For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to scary stuff.

I’m Susannah, a mom of two living in Houston, Texas, and I love to disappear into books and movies (when I have time, of course). I especially love horror movies and scary stories.

I have very clear childhood memories of roaming the aisles of Blockbuster on Friday nights as my family searched for our weekend movie rentals, as was our habit. I remember feeling a mix of emotions due to the vivid images on the VHS cover art—disgust, fear, and curiosity most of all, followed by a rush of anxiety as I made sure to hide what I was looking at.

Horror movies almost never earned the nod of approval from my mother or father, instead earning a dismissive eye roll or an exasperated sigh or a blunt, “Absolutely not.”

But come Halloween, the rules magically loosened, and we were allowed to engage with some horror films. Mostly scary movies marketed to children that were still quite unsettling in some ways—Caspar, Hocus Pocus, Something Wicked This Way Comes, The Witches. (I’ll never forget that one Halloween my grandparents accidentally let me watch Poltergeist because they saw that it had children in the main cast, and they were huge fans of Craig T. Nelson’s TV show, Coach.)  

For some reason, the rules surrounding what I read were much more relaxed. I could come home from the school library with abridged yet vividly illustrated versions of Frankenstein, Dracula, and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and no one batted an eye. There was no concern for my fascination with children’s books about witches, monsters, ghouls, or whatever spooky creature had my attention that week. Though when I graduated to more adult titles that lacked the prestige pedigree, such as Anne Rice’s Interview with a Vampire, there were sideways glances and pauses that were not entirely free from judgment.

As I got older, it was gradually but firmly made clear to me that this “hobby” of mine was something to keep to myself. No, they did not care to read this book with me or watch this film with me. No, they did not want to have a conversation about it. They weren’t going to outright tell me to stop, but it was clear that this was my hobby alone.

I understood that these stories and movies could provoke intense reactions—that was kind of the point, and not all horror is aiming for the same reaction. But surely the people close to me could understand that some of these books and films were art, just like any other expertly made book or film? That they made me feel something very real and worthwhile that I wanted to share with them?