"Why Do You Read Horror?"

I can point to the exact instant in my life when I fell in love with the horror genre. If you've been following my writing for any length of time, you may think that perhaps it was the first time I read Richard Laymon (the summer between 11th and 12th grade), but you'd be wrong. You might also think it was my first encounter with Stephen King (8th grade) or R. L. Stine (7th grade), but that's also incorrect. My desire to read horror started with the book you see right there to the left: If There Be Thorns by V. C. Andrews, published in paperback when I was four years old.

Now, don't fret. I didn't have any kind of weird experience where my parents exposed me to the world of incestuous family affairs in 1981. I didn't read anything of Andrews until well into adulthood, around 2005 or thereabouts. I had no idea who Virginia Andrews was, or what her books were about back then--I was still in my Sesame Street phase. But what I remember, with exceptional clarity, was a visit to the local mall that would have long-lasting repercussions. I couldn't tell you the exact date, but it had to be some time around November of '81, because that's when Walden Books had the display unit up.

Both mom and dad were die-hard readers, and I grew up in an environment where books were seen as treasures to be experienced and enjoyed. I didn't understand how they did it, but mom or dad could open the pages of my picture books and translate those funny symbols on the page into sounds that became words which told a story. I was bound and determined to conquer this strange frontier, and by the time I turned three, I knew the alphabet and could read simple kids stories like those penned by Dr. Seuss. They were exciting and fun, with color exploding off the pages and silly characters doing silly things, often to rhymed cadence.

Adult books, by contrast, seemed tremendously boring. Packed with thick, dense layers of text and not a single picture to be found within, I didn't understand why mom and dad enjoyed them so much. All that reading seemed like so much work with no payoff at all. Grover didn't pop up on every page begging you to stop reading because there was a monster at the end of the book, so how much fun could it really be?

All that changed when I encountered V. C. Andrews in South Lake Mall on that fateful November day. I didn't know who V. C. Andrews was, or what she wrote about. All I knew was that her book covers were the coolest things I had ever seen. Book covers back then were the most boring part of the story to me, especially where adult books were concerned. They were usually pretty dull affairs, plain colors, some big text, and maybe a logo or design if you were lucky. Look at what popular romance/fiction author Danielle Steel's paperbacks looked like from this time period, and you'll see what I mean:

Now look at the cover for If There Be Thorns again and see if you can't see the difference. There's a kid's face right in the middle of all that tangle of vines and a single, wilting flower. But that's not the interesting part. Oh no. V. C. Andrews books came with interactive covers, called "stepbacks", where a second piece of artwork included just behind the cover was teased with die-cut sections through the cover. Flipping open the cover of If There Be Thorns revealed this:

Holy cow, what a creepy-looking family! A little boy sitting in the lap of a head-scarfed grandmother in a rocking chair, presided over by a stern-faced old grandfather figure, and the face of another little boy poking out the window just behind them. And you could flip the die-cut cover closed to hide all of the picture, except the main little boy's face...then open it up again and see the whole image again! This was the coolest thing imaginable to an impressionable, book-obsessed four year old. But of course, mom and grandma didn't want me messing around with a book by an author as notorious as Andrews, so I was always told those were books for adults, not for little kids, and dragged into the children's section to look at the picture books instead.

Of course, once we left the store, we had to walk past the floor display and curiosity would get the better of me, and I'd earn another soft-hearted scolding. It wasn't fair--I wanted to know what the deal was with these cool books that had covers hidden behind covers, and nobody would tell me anything except they weren't for kids. Well, darn it, how old did you have to be to look at them? No answer.

What followed over the next several years was that, each time we went to the mall, I'd make a mad dash for the floor display and look at the newest V. C. Andrews book on offer. Those stepback covers were like siren songs, pulling me in with their allure, then creeping me the hell out later because I suffered from an overactive imagination. Despite this, I could never resist their pull. No matter how many times I got in trouble for looking at them, I still raced ahead to Walden Books to catch a peek, and I vowed that one day I'd be old enough to read what happened. After all, with covers that cool, the stories inside had to be unbelievably good, right?

Ah, the naivete of youth...

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When I was 9 years old though, all of that changed. I saw what would be the single scariest book cover of all time on a trip to Walden Books in 1986. Consisting of an author's name, two red letters, a folded paper boat, and a reptilian claw stretching up through the storm drain, there's never been a cover image that frightened me like this one since:

That cover gave me nightmares. I used to love splashing through puddles, laying sticks and leaves in the current and watching them carried along down into the storm drains on the streets. How could I have been so stupid? How could the adults in my life have been so careless? Why did no one tell me I might have been mere seconds away from getting grabbed by terrifying, clawed hands jutting up between the bars? I'm not exaggerating when I say that cover picture traumatized me. Sure you might look at it now, as an adult, and wonder what all the fuss was...but in 1986, my nine-year-old self knew that wasn't just make-believe, no matter how much anyone tried to convince me otherwise. I had no idea what happened in the book, but I knew what sewer grates and storm drains were, and I knew folded paper boats implied children at play, and I knew something with green skin and claws was waiting to pounce on me if I ever let my guard down around them.

Irrational? Sure. When you're forty, that kind of fear's extremely irrational. Before you hit double-digit ages though, that kind of fear's the most rational thing on the planet. Whoever conceived and painted that cover was a genius, because you can't look at it and not wonder, "If that's on the front, what the heck's on the inside?" Just like with V. C. Andrews, I swore to myself that one day I'd be old enough, and big enough, and strong enough, to open that book and find out.

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Horror novels very rarely live up to their covers, and I soon learned Andrews's books were nowhere near as amazing on the inside as their stepback artwork promised, but I'll tell you one thing: It sure as hell did. I didn't pick it as my first King novel because I needed courage to get to that point, so I started off with easier fare like The Tommyknockers and The Stand. When I did finally get up the nerve to dive into It, I wasn't disappointed...but I was also well into my twenties. Stephen King scared me so hard with that cover it took me damn near two decades to pick it up.

So there you have it: stepback artwork and a Stephen King cover are why I'm obsessed with horror today. Inside me is still that nine-year-old who gets frightened of the covers, so I have to read to him as an adult and let him see through grown up eyes what happens. He got hooked on the adrenaline rush of book covers and VHS box art, so now I'm cursed to spend the remainder of my life trying to recover those sensations again. I usually fail...but when I do succeed, it feels like I took a drop or two from the Fountain of Youth as all the memories come flooding back.

That's why I read horror. Now I'm curious: why do (or don't) you?