Fall could easily be described as the comfiest season of the year. Big sweaters, warm colours, hot beverages, playing in puddles, two food-heavy holidays in one month — and zombies. Lots of zombies. To me, that’s comfort.

My childhood was so normal it was actually pretty abnormal: I lived in the same bungalow, in the same room, in the same Ottawa suburb until I moved to Toronto after high school. Me and my sister, almost exactly three years my senior, had a close-but-not-too-close relationship. And my parents – mom a dental hygienist and dad a civil servant – are still together today, living in that very same bungalow. Once I had a trampoline.

But if there was one quirk it was this: my Grade 2 journal consisted of gory X-Files summaries; a show-and-tell once detailed scenes from The Shining; and family holidays meant watching Black Christmas after opening our presents or the latest Scream installment at the cottage.

Back then, it never occurred to me that anyone could not love a good slasher. But as I’ve grown older, my love for scary movies is a passion I’ve found myself defending more and more. And I’ve long ago stopped trying to turn anyone over to the dark side with me. In fact, I completely understand the complaints from horror haters — being scared is not a particularly enjoyable feeling, especially when tired, money-grabbing sequels seem to be the only offerings to mainstream audiences, giving the genre a needlessly gory, clichéd, and predictable rap. And besides, the fictional horror stories in theatres are hardly ever as terrifying as those coming through our news feeds every day. It’s cool, I get it. In another life, perhaps arguments like these would stop me from spending too much money on Midnight Madness tickets at TIFF, choose to read a book instead of streaming the latest Paranormal Activity, or even convince me to throw out my Scream 4 opening day souvenir button.

But if that ever was to happen, and it almost certainly will never happen, I’d be missing out. Because if there’s one thing that film, or art in general, has to do, it’s invoke an emotional response in the viewer. I can’t think of a genre that does this more effectively. My reaction to Jaws as an elementary schooler was so visceral that sharks are still my number one fear; same goes for the kidnapping scene in Silence of the Lambs, which has forever ruined Tom Petty’s “American Girl.” While it began as a bonding mechanism between my mother and my painfully cooler older sister, this incredible amount of pure discomfort is what fuelled my love for horror as I grew up — an antidote for a restless girl living in suburban Ottawa in a life that felt way too comfortable.

Even worse than being in a shark cage, being too comfortable is probably the scariest scenario I can imagine. You get lazy. You stop challenging yourself. You get dumber. You get less interesting. A horror movie can remind you that all can be lost with a wrong turn or an unfortunate phone call. So you better make the most of your time while you’re here.

It’s been over six years since I moved to Toronto — and with that independence, I’ve been able to find more productive ways to put myself in uncomfortable places. So the horror movie, in an odd twist, has turned from an escape into a refuge. In a haunted house I see my own childhood bungalow. In witches and ghosts I see my own family. In all the blood and gore, I can see myself as a kid, curling up beside my mom getting scared shitless.

So to say goodbye to October today, I’ll work, take on a new project, read, and relax with my good friends Freddy, Mike, and Jason. And probably a pumpkin spice latte too.

____

Carly Maga is an arts writer in Toronto. Follow her on Twitter: @RadioMaga. 

For more, follow us on Twitter: @TorontoStandard, and subscribe to our newsletter.