotes that ties you both to a certain event. The movie and the experience of watching it are distinct from each other, yet inextricably tied. Once you start to look out for it, though, you’ll notice how many of these stories are about communal fright.
The appeal of watching a horror movie with other people, whether it’s a group of friends on the couch or a packed theater, seems obvious, especially for those of us with weenie tendencies: safety in numbers is foundational to human existence. There’s more to it than that, of course: what starts as pragmatism (nothing can get me, I’m safe in a group) can evolve into joy in the shared experience itself (I can’t wait to go see Longlegs with my friends, Jake always screams and Sarah pretends she’s not scared even though we can tell she is.) Watching with others heightens the viewing experience—your friend catches a plot detail you missed, or grabs your arm at a jump scare. There’s validation (holy shit, did you see that too?), and, for a certain type of fan, elation at a particularly horrifying monster or an especially gooey kill. And then there’s the relieved laughter at the end as the credits roll and the tension drains out of us (that was great, I can’t believe that guy got torn in half, did you see . . . ?)
What I’m describing is essentially just catharsis, sure. You can get that from almost any work of art, regardless of medium. But for my money, no other art form fosters collective catharsis like the horror film. It’s a relief when everyone else startles or yells or shrieks at the same time you do, isn’t it? If you’re the only person screaming, that lands somewhere on the spectrum of embarrassing to alarming, but if everyone else is screaming too, that’s reassuring. Surviving something frightening together—even something fictional—is a bonding experience. (NB: There are, of course, plenty of people who watch horror movies alone—I respect and fear these people, for I am not one of them. A recent attempt to watch Phil Tippett’s Mad God while home alone and lightly stoned was, shall we say, abortive.)
The thing about art is that we want to share it. It facilitates connection. We want to leave the theater and dissect plot twists over a beer, or jump on Letterboxd to write a review (and read others’ reviews). We want to rush home and tell a friend you gotta see this, I can’t wait to talk to you about it. And those movies, books, and shows we share become part of the tissue of our relationships, both with other people and with the works themselves.
• • • •
When I tell people about my book, Horror for Weenies, one of the most common responses I get is “Oh, I need that book—I’m too scared to watch stuff like that!” After dozens of versions of this interaction, I’ve learned that most people who think they “just can’t do” horror have a limited understanding of what horror actually is. They think it’s “just” slashers, or zombies, or Stephen King adaptations. It’s usually not their fault—it’s an intimidating genre, and a huge one. But if there’s one thing I hope horror novices take away from Horror for Weenies (or, frankly, any conversation with me, since I never shut up about it), it’s that horror is a very broad church. There’s room here for everybody.
Community is key when it comes to inviting new fans into the genre. I was a pretty sensitive kid, anxious and skittish and easily frightened. I didn’t have older siblings to introduce me to questionable media at a tender age, and most of my friends were more interested in musicals and rom-coms (besides, the Poltergeist incident was something of a setback). I made my way here eventually, but it took a while. Now that I am here, though, I love turning around and extending a hand to people who might be curious about horror but don’t know where to start. I encourage my fellow horror diehards to do the same. Don’t throw weenies into the deep end first thing—exercise some care for content and circumstance and sensitivity, don’t start horror novices on Hereditary, please—but do extend that invitation to your horror-curious loved ones. Worst case scenario, they don’t like the movie, but you still spent a few hours together. Best case scenario? You’ve recruited one more soul for the dark cause, and deepened a relationship while doing it.
I shared The X-Files and Buffy the Vampire Slayer with my mom. I shared Event Horizon with an old roommate, and A Quiet Place with my dad. I shared most of the thirty or so movies I watched for Horror for Weenies with my sainted husband, who encouraged me as I chaotically scribbled notes and muttered about thematic resonances. I shared The Village with a stranger who stood up the second the credits rolled and shouted “I want my money back!” I shared Glorious with a group of friends scattered around the country, all logged into the same Shudder account and sharing our real-time reactions over Discord. I shared The Wicker Man (1973, not 2006) with as many friends as I could get to sit still for it. I shared Poltergeist with a group of girls who’ve all since grown up and lost touch—but we’ll always have that fucking clown doll.
Invite people into the genre, but do it thoughtfully. Horror is so much more fun when it’s shared.
