Humble Beginnings
For me The Terror, the kind that is in it's humble beginnings and is therefore in it's simplest forms began while I was still in my mother's stomach (I say stomach because right now we are discussing childhood innocence) and branching from jokes I have made with my family (and I believe) that I was frankly too afraid of coming out into the "real world" (the same fear that upcoming graduates of high school feel). I was having too much fun swimming around in my moms (stomach acid?) stomach to even think about worrying about what was out there in the real world, plus after my brother had left I had the whole pad to myself. It was a great life. But the real world was a-callin' and I had to answer her. The world I entered that day was a far from perfect one but it was just about the only choice of worlds I had. My world was not one of constant danger or violence and it didn't bring much to be afraid of in my daily life. I suppose that is what attracted me so much to the "scary" or "horror" story. It was frightening, it was new, it was dangerous, it was the ultimate parting from my little, safe, suburban lifestyle.I always loved a good story (still do), as a young boy with a hankering to write and an over active imagination I could always go for a good folktale or one of the sort. But my favorite story was always of the ghostly variety. Those classic campfire stories (one of which I heard at camp on a night hike that scared the buhjeezers out of me and that if I can recall or find it I may write it up in a future post) seemed to me the most immersive kind of stories. You lose yourself in the crackling of the fire and the wide open eyes of the storyteller, and worst of all: the darkness. Yep, that's the creepy campfire storyteller's best friend. You lose yourself in the darkness, ya get pulled in. That tree is the moss monster your guide warned you about, that tall reading lamp is the murderer your older sister said lived down the street, just a couple house down.
These were the first times I dipped my toe into the ice cold lake at ole' Camp "Axe Murders", or heard the creaky gate open in front of that old abandoned house up on Ghost Haunt Hill. The real terror began when my friend turned me on to a grown up author known by everyone it seemed as the scariest writer around: Stephen King. From then on I worshiped the man. Up there with John Lennon was a man I could aspire to be. Not only that but I finally discovered what I wanted to do as a writer: scare the living socks off even the most brave men (and women).
Now with a little back story to warm you up, here is the point I'm getting at: This blog will be a variety of things but it was always revolve around my passion for the horror genre.
Come on in...
You've rang my doorbell and as I open the door to coo at your wonderfully scary costumes, maybe a skeleton or a vampire, you yell out trick-or-treat! and I, the treat-er (as to make sure I do not become the trick-ee) drop candy into each of your already heavy, weighted down pillowcases and with a yell of HAPPY HALLOWEEN! you run off, back to the street to look over the trips haul so far. You have scrapped together some pretty good loot but you notice that the other houses' goodies can't seem to compare to the king-size ones from my house.
Book and movie discussions, reviews, philosophical takes, stories, creeps, crawlers, ghosts, zombies, vampires oh my! Everything your horror loving inner psychopath desires.
As you turn around your friends are gone, the street is empty. All that remains is my house, the door now open, a bony finger curls as a voice from deep within calls your name. Come on in, join us. We have a little gathering coming together and we think you'd be a fine addition.
