My introduction to horror didn’t come from a dream demon or a zombie in a hockey mask. It did not have a puzzle box nor did it come from the depths of hell.
No.
My introduction to horror came from a children’s book. A book that was written to help children overcome their fear of the dark. It was called “The Flat Man” and it was published in 1988. Written by Rose Impey and illustrated by Moira Kemp, the book is a short story about a little boy who is afraid of a ‘Flat Man’ who hides in the shadows. The man can stretch his body up to the ceiling, and flatten itself against the floor. He can slip under the crack of a closet door and can crawl along the floor like a snake. The Flat Man wants nothing more than to smother and terrify the little boy.
Now the story on its own is creepy enough but nothing prepared me for the illustrations. The Flat Man was this paper-like entity with a wide, bald head, broad nose, and a pair of angry eyes. Throughout the book we see him creep and crawl towards the boy; bending and folding his body in impossible shapes to remain in the shadows. The worse came when he reached the boy in his bed – twisting his body so that he could wrap his thin arms and spindly fingers around the boy’s body. Looking back on it, I guess you could find this to be a metaphor for fear itself – how it can envelop you, suffocate you; bury you in anxiety and terror.
The book has a happy ending. The boy fed up with the monster, flings it off of his bed. He finds his flashlight and uses to it stun the Flat Man before finally turning on the lights to his room. The Flat Man, weak and helpless, crumples up into a ball and flies out the bedroom window.
But it doesn’t stop there. For what is horror without a twist?
As the boy lays back in bed, he notices a paper bird hanging from the ceiling of his room. It was a present his parents bought him. He then pretends that the bird is a monstrous vampire – ready to swoop down on him at a moment’s notice.
And that’s how the book ends.
As a six-year-old, that was pretty scary. The idea that everything and anything could become a monster? That no matter what I did, there was another monster waiting for me around the corner. Talk about intense.
I still have this book. The original from my childhood – with its ripped dust cover and worn pages. It was just one of those books that I could never get rid of. Every once in a blue moon, I would take it out of storage and flip through its pages; wondering if the illustrations and story still creep me out.
They do.
However, I look at the book differently now than I did back then. You see, as I sat down to write this journal, I took a moment to download a digital copy of the book to get a refresher on the story and its artwork. It’s been quite some time since I sat down and read the book. And, having re-read it as not only an adult, but as someone who loves horror, I can say, with confidence, that this book influenced my life more than I had originally thought.
You see, what I hadn’t realized back then was that the child created the Flat Man. It was not some blood-thirsty monster that lived in the shadows. It was a figment of the boy’s imagination.
At the start of the book, the boy recounts how his room would transform whenever the lights were shut off. How the shadows would make his toys, clothes, and desk look like terrifying creatures. The Flat Man was created when he heard tree branches tapping upon his window. He liked to think of the branches being the fingertips of a monster; drumming its claws against the glass wanting to get in.
The following is a passage from the book.
“But I like to pretend that
It is the Flat Man, trying to get in.
His long, bony fingers
Tap on the glass.
“Let me in,” he whispers softly.
Tap, tap, tap.
It is only a game.
I like scaring myself.“
How apropos. What betters describe the horror fanbase more than this quote?
“It’s only a game. I like scaring myself.”
Isn’t that just the truth? We know that it’s fake; the movies, the books, the comics, the tales around the camp fire. But while we read, watch, or listen to the stories; for those moments, we like to pretend its real. We let go of reality and pour ourselves into the world of terror that these creatives have conjured. A world where zombies feast on human flesh. Where demons possess housewives, poltergeists terrorize suburban families, and dolls come to life.
But what happens when the movie ends? When the last page of the book is flipped or when the story teller finishes their tale? Well, we find ourselves cast back into the real world but not without consequence. The horror sticks with us, lingers on our bodies like a smell. We cast glances over our shoulders least the masked killer be right there, raising a knife over their heads. We monitor the dark corners of our bedrooms as if waiting for the glow of a monster’s eyes.
And thus, the game begins.
The game of scaring ourselves.
Like I said. We know it is fake. But we like to pretend it’s real.
Because we like scaring ourselves.