In October of 2003, I got invited to a Halloween party.
I was 15. A nascent high school sophomore, I remember receiving the invitation in one of my classes. The physical invitation, emblazoned with an address and a witch from the coven of Microsoft Word, felt like a ticket to a significant teenage experience.
Really, any event at that age where your peers are present, and your parents aren’t, feels significant. For the average teenager, those years are defined by a succession of those events. They steadily increase in frequency as time goes by – each one a meaningful marker on the journey to independence.
The party in question took place on Halloween night. Despite being held on the holiday itself, I don’t remember anyone being in costume; it was just a dozen excited teens in Aéropostale hoodies. The entire party built up to a movie screening in the host’s darkened basement, where we watched arguably the scariest movie ever made: “Halloween.”
In the preamble to the movie, improbably, the two prettiest girls at the party sidled up to either side of me on the basement’s sofa. This prompted the host’s dad, who was passing by, to pat me on the back and remark “Life’s rough!” with a grin.
It was the first (and last) time in high school I felt like a pimp.
Once the movie started, my mood swiftly turned from satisfied to terrified. Each scene of Michael Myers stalking Laurie Strode and her friends proved to be even more dread-inducing than the last. During the scene where Laurie frantically races into a house and locks the door on Michael, only to discover that every window in the house is wide open, I thought to myself, “This is the most scared I’ve ever been.”
Ultimately, by the time I’d watched the rest of the violence Michael inflicts on Laurie in the film, I was holding onto my female seatmates as tightly as they were to me.
The movie ended and the party followed suit. I’d had a fun time, but “Halloween” had left me feeling… rattled.
***
At night, I’d typically fall asleep laying on my stomach, with my bedroom door open.
After watching “Halloween,” though, those habits started to change.
Right away, I noticed that laying on my stomach induced a feeling of vulnerability. If someone were to walk into my room at night, I thought, I wouldn’t see them coming. So, I changed my sleeping position and started laying on my back.
That position, however, almost gave me too good of a bedroom view. Now, I couldn’t take my eyes off the open door and the dark hallway beyond it; I just kept picturing Michael Myers emerging from the shadows. So, I began shutting my door at night.
But doors can be opened, I thought.
So, I started locking mine.
And this is what nighttime was like for me for the next two years.
Yes… two years.
In retrospect, my level of paranoia was almost comical. But, believe me, there was nothing funny about it in the moment. Nighttime had turned into a nightmare.
***
At 34, my teenage years have long since passed. This October, I’ve been reflecting on my reaction to “Halloween,” curious how adulthood colors my perception of what happened.
And I think I can definitively say this: “Halloween” gave me a form of post-traumatic stress disorder.
Now, for the record, we’re talking about a mild form. It’s not like I served in war; I just watched a movie. But considering my reaction to “Halloween” – which, you know, I’d say was extreme – and the length of that reaction, I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to characterize it as PTSD.
I think two things triggered this reaction.
First, “Halloween” is just an uncommonly well-made horror film. Across its runtime, director John Carpenter expertly builds tension… releasing it with moments of sheer terror in perfect intervals. I know when I watched the film, my body resembled a clinched fist. Suffice it to say, for good reason, “Halloween” is considered by many to be horror cinema’s GOAT.
Second, I watched “Halloween” in a setting that mirrored the movie’s really closely, which I think amplified its scares. Consider the following: I watched it 1) in a darkened suburban house, 2) on Halloween night, and 3) in between a couple of girls close in age to 19-year-old Jamie Lee Curtis. Before the movie, I was excited about those seatmates. But during it, every time Laurie Strode screamed, they screamed. Right next to me.
By the end credits, it didn’t feel like I’d simply watched “Halloween.” It felt like I’d lived it.
***
After that experience and the two years of frayed nerves that followed, I made a decision: I was done watching scary movies.
And I’ve pretty much stuck to that resolution ever since.
Sure, I’ve watched some creepy stuff – “The Shining,” “It Follows,” etc. – but those types of films have been few and far between over the years. Plus, we all define scary movies differently. And I’ve just never found supernatural stuff that frightening.
It’s the stuff that could actually happen – like “Halloween” – that disturbs me. So, I’ve avoided it. And I’ll keep on doing that.
In the end, at 15, I didn’t think I’d ever be rid of Michael Myers… that is, the version that existed solely in my head, perpetually lurking in my house’s shadows. However, he’s been gone now for nearly 20 years.
The trouble, of course, is that he’ll always be just a movie’s length away from coming back.
EVE OF STEVE 