I wish I could be one of those “normal” females that listens to Adele and eats Red Velvet Cupcakes and has wine nights with her girlfriends. Who drools over Channing Tatum and gets excited over Nicolas Sparks novel-movies and probably reads Cosmo. God knows what else. Instead, I am normal in my own abnormal way. I’d prefer steak tartare (or any rare piece of beef, for that matter) over a cupcake, whiskey to wine, and I don’t watch chick flicks. Ever. This is a story of how I came to be the completely deranged individual you see before you.
One of my earliest memories was sharing a bedroom with my half-sister. I was no older than four, and she was at least seventeen. My side of the bedroom included Barbie wallpaper, stuffed animals, Lisa Frank stickers, and various other things that four year old girls like. Her side of the bedroom was plastered with Neil Gaiman ‘Sandman’ posters and paraphernalia. Marilyn Manson, Nine Inch Nails, and Mindless Self Indulgence cd’s littered a bookshelf. Despite the juxtaposition between the two of us, I couldn’t help but be fascinated by all the strange, dark, things she surrounded herself with. One of her figurines in particular always fascinated me- Hellraiser’s Pinhead. I remember looking at it and thinking “What’s wrong with him? Does it hurt? How did so many nails get into this man’s head?!” Fascination aside, I was terrified. I mean really, I was four! This character both intrigued me and haunted me- I wanted to know everything about this man but I was too afraid to find out.
One of the first songs I was taught as a child was the theme to ‘Sweeney Todd.’
For what seemed like years, I had extremely vivid, recurring dreams about this teddy bear my mother owned and dolls I owned coming to life and stalking me. The storyline was always the same- I would be walking through a massive version of my house, alone, in the dark, in the middle of the night. I’d hear the dolls/bears whispering, taunting me. In order to get back to the safety of my bedroom, I had to walk by my parents room where the bear and doll were. I’d peer in and see it just sitting there… I don’t remember if it had glowing red eyes or if its lips were moving but I’m pretty sure that doll had a fucking knife. After those dreams, I got rid of all my toys and swore I’d never watch Child’s Play. Now, I understand that my fears were nothing more than what Freud would call ‘The Uncanny,’ but at the time I honestly thought my dolls were going to kill me.
Before I could even read, I fell in love with Stephen King. Between my mother’s art books and my father’s Stephen King novels, I’d entertain myself for hours by simply staring at book covers. My parents said I was too young to watch horror movies, but they’d never know if I looked at the movie stills inside of ‘Carrie’ and ‘The Shining’ right? I think I was about six when I saw Sissy Spacek covered in blood. Truth be told, her normal face scared me. But seeing that black and white photo of her covered in blood… it gave me chills! Same with Shelley Duvall in ‘The Shining;’ seeing that image of her cowering in a corner while Jack Nicholson is axe-ing down the door was truly haunting. Once I could read, I devoured as many King novels as humanly possible. The way uses such beautiful imagery to describe such grotesque scenarios is what initially inspired me to write. He is my idol. I wanted to “be the next Stephen King” for a while, then decided I’d rather be a doctor and make buckets of money, then decided I’d rather be happy. Happiness is scaring people.
I started writing scary stories, about werewolf teens, paintings coming to life, bloodthirsty animals, and god knows what else. I couldn’t stop. My teachers thought I was brilliant and I was proud of my work. I was enrolled in this program for ‘Talented Youths’ by Johns Hopkins because everyone thought I was going to become some great writer. That did not last.
Flash forward to high school, where teachers don’t give a shit about creative writing because everything is college prep. I was constantly made fun of. Whether it was my hair, my glasses, my body, my clothes, the fact that I was a nerd… both the boys and girls I went to school with were relentless. I was pretty much a nerdy ragamuffin who wore hand me downs because my family was poor. It wasn’t uncommon for people to yell “freak” at me as I walked down the halls with classmates. I had no friends. I stopped writing. I had no motivation because everyone around me constantly dismissed creative writing as being silly. Plus I was already made fun of so much, I was convinced that anything I wrote was going to suck anyway. I tried to transfer schools, but the Principal wouldn’t let me. I found solace in Emo music (My Chemical Romance) Edgar Allan Poe. As corny as it sounds, I truly felt like I could relate to Poe’s feelings of melancholy and loneliness; I just wanted to be liked by my peers but it never happened. I got older and started modeling. Now, instead of being hated for being weird, I was hated for being prettier than the other girls. I couldn’t win. It was terrible. Then I graduated, got accepted to a college where no one else from my school was going, and got the hell out of dodge.
College wasn’t much better because I still had no friends, but I was a staircase away from the 1 train, had a dorm room to myself, and an endless supply of horror films to occupy my time.
I started writing for Fangoria in college when I decided to switch majors. Initially, I was a business major because I felt like it would be the most useful degree I could have. Unfortunately, everyone was an asshole, and I needed to be around people and classes more creative because the boredom of Macroeconomics honestly made me want to throw myself out my dorm window. I switched to Journalism, because hey, writing alway came naturally to me so at least I would get good grades. I started writing for the school newspaper, which I was extremely nervous about because I hadn’t written in years. To my surprise, the editors, my classmates, and my professors raved about my work. I felt like I was back where I belonged. I knew I needed to do an Internship at a magazine somewhere. I said to myself, “If I’m going to do this, I need to get an internship at the only horror magazine that exists.” I emailed Fangoria and a YEAR later I received a response from Tony Timpone.
Although I was not able to write any juicy, featured articles for the magazine, I am still very grateful for the experience. Fangoria showed me that although it is a very niche market, it is possible to make a career out of horror. WHY HORROR? It is my security blanket. It can be beautiful (The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, Suspiria), disturbing (A Serbian Film, Nekromantik), grotesque (Cabin Fever, Tokyo Gore Police), exploitative (Street Trash, Basket Case), hilarious (Evil Dead, Dead Alive), and much much more. In my opinion, horror can affect an individual emotionally more than any other genre. It’s powerful.
After Fangoria, I began doing research for The National Science Foundation about video game players having transcendent experiences in MMORPGS. Naturally, I chose the only horror game that exists, Requiem: Memento Mori. This was not a smart move, because the limited number of players made it all but impossible to gather data. I chose to study what made the game ‘scary’- psychoanalytic studies on fear responses, what it means for something to be grotesque, folklore about monsters and mythical creatures, witchcraft, demonology, atmosphere and sound in relation to fear responses… all of which helped me to understand horror better and what causes people to be truly scared.
Being a female trying to gnaw my way into the horror industry is not easy, both career-wise and socially. Whenever I tell people I want to write horror films, I receive this weird look of shock and pity, as if they’re thinking “Oh you poor girl, what happened to you?” Or people laugh, because they think I’m joking. I am constantly single because I am the ‘weird horror girl who’s into fucked up shit,’ and unfortunately most men who are into the same things I am are sort of… mentally unstable. (One day I’ll be able to have intelligent conversations with another human about horror, one day.)
While I am not your typical female, I’m glad i’m not. It’s always the slightly weird, outcast kids that really make names for themselves anyway.
Can you relate? Are you deranged too? Did you grow up with the same weird doll nightmares? Let me know below, we’ll talk it out.
xxx, samfox.
Future Ex-Ghoulfriend 