What Horror Means to Me

What Horror Means to Me

By Rebecca Lambert

I grew up in a Christian family, attended church every Friday for Choir Practice, Sunday for Service, during the week for Rainbows, Brownies, Guides and eventually Pathfinders. My parents were part of the church army and I had tea and cake in the Vicarage. We were that kind of family.

On the flipside of all that, I always had a bit of a thing for the macabre, although I was afraid of the dark and that which might lurk within it I also had a curiosity which just could not be satiated. I was drawn to it in a way that I wanted to keep digging my way deeper.

So, in and around my duties as a good little Christian girl, I also had a ring binder of Serial Killer research. I would look up a killer and build up a profile, then I’d set about trying to get inside their head and see what made them tick. Anybody who found my research would find a young girl’s version of a Criminal Record and Case Files. This did unnerve my mother a little, particularly when we would hold discussions over dinner about the evils of people and I would give my case for a client I would never need to represent. It just fascinated me, and I couldn’t get enough.

My family are not big horror fans, my mum would go to bed with garlic and crosses if she watched a vampire film and there was little blonde haired me in my floral dress watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer – which she called a Horror Film. Salem’s Lot was one film which really unnerved my mum, because it’s the film which basically disregards any of the traditional protections against vampires. 

Moving into my teen years, my clothes and make up got darker and my music got heavier. So while my sister was listening to Enrique Iglesias, I was listening to Sisters Of Mercy. We’ve always been very different in that way. I earned the nickname “Ice Queen” from my Mother and Sister because while they would be half way down a box of tissues crying at whatever film we were watching, I’d sit next to them, unmoved and without emotion. 

I don’t really get the emotional reaction to films, it takes a lot to get an emotive response out of me. Or at least it did, I do seem to keep finding myself smiling along like an idiot to certain things these days. I turned 30 last June so I’m going to assume it’s old age. I enjoy films and can absorb myself into them, but I rarely feel any emotion because it just isn’t real, and I think this is what gives me such a strong stomach when it comes to my horror films.

When I first met my husband (also a huge horror fan) he told me I was unnerving to watch when I watched slasher flicks because I don’t even blink. Jump scares do sometimes get me, but that’s usually because they’re accompanied by a loud noise, generally speaking nothing bothers me, and I have watched some films that I’ve heard are utterly horrible. Ranging from Men Behind the Sun to A Serbian Film, I’ve seen it all. I will admit to having turned Nekromantic off while I ate my Chinese food though. There’s a scene in that one where there’s a dead cat placed above the bathtub and I just didn’t fancy that with my chow mein. Films just honestly don’t bother me that much, they’re not real, even if they’re based on real events I can’t take myself to a place in my head where it’s going to upset me. I’m more interested in how the film looks, the direction and lighting, any physical effects and theatrics. 

When I was probably about 11 years old, I had a sleep over with friends and we watched The Ring. This didn’t appear to bother me even at that age, at the time of viewing. What does get to me, even now however, is the afterthought. When you’re laying in bed in the middle of the night, when the house is silent but for that one noise. Was that a door opening? How did that floorboard creak? Why has that pile of clothes in the corner suddenly developed features and why is it slowly moving towards me? Is that a tree outside my window or is someone reaching in to pluck me from my bed? 

And so that is how Child Me ended up screaming for someone to come and turn on the lights. You see, I had a black metal bunk bed at that time, and I had white sheets. I think we all know where I’m going with this. It’s uncanny how a prized collection of porcelain dolls in a beautiful glass fronted cabinet can suddenly become extremely scary when it reflects the black and white bed you’re sitting in. Clearly, Samara had come for me. Bugger the fact I hadn’t had a phone call, bugger the fact that even as the big girls we were, none of us had actually watched the video when the film showed it and bugger the fact it hadn’t been seven days. In that moment, in that dark room, she had come for me and only one thing was going to save me. Mum. And the light.

Most recently, the one thing to cause that kind of foreboding in me was The Slender Man. Never in my adult life had I ever been so unnerved by something, such a simple concept and I hadn’t been remotely scared watching it, but later on in my bed that feeling began to set in.

My love of horror growing up wasn’t limited to film and research though, from a very early age I enjoyed reading. This was something my mother instilled in me and if I ever wanted a book she made absolutely sure I had it. Bed time stories were one thing I always had growing up, and funnily enough we talked about this very recently. Alongside my Jacqueline Wilson collection and my secret hoard of Danielle Steel books, which I found tucked away in the attic once having belonged to my mother, I enjoyed books like Ruby in the Smoke by Phillip Pullman. My mother was laughing about her realisation that I’d chosen a book about opium dens for my bedtime story just last week.

Whilst I did enjoy books aimed at my own age, that curiosity was always there in the background, so I often wandered into the teen and adult sections of the library. There I found a book, I think it was called Switched. It sticks in my mind to this day because it was one of the best books I’d read at that age. I forget the author’s name unfortunately, but the basic idea was that two friends swapped bodies, but it turned out that once switched, friend one murdered her parents and ran away, leaving the girl who was now in her original body to face the music. The imagery of the scene where she found the bodies is still vividly imprinted on my mind to this day. 

In March, my blog Rebbie Reviews will be 7 years old. In that time I’ve met so many lovely people. Horror will always be my passion but it’s not the only thing I review. There are some people who have truly impacted my time as a reviewer and I’ll never forget what they’ve done for me. It opened up a lot of possibility in reading for me, and I always feel privileged to get asked for reviews. 

Rebecca Lambert is a book blogger who was born and raised in the Steel City of Sheffield in England. She is an avid reader and is passionate about literature, mental health and physical fitness. In her spare time Rebecca can be found nose deep in a book or wandering around the local area with her camera. She founded Rebbie Reviews in 2013 and continues to review and promote literature in many genres with a particular focus on Horror. 

As a Mental Health First Aider, Rebecca also co-admins the Facebook Group Squats and Sparkles which is a Women’s Health Club with a view to supporting Women with matters pertaining to the Mind, Body and Soul. 

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