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They’re Coming to Get You, Barbara’
C.W. Reeve
Photo by C.W. Reeve
Why do I love horror? For the moments.
The short, sharp shock. The slow-burn scene dripping in tension. The final reveal where it transpires that the killer was, in fact, inside the house all along.
It’s the gremlin on the wing. It’s MacReady, riddled with paranoia, tying up his crew before testing their blood for infection. It’s Carrie, drenched in pig’s blood, locking the exits and setting the gymnasium ablaze. It’s Mr White, clutching the monkey’s paw and making his final wish as the disinterred corpse of his son shambles up the pathway. It’s Danny Torrance, wheeling away through the labyrinthine corridors of the Overlook Hotel while his father loses his mind. It’s Regan McNeil, tied to the bed and screeching obscenities at Father Karras. It’s the first glimpse of the gaping maw that leads to Brody declaring ‘you’re going to need a bigger boat’; Will Navidson realising that his house is somehow, impossibly, bigger on the inside than the outside; the bulging eyes and ‘queer, narrow heads’ of the degenerate inhabitants of Innsmouth.
It’s Johnny, unwittingly pre-empting the zombie apocalypse. ‘They’re coming to get you, Barbara.’
All these moments leave a mark on the brain long after the final credits have rolled or the last page has been turned, becoming apparitions themselves. Some leave a stain on the collective memory, endlessly recycled and imitated, parodied and satirised, and the best ones become stronger for it, undiminished for all the attention they receive. Others become more personal, crawling their way into the background of the mind, only to leap to the fore unexpectedly, leaving those of us with a penchant for such things to squeal in delight at their return.
Horror is not for everyone, and it’s easy to understand why some care not for having their thoughts intruded upon by such macabre things. But for those of us who are fans, the very fact that these moments can crawl up through the dirt like one of Romero’s ghouls and bash their way back into our thoughts like Michael Myers bursting through yet another kitchen door is nothing but a joy.
That’s why I love horror.
And spare a thought for poor Barbara. It turns out they were coming to get her, after all.
C.W. Reeve is a writer of horror and weird fiction whose work has appeared in various literary magazines, fanzines and anthologies. He currently resides in a converted hospital wing in the UK, surrounded by cacti, and can be reached on Twitter/X @CWReeve or via the website www.cwreeve.com. His latest short story ‘Nico, in Velvet’ appears in the November issue of Mobius Blvd magazine. Killing him won’t bring back your apples.
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