When I was a kid, I loved scary stories. I was also extremely easily creeped out by them. My aunt had (has?) this incredible talent for making up stories on the spot. (It’s hard! I tried once and created like five plot holes in the first three minutes.) I would beg my aunt to tell me a scary story, and she would make up something about swamp creatures (she actually had me convinced that this one was non-fiction until I was ten) or ghosts who wanted their stolen fingers back, or something along those lines.
The minute she was done, I was paralyzed with fear. I would literally be afraid to walk into the next room by myself. I would be afraid to turn my head to look behind me, but then I would also be afraid to not look behind me because OH NO WHAT’S BEHIND ME?!?
I was an extremely spookable child, but spooky stories where like crack to me—I couldn’t get enough. As I got older though, the idea of disembodied spirits floating around became diametrically opposed to my developing world view. I’m not going to get into a discussion of the validity of dualism in my spooky Halloween post, but let’s just say that the idea of supernatural happenings no longer made sense to me.
My brother Morgan, also a reformed spook addict, collected volumes of local spooky stories on family vacations, so our family library housed Haunted Heartland and The Ghosts of the Outer Banks next to titles like Teach Yourself to Ski in One Day! and The North American Guide to Tomatoes.
One time, when I was visiting my family in Beckley during a school break, I decided that one of these volumes would be appropriate light reading. I can’t remember what the story I read was called, but it was about a young female dead person that rapped on the floor of a lady’s apartment and begged her for food. And even though I was way too educated and logical and mature to believe in ghosts, the more I read, the more trouble I was having looking behind me. And not looking behind me. And HOLY COGNITIVE DISSONANCE I WAS SO SPOOKED.
What is going on here? I really don’t understand it. I feel like some people might hold my reaction up as evidence that I actually do, on some level, believe that there is more to us than our brain chemicals. Maybe I do? I sort of really want to. I don’t know.
But another, even more egregious, example of the same type of thing sort of seems to refute this “hope for souls” theory: Last weekend when I went to Kennywood’s Fright Night, I found myself reluctant to walk past the various teenagers dressed as zombies and axe murderers and…undead sanitation workers (?). Even though I KNEW that they were teenagers, they were still so spooky. Also, I am incredibly afraid of haunted houses. Like, close my eyes and use the person I’m with as a human shield afraid.
Obviously, my fear of teenagers in stage makeup and cheap carnival rides cannot be attributed to an enduring belief in the human spirit. It just doesn’t make sense. Because, through the act of willingly entering what everyone agrees is an artificial spooky environment, you are establishing the fact that none of what you are spooked by is, or possibly could be, real.
This makes me think that my reaction to spookiness is more of an animalistic, adrenaline-driven, instinctual reaction to perceived spooky stimuli. But the confusing thing is that it’s not a reaction shared by everyone. Morgan, for example, was never particularly spooked by my aunt’s stories, not even at the height of our shared ghost enthusiasm, and I’m pretty sure he would laugh at undead sanitation workers. He seems to be unspookable.
So what is the difference between people like him and people like me? I’m going to go with the explanation that is the most satisfying to my ego, which is: People like me are more fanciful and imaginative. But then, why I am so terrible at making up stories?
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