I was raised in Philadelphia in a conservative Christian family. We had a lot of rules, most of which I didn't like. Tuck in your shirt, don't curse, wear a belt, go to three different churches twelve times a week, iron your church clothes even if they are jeans and a t-shirt, do morning devotions, read your Bible, do nightly devotions, pray over every meal and before you go to bed, go to the bathroom before we leave, eat what's on your plate even if it's gross and/or might be freeze dried survival food, do what your father says, do what your mother says, and do what your grandmother says. (Those last three rules had an entire litany of sub-rules which could be created and implemented at whatever juncture seemed appropriate.)
Some rules were created arbitrarily based on whether my grandmother considered something evil. For example, Santa Claus was evil because his existence (real or imagined) took the focus off of Jesus during Christmas. (This claim was further evidenced by the fact that the letters in his name could be rearranged to spell "Satan.") Wishing was evil, as was any form of alcohol, Madonna, evolution, daytime soap operas, Labrynth, the Rolling Stones, Fantasia, Max Headroom, Native American dream catchers, and inexplicably, E.T., the Extra-Terrestrial. (I do know the biblical reason for this, but it's way too complicated for this blog.) And finally, at the top of the heap of evil things was THE MOST EVIL THING OF ALL: HALLOWEEN.
As kids, we lived half a block from a store that sold penny candy. We weren't rich, but damn, did we feel like it when we used our allowance to buy fifty cents of Swedish Fish. Candy was life, and that meant Halloween was impossible to ignore. Our parents tried to make us ignore it anyway, and every Oct. 31, we went into our house and our parents locked the doors and turned off the lights at the front of the house. All through dinner and our glum nightly devotional, we were interrupted by what seemed like hundreds of happy-go-lucky assholes whose parents not only encouraged them to dress up for Halloween but even went along with them. My dad would pause and wait silently until they gave up and went away. It was torture. One year, both parents were working on Halloween (but the rules still applied), so my brothers and I handed out potatoes and onions to those who appeared at our door. It was our own special "screw you" to kids who had it better than we did.
Incidentally, the benefit to growing up in a family like ours was that you could always argue that something hadn't been explicitly identified as evil, so technically, it wasn't off limits when you decided to do it. It only became evil once you were caught and punished. The drawback to living like this is we grew up not knowing how to make decisions for ourselves, so when we got free, we went ape shit crazy. (Thankfully, only one of us ended up in jail, and it wasn't me.)
The one thing that wasn't evil, wasn't off limits, and had indescribable possibilities was the Free Library of Philadelphia. We could walk the 14 blocks there by ourselves, and my mom would even give us bus tokens if she had them. After age 12, I triumphantly explored the adult section, and I chose the most evil section: Horror. I went for the gusto, and chose Stephen King, known far and wide as the most evil writer of them all. Hell, he was so bad they even talked about him in church.
Sure, I borrowed mystery and history books (I loved Michael Crichton and anything about medical oddities) but I always checked out a Stephen King novel along with them. I'd sneak them into my room and read them under the covers, freaking myself out and staying up all night with the lights on to make sure I wasn't attacked by the undead creature that most certainly inhabited the five inches of space underneath my bed.
The first King book I read was Pet Sematary, which scared the living beejeezus out of me. Then I read Misery. Then I read The Dead Zone. Then I read 'Salem's Lot. Then The Shining. Then Cujo. Then IT. I worked my way through the branch's King collection, then requested the rest through our librarian. I then discovered that King also wrote under the pen name of Richard Bachman, and read as many of those as I could get my hands on. I read many of the books he co-wrote with Peter Straub. I've read IT at least eight times, and I can never get through the month of June without at least thinking of reading it just one last time. And sometimes I give in.
So, dear readers, this is how a good little church girl grew up to love the horror genre, the author Stephen King, and the monsters, demons, ax-wielding nurses, dead pets, possessed caretakers, ghouls, re-animated corpses, fantasy creatures, rabid dogs, and irreparably damaged child heroes King and his fellow writers brought to life. To this day, I can't walk past the fiction section without checking for a new King novel. It's just as impossible to ignore your first true literary love as it is to ignore Halloween.
Now, Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. I dress my two children in their costumes and take them out to trick-or-treat. We go to the scariest houses and face gruesome, horrifying ghouls. Sometimes we go to the American Legion's haunted house, which is so good and scary that we scream all the way through. Our fear overtakes us at the very end when we run from the place, chased by a chainsaw-wielding madman. We catch our breath in the parking lot, then pile into the car, our hearts still pounding. Then we laugh. And there's the tiniest possibility that I might have had more fun than my kids.
Happy Halloween!
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P.S. My parents have lightened up quite a bit since then, and hopefully my mother won't disown me for this post.
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