I hate horror movies. I was raised by a grandmother who scared us into obedience with tales of “monstruos, fantasmas, y cuyuis.” (That monsters, ghosts, and boogie men for those of you who do not speak Mexican grandmother.) One wrong move, one tiny bit of rebellion and . . . bam! . . . we were dead meat. Literally.
El Diablo was always waiting for disobedient children (like me) to make one wrong move so he could close the deal. I did my share of naughty stuff in the daytime to make me worry what might be waiting for my mortal soul at night.
There is a good reason I have always slept with a night light. I was born with an overactive imagination and a lack of mental fortitude when it came to anything that lived and thrived in the dark.
Things with big nasty claws (and in bad need of a manicure) waited for me to fall asleep so they could rip through my mattress and drag me off into . . . wherever spooky creatures drag off big, old marshmallows like me. Things lurked in the dark, waiting for Miss Cream Puff over here to fall asleep so they could PoUnCe on my juicy insides.
Knowing this, why would I want to watch a scary movie?
No, thank you. I will be over here with all the windows and doors locked, all the lights on, watching It’s a Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.