Sometime in the year 2012, when I thought I was a big boy, I saw my first scary movie in theaters. During the semi-cold winter of New Mexico, where a single snowflake makes the public schools want to have a snow day, I was watching the NFL playoffs when my uncle and my cousin Jacob wanted to go see a movie. I asked which one, and my Uncle replied with The Devil Inside.
The Devil Inside, I thought, couldn’t be that scary. It was a documentary style film that took place in Europe and followed a daughter trying to help her mother, who was convicted of a murder due to demonic possession. It sounded fun but maybe not so fun for a 12-year-old. Technically I was 11, but still, you get the point.
Anyways, my mom gave me the look, the one where she’s got an eyebrow raised and the expression “You’re crazy, don’t do this” written all over her face. But eventually she caved in and said, “Alright, well if you want to be tough, and think you’re a big kid, don’t come crying to me when it’s over.”
I was tough; at least I thought I was. We sat in the theatre; popcorn, candy, and soda in hand when the lights finally dimmed. Next thing I know, on the screen in big, white text: “Based on a true story” had flashed for a few seconds and I realized I had fucked up.
To this day, I don’t quite remember the movie all that much. Certainly not because I was hiding behind the collar of my shirt most of the time, most definitely not. And it absolutely wasn’t the fact that my cousin kept chanting, “SpongeBob, happy thoughts. SpongeBob, happy thoughts,” throughout every scary, violent scene, no not at all. Anyways, moral of the story is momma knew best and I did not listen. Fast forward seven years to today; I love scary movies. But do I still overhype myself and jump at a lot of things? Of course I do.
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