I’m pretty sure I’ve had anxiety for the majority of my life. You wouldn’t think that would lead to a fascination with the horror genre, but as this is all about my Horrific Origin, here I am. It’s like one of my cousins says: “I like to watch horror movies when I feel bad. They remind me that my life could be so much worse!” What scared me as a kiddo in the days of movies about undead murder hobos climbing out of TV screens now fascinates and comforts me in the days of real-world horrors well beyond that presented by Sadako and co.

Every town worth living in has That One House That Goes All Out For Halloween. In my hometown, this house was owned by my godfather’s parents. And good ol’ Ed never did anything halfway. Come October, the sweeping lawn would be covered in frighteningly realistic tombstones, the porch with pumpkins and motion-detecting monsters, and the windows with candles. On Halloween night, even though I knew what the house usually looked like, I still had to scrape together every ounce of courage I had in order to go up on that porch and get candy. One year, they even had a hulking, life-sized Frankenstein’s monster looming in one of the doorways. After that, the house freaked me out even during the summer! I always expected to round a corner and see the Creature reaching for me. Now, when I look back on my Horrific Origin, I can only wish someone would go that hard on Halloween again.

These days, I would probably hug the Creature if I saw a life-sized version of him in a friend’s house. I had to read the novel twice in high school, and the Creature always struck me as someone who could use a hug. What moody teenager couldn’t relate to the feeling of being brilliant but misunderstood because of outward appearances? There’s a reason Mary Shelley’s first published work remains her most popular, though you should absolutely read her short story “The Mortal Immortal” for additional philosophical sci-fi horror goodness.

But everyone likes to be scared on Halloween. I had another source of scares in my Horrific Origin as a member of one of the most hair-raising organizations in the country: the Girl Scouts of the United States of America. For those of you who are somehow unaware, little girls are weird, and often quite gruesome. In the back of a troop mom’s van or huddled around a campfire, we’d swap stories that would make my skin crawl for weeks afterward.

One that especially got to me, to the point where I still remember most of it, was “The Bloody Bones.” It goes a little something like this:

Once, a family moved into an old farmhouse outside of town. There was a father, mother, daughter, son, and dog. The children were excited, quickly claiming the bright bedroom at the top of the stairs as their own. Meghan chose the bed closest to the window, Tyler the bed closest to the door. It had been a mutual agreement, and their parents were secretly thankful the children didn’t squabble.

Everyone was excited about the new house. Everyone but old Rudy, the hound dog. He paced nervously around the kitchen, giving the cellar door a wide berth. As she took boxes downstairs, Mother called for Rudy to come with her. At their last house, he’d been quite good at finding mouse nests. But poor Rudy just sat at the top of the stairs and whined. Mother and Father shook their heads but got on with the unpacking.

The first night in the house, Meghan had a strange dream. She was standing at the top of the cellar stairs, peering down into the dark. As she stood there, she heard a shuffling, rustling sound, then something seemed to SLAP! against the bottom step. It turned into a rhythm: shuffle, rustle, SLAP! Shuffle, rustle, SLAP! Each time, it sounded one step closer.

As it got closer, Meghan could make out words in the shuffling and rustling. “Bloo-dy bones!” SLAP! “Bloo-dy bones!” SLAP! a shuffling, rustling voice was intoning as something slapped its way up the cellar stairs. Finally, it had to have been on the top step. Meghan strained her eyes in the darkness, but could still see nothing but the dark itself.

“Bloo-dy bones!” the voice intoned.

Meghan woke up before the SLAP! sounded. The bedroom was still dark, so she pulled the covers over her head and went back to sleep.

The next morning dawned sunny and cheerful. Meghan forgot her dream and skipped down to breakfast right behind Tyler. It was a busy day of unpacking, and it wasn’t until the sun was setting that anyone realized they hadn’t seen Rudy.

“He doesn’t have anything to unpack,” Father said, “so he’s probably gone exploring. He’ll come back when he gets hungry. And tomorrow, you two can go explore too!”

That night, in the dark of her and Tyler’s bedroom, Meghan remembered her dream as she was drifting off to sleep. She even thought she could hear “Bloo-dy bones!” SLAP! “Bloo-dy bones!” SLAP! against the stairs. She pulled the covers over her head before she fell asleep.

The next morning dawned sunny and cheerful. Meghan forgot her dream again, and skipped down the stairs to breakfast, Tyler still fast asleep in his own bed.

Meghan reached for a second helping of potatoes in anticipation of exploring that day.

“Save some for your brother,” her mother cautioned. “Why don’t you go wake him?”

Grudgingly, Meghan trudged upstairs to the room where Tyler was still snug in his bed, a cozy lump under his covers. Grabbing the corner of the comforter, Meghan shouted “TYLER!” as she yanked it back.

There was nothing in Tyler’s bed but bloody bones.

This story went through a few variations over the years, but it stuck with me since the first field trip it was told on. Some versions had that childish whimsy that didn’t hold up as we got older, but I’ve spared you those versions.

When we couldn’t come up with our own campfire stories, store-bought was fine. As we got older, it was almost a given that someone would bring along a Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark or Haunted Ohio book, scaring each other with stories that “really” happened. I suppose it was this kinship through spooky storytelling that really contributed to my Horrific Origin. Goosebumps wasn’t a big jump from the campfire stories I was used to, and My Babysitter’s A Vampire had several episodes parodying popular horror movies and novels. Why not just watch the originals?

Today, I still have a soft spot for the children’s horror genre that started it all – CBBC’s Young Dracula got me through a good portion of quarantine. Of course, I also like more adult horror as well (as I write for HorrorBuzz, that might be obvious), with Gothic horror and dark fantasy my absolute favorites. Movies, television, books and comics, and even tabletop games with horror elements draw me in more than any other genre (you betcha I’m excited Magic: The Gathering is returning to Innistrad TWICE this year.)

I still have anxiety, and my “Hard No” list is longer than you might think, but I think horror is my favorite genre, and I’m proud to be the kind of Spooky Kid who celebrates Halloween all year long.

See you next time for further tales of what makes fright lovers love frights on Horrific Origin.