It should always be the guiding principle of horror to show that the gateway of terror is unlocked by one’s own backdoor. For this reason, I disavow the horror movie, even be it of the classical nature, as essentially a palliative to the soul which seeks to distinguish itself through abnormality. As a former connoisseur of cinematic horror, I know how it inures one’s soul to terror, disgust, and fright—in that order. Let me make clear the fact that such acclimatization to ungodly acts in no way contributes to juvenile delinquency nor to the propagation of society’s ills. Society itself is ill. The liberal story of how poor, helpless man kills because he sees Freddy Krueger devour the souls of children is utter bullshit; such popular fiction as espoused by our politicians is much more harmful to the body politic than the worst of today’s slasher films.

The horror movie’s ultimate effect, one finds upon contemplation, is to induce real-life terror passively, not actively. The experience is probably exciting and bothersome to those undergoing their first cinematic trauma; unquestionably, it is exhilarating. Even "he-men," no matter how the brace themselves up, find themselves flinching, jumping, possibly gasping in certain situations—as an example, the final scene of Carrie comes to mind, for it certainly made my blackened soul skip a beat. Such exhilaration is intoxicating. The anxiety which plagues our horror novice during the dark drive home is strangely enjoyable; however, when one finally finds solace at home, the moving shadows that envelop one’s bed that night are rather not enjoyable. It is exactly at this stage, in the home as opposed to in the theatre, that the horror movie has attained its ultimate peak: it makes one doubt his personal safety within the confines of his own private walls.

Sadly, even this small victory quickly dissipates, and home quickly regains its special status as a safe haven. Conditioning makes one return to the next horror movie in hopes of recapturing the ephemeral joy that accompanied the first experience. But, the true fright previously experienced will never manifest itself a second time, and this is the point of my argument--not only has our virgin been violated, she has been robbed of the ability to ever reachieve terrorific orgasm. All future tremors are only pseudo-memories. One must find new pleasures: the squeals of frightened girls, the mesmerizing gruesomeness of an unreal death, the master’s badge of laughter denied one’s inferiors. The macabre becomes appealing, even to those who deny any such notion, but fright is gone. Not only does one feel safe inside one’s own home, one does not even feel unsafe outside in the darkness. This is the tragedy of horror.

I myself have rediscovered fright, true fright, and I tell you it is glorious torture. My whole life has been one of folly; I see that clearly now. The world has always disgusted me—men bore me, and children amaze me by their ignorance. Women, of course, offer any genetically male animal a reason for dwelling in the world of humanity, but I have come to realize that not women nor Woman, but only The Woman offers the compelling soul-pulling influence that can make a man conform to society’s prescribed role for him. Love is a more powerful force than either religion or greed; true love, if left unrequited (and I would argue that the only True Love is an unrequited one), necessarily thrusts the unfortunate scorned soul out of the unconscious hierarchy of civilization. The effects of ostracism are not completely melancholy ones, though. Had I won the heart of my beloved, I would have given up my very spirit, contenting myself with leading a dolorous existence of unspiritual triviality, falsely imagining my life to be a noble, albeit obscure, one as registered to my robot-made senses through the empathic perturbations of my companion’s beautiful, childlike disposition. Love, if accomplished, would have made me work for a living; it would have coerced me into believing myself happy with willful inferiority and neglect. Work is merely the universal police force of man, for it not only guards against one’s soulful expressions, it in fact imprisons the individual’s will, for fear that this will may at some future time dare to show even a feint hint of individuation. My will must be free, for it is the only thing worth fighting for.