Horror movies have always held a special place in my heart— The same place that regards roller coasters, icy roads, and tax season with a combined flushed anticipation and clammy dread.

Overall, horror movies have had an outsized impact on public consciousness. It’s easy to think of iconic horror films— Psycho, Scream, The Poltergeist, Halloween, Sixth Sense, etc. Jaws managed to drag sharks into mainstream thought (and fears) so that most people before its 1976 release didn’t think of them before swimming in the ocean. Now, even if you dip into a pool, you can imagine some beastly great white breaking the surface to snap you up. Before Psycho came out, thoughts of knife-wielding maniacs didn’t pervade the public— decades later, I still have moments of pause before I pull back the curtain on my shower.

Can you remember the first time you had a nightmare from a movie? The terror from a new source? The first time I visited Japan, the Grudge and the Ring had just come out in America. The summer after fifth grade, I found myself in the historic village of Gokiyama. A village from the 1700s kept in traditional style— the perfect place to bring the horrors of those two movies to life. We’d creep across the dark, old wooden floors that gave way to tatami mats. The upstairs windows were left open as the night air did little to calm the summer heat. All the while, my classmates and I imagined dark-haired horrors slithering up the stairs to find us.

The 2013 release, The Conjuring, also had a long-lasting impact. I watched the movie with my first girlfriend— she practically crawled across the armrest during the movie to nestle in my lap— I can’t blame her because I would have done the same. The theater we’d chosen had few guests besides us. It made for an eerie viewing as the volume pushed the unnerving atmosphere up to eleven. I remember standing in the bathroom midway through the movie, and the sound blasted through the walls. If I hadn’t already used the urinal, I bet I would have pissed myself. I remember feeling a frantic energy build inside as the immense discomfort of a possession movie laid itself into my psyche.

A month or two later, having broken up, I woke up alone in my apartment, nearly five in the morning, to a sense of mortal dread. I slowly moved from light to light as I crept around the apartment, praying I was being ridiculous. The nightmare I had consisted of an East Coast setup, a possession, and a pale-faced, masked demon. I showered with the bathroom door locked and the curtain fully open. I stared at the door handle as if it might begin turning at any moment. I ate a quick snack and exited my apartment without a second thought. I headed towards the Greyhound station two hours early for my trip to Corvallis. Even on the dark streets at five am, I felt calmer outside than indoors. All the while cursing that movie and hoping I never had a repeat of the nightmare.

There are smaller moments that I remember that still have outsized impacts. Terrible nightmares from the black and white terrors of zombies from Night of the Dead breaking through the windows. I stood transfixed in front of the TV before leaving for errands with my dad. Or curling up and purposefully falling asleep during E.T. To avoid watching that fucked up slimy alien stick out their finger. A demented firefly finger— trying to represent hope and connection when all I wanted was for my sibling to turn the movie off. “Phone home?” more like “Fuck off.” It's clear to say the suggested whimsical nature of that extraterrestrial didn’t convince me.

In a broader sense, horror films provide a wonderful, if sometimes regrettable, mirror to our psyches. If you can understand someone’s fear, you can understand their heart. I think it’s impossible to make a good horror movie without having an empathetic soul. You can’t play against someone’s greatest fears if you don’t understand what makes them tick. That’s why the unknown and lack of direct appearance in the movie Signs still makes me shiver. The ability of the unknown to provoke our greatest worries is unmatched— because there’s an artistic license that the known can’t claim. It’s why the dark shadows and shuffle of steps always prove heart-pounding. It’s why the empty rooms and open doors stand so tall. It’s the menace of everything your heart and mind can cobble together before you’re granted the horrific reprieve of presentation.

It’s why we fear what goes bump in the night— and hope beyond hope that it remains that way. Even when that unknown gnaws on our composure like an ornery dog with a fresh bone. And that split between wanting to snatch it away and being afraid of getting bitten tears us down the middle. So, even with the nightmares and daytime fears that exceptional horror films can plant within us, we repeatedly return to the things that know us— to the fear that makes us feel alive.