Recently a blog that I follow ran an article, “Nine of the Most Terrifying Two-Sentence Horror Stories ever Written,” presumably in honor of Halloween this month. I’ll share two with you:
* * *
“My sister says that Mommy killed her. Mommy says that I don’t have a sister.”
“‘I can’t sleep,’ she whispered, crawling into bed with me. I woke up cold, clutching the dress she was buried in.”
* * *
Frankly, I would never read a book or story that started that way. I admit it. I’m a scaredy-cat. I don’t like to be scared and I don’t read horror novels. I read one Stephen King book and that was enough to turn me off. Judging by his sales, plenty of other people like his work. Just. Not. Me.
Scary movies are worse than books. In fact, I think my phobia began when I was a child (not sure of my age at the time, maybe five) and my cousins took me to a movie theatre to see THE BLACK CAT, (though I might have the title wrong). If a film we rented on Netflix gets scary, I leave the room.
Since I’ve always been this way, I can’t blame it on my aging brain, but these days, I don’t even want to know the news. Isis decapitating people. Ebola spreading. Climate change. Who needs scary stories when real life gets worse by the day? While my husband reads all the newspaper articles, I read the Funnies page, Dear Abby and the Bridge column.
Perhaps this phobia is responsible for my writing romance, where every story must have a HEA (Happy Ever After) ending. True, I also write romantic suspense novels, but they’re mild and often have humor. They’re not “thrillers.” My favorite mystery novelist is Agatha Christie, and my two novels featuring my amateur sleuth (soon to be published, I hope) are definitely “cozy.”
When those books are available, I’ll let you know, so you’ll be warned, in case even “cozy” mysteries are too scary for you. Hey, trust me. I get it.