IT'S IN THE BLOOD

By Jay Sivyer

If I have to blame someone for my love of the horror genre, I guess I have no option but to point a finger at my mother.

It's true, I know, that it's easy to use your parents (or at least one of them) as a scapegoat, as the source of any problem (or problems) you may have (Freud was certainly a vocal advocate of this), but you have to believe me, that in this case it's true. And before you even begin to launch an attack on me, take a quick glance at what I wrote: "love of the horror genre." That's right, I'm not criticising my mother for anything; in fact, I'm thanking her.

It was my mother who left copies of Carrie, The Shining, The Fog, Audrey Rose, The Exorcist, and Catacombs laying around the house. It was my mother who, during our weekly trip to the local library, had me hunting for such titles as Ghost Story, The Keep, and I Am Legend - books that she wanted to read. And it was my mother who, on one of these visits, organised for an additional card on her account, which she gave to me. "You've pretty much exhausted the children's section," she said. "Go find something new." I remember standing before her (in the days when the top of my head only came up to her waist), holding the freshly printed green card (yellow was for teenagers, pink for children) in my hands, gazing admiringly at it as though I was Percival, my quest completed, and I had finally found the Holy Grail.

With this card I could borrow any book from the library. No longer was I restricted to those titles with the circular pink sticker on their spines - I was free to roam, to take whatever took my fancy, to stand toe to toe with the other adults as they thumbed through the latest Wilbur Smith, Robert Ludlum, Jackie Collins, or James Clavell novel. This ADULT card would enable me to scour the spindle stands that were full of well-worn, yellowing paperbacks - many of which had pictures of buxom women and muscle-ripped men adorning their covers. I could have anything my heart desired; the library was now my own personal playground, and nothing, not one single book, was off limits to me.

At first, my mother quite possibly could have regretted her decision, for there were so many books to choose from that after an hour of moving from one well-stocked shelf to another, I had yet to claim even a single one. Part of the problem was that there were too many - how was I to discern the difference between a good book and a bad one? Most of the titles and names of authors were new to me, and after a while they all seemed to blur into one. I started at A, but by the time I got to F I had already forgotten what had come before. The other problem was that this was before the library provided plastic baskets for its visitors, and if I had taken down every book that showed promise (judging by the cover and blurb alone), by the time I got to C (or perhaps even B), my tiny arms would have been unable to carry any more. For every book that caught my attention, another two or three quickly took its place.

So what was I to do? There I was, with the Golden Ticket in my hand, still revelling in the afterglow of having received such a gift, but with so many choices before me I couldn't make a single one.

My mother had already checked out her four books and was sitting on a faded chair in the far corner of the library, flipping through the pages of a copy of the local newspaper while she waited patiently for my odyssey to come to an end. That she understood what I was going through, I did not doubt, and I was sure she would be the first to sympathise with my dilemna. Yet, even knowing this, I was also aware that the clock was ticking closer to 5pm, and whatever concoction she had roasting away in the oven back home would pretty soon take precedence. As tolerant as my mother is (and always has been - she has to be with a son such as I!), greater is her need to adhere to any schedule she has imposed upon herself.

Finding myself in such a postion, I decided to follow a piece of advice my father once gave me: "When in doubt, go with what you know." It had been years since he had imparted this nugget of wisdom to me, and at the time when he told me I truly didn't have a clue as to what he meant, but that day in the library it suddenly came back to me and finally made some sense. Without hesitation, I took off for the F section and pulled down a book, tucked it under my arm, and then sped toward K, S, and W. Within two minutes I had four books (all that my newly minted green card would permit me), and I wandered proudly over to my mother.

She glanced at the authors I had chosen: John Farris, Stephen King, Peter Straub, and F. Paul Wilson. With a wry smile she looked up at me. "You're sure about these?"

I nodded. "Yep. You liked them, so I know they're good."

My mother chuckled. "Okay. But they're pretty scary. You okay with that?"

"I don't care what it's about," I said, "as long as it's good. And you think they're good, so I wanna read them."

She grunted approvingly, then went to the counter and checked out the books for me - the librarians followed strict rules, and not allowing a child to use a green card was right up there with "No Smoking/Eating/Drinking in the Library" and "Please Be Quiet."

When we arrived home I proudly showed off my selection of books to the rest of the family: my two sisters pulled faces and shuddered when they saw the pictures on some of the covers, and my stepfather cast my mother a dubious look. Yet it were these reactions that confirmed to me I had made a good choice. I thanked my mum again and went to my room, laid the books out on the bed and went about the task of trying to decide which one I should read first. I ended up choosing 'Salem's Lot. I can't really tell you why I picked that as my first horror novel to read, but there was something about the entirely black cover, save for a small drop of red blood in the bottom left hand corner, that intrigued me. It had no blurb, no recommendations from other authors - nothing. I suppose I thought it quite mysterious, a Pandora's Box type of novel: who knew what resided within its pages, what terrifying events lurked between the covers? I started reading that very night.

The next morning, at breakfast, I sat at the kitchen counter with the copy of 'Salem's Lot in my hands. "It's not scary," I told mum. "You said it was scary."

She cocked an eyebrow at me. "What page are you up to?"

"Forty," I said. "It's interesting. But nothing scary's happened."

She grinned. "Keep reading."

That night I delved deeper into the book, and the story of Ben and what was happening to this sleepy little town was beginning to reel me in. It had still to scare me, but plenty of weird things were going on to make me want to continue reading. A few days later, I rolled up to breakfast looking more than a little haggered, black bags nestled under my eyes. My mum frowned at me with concern and asked what was wrong.

"I couldn't sleep," I said. She asked why. "Because Danny Glick visited Mark - and he was a vampire, mum! A vampire! He floated outside Mark's window, tapping at the glass with his dirty nails, and Mark let him in and then burned him with a crucifix and then there was smoke and screaming and stuff. I couldn't sleep after that! I kept looking at my window thinking Danny would come and visit me! I even hid under my sheets, but I still couldn't sleep!"

Her face saddened. "I'm sorry, Jay. Really. Perhaps me giving you that adult card was not such a good idea."

I looked up at her, shocked, my eyes wide with disbelief. "Are you kidding me? It's the best book I've ever read! It's awesome! I can't wait to see what happens next!"

And what happened next scared me even more. And what happened after that terrified me so much I didn't have the nerve to turn off my bedroom light for a week. By the end of the book I was seeing vampires in every shadow I passed, and felt goose bumps break out along my arms each time the sun sank and made way for the darkness of night. And I loved it! I loved how, when reading the book, I would feel a rush of adrenalin whenever Barlow made an appearance. I loved how I almost screamed out loud when Mrs Glick started to rise slowly from the hospital gurney while Ben fumbled madly to tape together his cross made out of tongue-depressers. I loved the scene where Father Callahan (whom I was barracking for) tried to find his faith when it was needed most, but failed. I loved that book so much that the moment I finished it, I turned back to page one and started all over again. And you know what? It was even scarier the second time round.

During the following two weeks I read the others: Ghost Story, The Fury, and The Keep. Each book terrified or horrified me in one way or another, and each time, while reading, when I felt my eyes bulge and my pulse quicken, I knew that I had discovered something special. I knew that I had found out just how powerful the magic of writing can be. These were stories that took you into the unknown, that turned your world upside down and made you look twice at flickering shadows. Their power, to me, was undeniable.

I've read books from pretty much every genre over the years, and as my taste has changed (along with me as a person) I have grown to love and admire authors who have never once dabbled in horror literature; amongst my favourites are John Irving, Anne Tyler, Umberto Eco, Michael Chabon, and Tom Wolfe. Neverthless, my enjoyment of the horror genre still remains, and whenever Stephen King, Brian Keene, James Herbert, or Bentley Little (just to name a few) release a new book I'm one of the first to rush out to my local book store and grab a copy.

Why? Because horror novels (the good ones, anyway) allow me to experience a sensation that those of other genres rarely can. When I want to feel alive, when I want to receive a boost of pure adrenalin, heighten my senses, and bring my body and mind back to life, to shake me out of whatever stupour I may have been in, a well written horror story does it every time. Reading is one of the greatest pleasures a person can enjoy by themself (yeah, yeah, I know what one of the others is), no matter what the genre. But a good horror novel - one that has your hands shaking every time you go to turn the page - reminds me that I'm alive.

I have my mum to thank for that.

Posted by Jay Sivyer
http://fiddlerontheperiphery.blogspot.com