In Search of a Scream

         When we talk about fear most, most of us think about the kind of fear we would feel if a huge masked man with a very malicious looking machine gun walks into our bank and with a loud voice yells, “Everyone on the floor, NOW!” as he fires a zillion rounds into the ceiling. We may think about the fear we would feel if our car suddenly skidded across the pavement completely out of control heading for a thirty-foot drop off. Both of these situations have the potential for loss of life. But what about the fear we feel when someone jumps out from behind the door in front of us yelling “Boo!” at the top of their lungs or grabs our arm just as Freddy Kruger grabs his next victim by the throat? This kind of “safe” fear, without the potential for loss of life, has not only become "fun” to us Americans, but we seem to crave the thrill we derive from scaring and being scared. We are becoming addicted. This addiction to fear becomes more evident when we realize the numerous avenues available to self induce terror.
         Our first step on the road to a scream is the everyday family oriented bookstore, in the non-fiction section we can find anything from books recounting the details of a bloody mass murder complete with crime scene photos to true stories of people who survived being kidnapped and brutally tortured and narrowly escaped a bloody death. This kind of reading makes us peek out the window every five seconds wondering if this neighbor of that one could be a psycho. A few racks over, in the fiction section, we will find a novel about what might happen if a germ, developed in a top secret government lab, escapes into the air, leaving only a few survivors, one of whom is evil incarnate. We also may find stories of monster-alien invasions, hypnotized murderous children, or just plain old evil people. The authors of such books get a thrill by anticipating our fear and again when they are successful. We read, reread, and go back to the bookstore for more.
         Next stop, the good old movies. We buy our tickets and popcorn, and head in to find a good seat. The huge, dimly lit room is “packed like a can of sardines”. The movie opens on the scene of a man escaping, violently , from a mental institution. After killing the guard, a couple of nurses, and the owner of the car he now drives, he heads off to find his long lost sister. The sister he should have killed when he killed his parents that one night … we know the rest of the story. The people in the next theatre over are watching a redheaded, three-foot tall, profane doll murder adults and children alike. Credit goes to the makers of this one for the sudden downslide in sales of the “My Size Barbie”. Anyway, we get a scare thrill from watching the movie and then we get a “scare flashback” as we walk across the parking lot that suddenly resembles the one those two nurses died in. Keys in hand like a medieval sword, we make a mad dash for the car door.
         If we happen to decide to stay home and watch a movie, we will probably make a giant bowl of popcorn, grab a blanket (for protection?), and pop in a DVD. Tonight we want to see the one about the crazed man who builds a house (which is really a machine to open Hell) to detain a certain number of murdering ghosts. He plays a dead (only to die for real in the end) and wills the “house” to his unsuspecting nephew and his family. While the family is inspecting their new home, the house begins releasing the ghosts one at a time. We won’t be making many solo trips to the fridge or the bathroom now! In fact, tomorrow evening, when darkness begins to fall, we will probably get the eerie feeling that someone is watching us. We love that rush that sends us fleeing from an imaginary foe! The producers, writers and directors are thrilled with the money lining their already padded bank accounts as we go back to visit the products of their imagination again and again.
         Now we are going to stop off some old fashioned American fun. We are going to take our families camping this weekend. The first thing we do is to pick our favorite “deep in the woods” spot. Then we pack up some clothes, several snacks, and plenty of D batteries. During the next few days, we can relax. However, while we deal with the necessities we are also getting a thrill of anticipated fear as we plan and revise our favorite campfire ritual: “The Ghost story”. We want to make sure we have a story of the couple who camped “right here” a few years ago that encountered an enormous drooling maniac with a machete or an ax. It could be the one about the couple stranded in their car, “just over the hill”, that gets a visit by a man with a stainless steel hook for a hand. It’s a sure bet that no one goes off in the woods by themselves tonight! We also have the one about the kids who wandered away from their parents into these “same woods” and a shriveled cackling witch kidnaps and starves them. Although these ghost stories are more effective when told around a campfire, we tell them every stormy lights-out night we can. Do you think the kids will sleep tonight, Honey? Do we have enough batteries for the flashlight? What was that noise…?
         Last stop, but certainly not least, the most convincing evidence of our addiction ever, Halloween. Not only are the televisions, movie theaters, and bookstores loaded with scares, but also , as soon as our kids are home from school, we begin preparations for our own scare fest. We paint ourselves and our kids up to resemble vampires, murder victims, ghosts, or anything undead and we head out the door to receive our scares and the reward of a bag full of candy. The idea of a house full of “sugarized” children is frightening enough for most parents, but we do it anyway. After we have enough candy to last until next Halloween, we visit the neighborhood spook trail. The one with an intimidating casket that suddenly opens up to reveal an un-dead moaning skeleton reaching for a hug! MOreover, doesn't every community boast of that infamous haunted house? It seems, always, to be an abandoned farmhouse with a small bridge, a barn, and a couple of other outside buildings. According to legend, a man went crazy one moonlit night and decided to kill his entire family, farm hands, pets, and all. Also according to legend, there is blood on every wall in the house and there is always someone screaming, day or night. If we dare to go in…we just might not make it back out! Let’s hurry and drive down this road, for if we go across the bridge too slowly, the car will stall and we will have to make a run for it! Even though we may not drive by this house every year, we at lest tell someone else about it.
         Some habitual trick-or-treaters would argue that they are not addicted. However, isn’t denial one of the first stages of addiction? When we decide we need a good jolt of adrenaline, we just go right out and get one. Our country has become so addicted to the rush of adrenaline that accompanies this safe fear, that we have created millions of ways to self induce a scream! The rush we feel when we race down the hall away from an imagined stalker or sprint across a semi-dark parking lot at the slightest noise, is similar to the rush we feel when we win our first baseball game or even when (or if) we win the lottery. Adrenaline is adrenaline is adrenaline. WOW! Since it feels that good, it’s no wonder there are thousands of ways available to get it. It is the thrill of the chase my friends, the thrill of the chase. Wanna go camping?

November 9, 2002