Here’s a fun fact about me—I love horror. I adore it. Be thankful that I practice self-restraint, because if I could every other article I’d write would probably be about "Tomie" or "Evil Dead 2".

Here’s another fun fact about me— I used to hate horror movies. Okay maybe ‘hate’ is the wrong word to use…more like, I couldn’t even watch two seconds of the ‘Hostel’ trailer without screaming and crying all the way to my room.

My fear of horror films mostly stemmed from a single prank. I was around ten years old, a cousin of mine told me there was a cop drama they wanted me to see. I was super into ‘whodunnits’ when I was younger, so I didn’t think twice about plopping down next to them and watching whatever was on television—until Michael Myers brutally decapitated a man and shoved his bloody head into a washing machine.

To say that watching this scared me would maybe be just a bit of an understatement—for the next month or so, I had repeated nightmares starring a man in a bleached Shatner mask and his trusty knife. It probably sounds silly now, because honestly Halloween movies are relatively tame compared to some other titles out there, but to a fourth grader who was already somewhat of a coward, it was like having nightly visits from Satan.

Yeah kind of like that.

This isn’t to say that I didn’t like spooky things as a child—I liked scary stories as much as the next kid. But I didn’t register folklore or campfire tales the same way that I did horror films. In my mind, scary stories were creepy, but they were fun to share with people. Legends were scary, but they were also rich in story and variation. The terror and mystery which I enjoyed within these stories were fun because of the initial spook, no doubt, but I also enjoyed them because they provided a source of fascination that fueled my eventual love of storytelling in all its forms.

But horror films were a completely different animal. Reading or hearing a scary story was like reading a good article about train accidents and how to prevent them. Horror films were more like watching said train hurl itself into a gruesome wreck and then witnessing everyone on board burn alive.

I just couldn’t understand why anyone would want to watch anything like that. The violence was senseless, the gore gratuitous, and the plots were nonexistent. Why would I risk another few weeks of nightmares just so I could maybe see that one naked chick get ripped to shreds?

For pride, it turned out.

Sophomore year of high school, I still had to walk out of living rooms and movie theatres if any kind of horror trailer came on. At one point I had to walk out of the room because “The Wicker Man” was on, and then I realized-- I had to walk out of the room because the Wicker Man was on.

Offhandedly, my cousin (yes same one) joked about how I probably couldn’t even handle a video game without peeing in my pants. He probably didn’t remember that conversation after a few months, but oh I did.

I dedicated the summer of 2010 to one goal: getting over myself. I forced myself to watch every B-horror movie I possibly could, which meant that my TV was on Chiller (Syfy’s mall goth younger sister) every time I was able to hog it. At first, it was all about getting through it, forcing myself to not run screaming from the room whenever someone was shoved into a wood chipper, to not cover my eyes whenever I knew a jump scare was coming.

I didn’t enjoy it. Not at all. It was like forcing yourself to run another fifteen minutes on the treadmill, except with the potential consequence of getting murdered in your dreams.

But then, I watched a masterpiece. A film that will forever have a place in my heart.

“Hillside Cannibals”.

If you’re thinking “wow that sounds like a rip off of ‘Hills Have Eyes’”, I’ll have you know that “Hillside Cannibals” has a place among the greats, like “Snakes on a Train” and “Sharknado”.

Hey there not-Leatherface.

But yes. The movie was exactly what it sounds like: a made-for-television movie ‘inspired’ by the late 2000’s deluge of killer hillbilly slasher flicks. And it was terrible! The effects, the acting, the horror movie logic—it was so bad that I had to pause a few times and rewind just so I could really relish in its ridiculousness. It was so bad that I texted my then-boyfriend the entire time, because I couldn’t believe that this was a real movie that I was watching. It was so terrible, it was hilarious.

It was so terrible, I loved it.

After that, I still tuned into Chiller regularly, but my priorities had shifted. Watching “Wrong Turn” was less of a self-inflicted torture session, and more of a down-time treat. I still got grossed out regularly, but my desire to see if my predictions of ‘who would die next’ were correct often won out. The rivers of blood and guts would initially make me squirm, but the absurdity of there being rivers of blood and guts kept me going.

I don't know either.

Soon, these movies started social rituals. I think back to “horror nights” with one of my best friends. We never had the time to hang out with each other face to face the way that we used to, so once a week we would Skype and livestream a horror film. We’d spend the entirety of the film trying to guess what happened next, discuss whether a particular monster or killer was scary enough, laugh at the absurdity of Satan deciding to pick on one particular all-American family.

But what really got me hooked on these movies was one thing-- love. It was the love that was so obviously poured into the creation of these movies; the blood, sweat and tears that was put into the development and production. Some quick research led to me realize that most of these films were working on a hamstring budget and thus had some incredibly innovative special effects. The Evil Dead, one of my favorite movies of all time, is an example of how a low budget helped make one of the most iconic sequences in horror.

It was at that point that I stopped watching B horror movies just for the laughs, but also because I admired them. I admired the dedication and effort put into these movies. I loved how they knew exactly what they were, and made the best of it.

To be honest, when I first started trying to express exactly why horror mattered to me on a personal level, I tried to focus on sociological implications that different subgenres tend to reflect and instill within us. And it’s true that I do find that fascinating. But I would be lying if I said that I first fell in love with a thought-provoking masterpiece. Because I didn’t.

I fell in love with a ridiculous movie that I enjoyed so much it overcame my initial fear of watching slashers. I fell in love with a movie that led me to appreciate the behind-the-scenes work of movie magic. I fell in love with a movie that embraced its rivers of blood and guts eagerly.

So here it is. My ode to B-horror movies, and the great minds behind them—thank you for overpowered killers, hillside cannibals, and cabins in the woods. Thank you for green goo blood, exploding demons, and zombie cows. Thank you for movies that get people together and make them drunk and happy. Oscar-bait movies come and go, but a movie that makes someone want to scream and laugh at the same time, a movie that is sincere in its gushing fountains of blood and guts? That’s the kind of movie I’ll always hold near and dear to my heart.