I am 22 years old, and with increasing age I find myself less scared of all things that used to freak the bejesus out of me up until a few years ago – the idea of sudden appearances of girls in my room in the middle of the night, a serial killer lurking somewhere in my living room, a face grinning at me from the top of the cupboard, or that horrific child-thing from The Grudge – you know, the usual scares. But lately, I am immune to them. My friends would scream every time they hear claps in The Conjuring, while I would be scouring the depths of my popcorn tub, wondering why they are so intent on rendering me deaf. The funniest part of the situation is – I miss being scared. I miss jumping out of my skin at the thought of a ghost looking over me while I sleep, but it just does not happen anymore. I rarely come across a movie – a book even less so – which has the power to give me a sleepless night. I don’t break out in a cold sweat while reading something that (barely) belongs to the horror genre, and I don’t call up my friends asking them if I could sleep over at theirs after watching Annabelle. Movies, to an extent, can still give you momentary scares; they are a visual medium and, thus, have the advantage of the element of surprise. Books, on the other hand, need to be written by someone with terrific syntax, someone that can gradually enable the hair on your arms to rise in absolute, pure terror. Stephen King, sure, but he is the sole bulb in a basket full of wannabe bulbs who can’t shine enough to save their lives.
The last I remember being scared of reading something was a book called Night Film Marisha Pessl. The genre it falls under is along the lines of ‘paranormal thriller/film noir’, and to an extent it did live up to its label. It is the story of a disreputed and disgruntled journalist who, in an earlier time, had dared to question the morality of world-renowned horror-filmmaker Stanislas Cordova. In the present day, he reads about the apparent suicide of the filmmaker’s daughter, Ashley Cordova, and goes out to prove that it wasn’t, in fact, suicide and involved foul play. On his journey henceforth, he comes across certain supernatural elements pertaining to the girl’s father and the girl herself.
Okay, here is the thing. You would not understand the element of horror that permeates your brain unless you delve into this book yourself. I was so pleased with how much it frightened me (I had to sleep with the lights on for the entire time I was reading the book; again, I am 22 years old), that I went about asking all my friends to read it as soon as they can.
I had a slump once again after that, which hasn’t been fulfilled by either book or movie to date. I follow the suggestions of the good people on Book Riot, and they – collectively – were talking about the awesomeness of this book called Bird Box by Josh Malerman. Now, I have never before heard of the author, nor had I heard of the book until Book Riot told me about it. And you know what the great part is? The synopsis gave me the creeps! I was so excited, I immediately reserved it at my local library (book-buying for me is banned before Christmas, folks).
I remember thinking, after the realization struck me that I am absolutely fearless (yeah, right), why is it that I don’t get scared anymore? The easier answer was that I am past the age where grinning dolls would be able to get my adrenaline rushing. The more deep, though-out answer was that I am at that age (okay, age is the common denominator here) where more than the physical, it is the psychological that would have a more compelling effect on me. It will more be the thought of something scary than the actual, physical presence of a dead man with deep gashes on his face that would have any effect on my fearlessness. It is the fear of not knowing what it is than actual, visible poltergeists in the house that would mess with my psyche (no, I am not scared by any of the Paranormal Activities).
I hear people ask – what kind of masochism is this that is fulfilled by experiencing fear? Fret not, I researched it. Scare Specialist (yes, that is a thing) Dr. Margee Kerr explains it all here. Apparently, some people like being scared because it leaves them with a sense of confidence when it is all over. I am not in the habit of psychoanalyzing myself, and that is a good enough explanation for me.
So again, we come to what may scare someone like me. Well, I am trying a lot of books, usually recommended by others. Book Riot, again, talked about a book called The Shining Girls by Lauren Beukes, which I am currently reading. The premise, in a few well-chosen words, is a time travelling serial killer trying to finish off a list of girls he calls The Shining Girls – one of them escapes and vows to finish him off and put an end to his lunacy (lunacy is probably a weak word in this context).
I am hoping this will manage to give me the chills, if not downright make me want to keep the book in the fridge (gosh, I love Joey). Until then, I will be scourging through lists of books that made people’s hearts leap into their mouths, and maybe give my own heart an extra couple of leaps as well.
Postcards from Baker Street 