                                Horror Stories
                                 by Dave Barry


	  Recently I've  been  reading  horror  novels  at  bedtime.   I'm
     talking about those  paperbacks  with names like ``The Brainsucker,''
     full of scenes like this:

	  ``As  Marge  stepped through  the  doorway  into  the  darkening
     mansion, she felt a sense  of  foreboding,  caused,  perhaps,  by the
     moaning of the wind, or the  creaking  of  the  door, or possibly the
     Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket full of eyeballs.''

	  Of course, if Marge had the intelligence  of  paint,  she'd stop
     right there.  ``Wait a minute,'' she'd say.    ``I'm getting the hell
     out of this novel.'' Then she'd leap off the  page,  sprint across my
     bedspread, and run into my son's bedroom to become a  character  in a
     safe book like ``Horton Hears a Who.''

	  But  Marge, in the  hallowed  horror-novel-character  tradition,
     barges straight ahead, down gloomy  corridors  where  she  has to cut
     through the foreboding with a machete,  despite the obvious fact that
     something hideous is about to happen, probably  involving  the forced
     evacuation of her skull cavity by a demonic being with the underworld
     Roto-Rooter  franchise.    So  I'm  flinching  as I turn  each  page,
     thinking,  ``What  a  moron  this woman is!'' And Marge is  thinking:
     ``Well, I may be a moron, but at least I'm not  stupid  enough  to be
     READING this.''

	  And of course Marge is right.  I should know better than to read
     horror books, or watch horror movies, because -- this is not easy for
     a 42-year-old  male  to  admit  --  I  BELIEVE  THEM.   I have always
     believed them.   When  I  was  a  child, I was routinely terrified by
     horror movies, even the  comically  inept ones where, when Lon Chaney
     turned into a werewolf, you  could  actually  see the makeup person's
     hand darting into the picture to attach more fake fur to his face.

	  When I was 17 -- this  is a true anecdote -- I had to explain to
     my father one Sunday morning that the  reason our car was missing was
     that the night before, I had taken my  date  to  see  ``Psycho,'' and
     afterward I had explained to her that it made  more  sense for HER to
     drive  ME  home,  because of the strong possibility that otherwise  I
     would be stabbed to death by Anthony Perkins.

	  For years, after I saw ``The Exorcist,'' I felt this need  to be
     around  priests.    Friends  would  say,  ``What  do  you  want to do
     tonight?'' And I'd say, ``Let's take in a Mass!''

	  I'm  still   this  way,  even  though  I'm  a  grown-up  parent,
     constantly reassuring my  son about his irrational fears, telling him
     don't be silly, there  aren't  any  vampires  in  the guest bathroom.
     Part of my brain --  the  rational  part,  the part that took the SAT
     tests, actually believes this;  but  a  much  more powerful part, the
     Fear  Lobe,  takes  the  possibility of bathroom  vampires  far  more
     seriously than it takes, for example, the U.S.  trade deficit.

	  And so late at night, when I finish my horror novel and take the
     dogs out into the yard, which is very dark,  I  am  highly alert.  My
     brain's SAT Sector, trying to be cool, is saying, ``Ha  ha!   This is
     merely your yard!'' But the Fear Lobe is saying:  ``Oh,  yes, this is
     exactly  the  kind  of place that would attract The Brainsucker.  For
     The Brainsucker, this is Walt Disney World.''

	  And so  I start sauntering back toward the house, trying to look
     as casual as  possible  considering  that  every  few feet I suddenly
     whirl around to see if anything's behind me.  Soon I am sauntering at
     upwards of 35 miles per  hour,  and the Fear Lobe is screaming ``IT'S
     COMING!'' and even the SAT Sector  has  soaked its mental armpits and
     now I'm openly sprinting through the darkness,  almost  to the house,
     and WHAT'S THAT NOISE BEHIND ME OH NO  PLEASE  AAAIIIEEEE  WHUMP I am
     struck violently in the back by Earnest, our Toyota-sized  main  dog,
     who has located a cache of valuable dog poo and  shrewdly  elected to
     roll in it, and is now generously attempting to share the  experience
     with me.

	  Thus  the spell of horror is broken, and my SAT Sector reasserts
     control and has a good laugh at what a silly goose I was,  and I walk
     calmly back inside  and  close  the  door,  just  seconds  before the
     tentacle reaches it.
