Ever since I was of a small age, I can remember immersing myself in horror and mystery. My mother would purchase me endless stories and novels, from Goosebumps to Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, to which I would quickly devour, and then be rewarded with little to no sleep whatsoever. In my elementary school, my librarian, Ms. P (who was called simply by the letter “P” due to her ridiculously long last name that I cannot recall at the moment—I most likely removed the information from my memory at some point because the name was so long it was taking up too much space), would give me the newest horror novel bought for the library, so that I could review it and report back to her on whether or not the book was too disturbing for the other children. I was seven.
Films were introduced in the horror spectrum by, once again, my mother, who fed me classical horror films, such as The Innocents (1961), and The Night of the Living Dead (1968). I only began to realize that this sort of interest was not natural for a child when I was drawing a child hanging from the ceiling, blood dripping down her face, in a public restaurant. My mother told me to stop drawing that, as people were beginning to look. I was eight.
So why has this interest transferred over into my adulthood? Usually, most childhood obsessions are dropped at puberty, but this stayed strong and hard, and is still one of my main interests even now, at nineteen years of age. I still purchase horror novels on impulse, terrifying films being regular background noise in my family home—this interest has stayed with me, because I have been raised with it. While some families have a core of religion, or a mutual love for a sports team, my family has a holographic picture of a vampire mother in our foyer. You could say it was passed down to me.
But where did it begin?
My mother had this interest when she was younger, as well. And from her, I have found out where she has gotten it from—my great grandfather. My great grandfather was not only a spy for the British government, but he also regularly participated in séances with one of his best friends, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (author of Sherlock Holmes). At one of these séances, there was a record of a “magician” being in attendance—who could have very well been none other than Harry Houdini, who attended séances in order to expose false psychics, and attended many of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s séances. The point that is being raised here, after all of this information, is where did my great grandfather get this interest?
My silly interest could simply be that—a silly interest. However, with a line forming straight from myself, to my mother, to my great-grandfather, is the interest passed down consciously, or is it hereditary, and engrained in our DNA? Surely there is no genetic code for “unhealthy obsession with horror films”, but there must be something for interests otherwise. And why stop there? If interests in horror and mystery can be passed down, why not memories? Or interests in professions?
Something to think about would be to investigate your own interests, and ask around about other family members who may have had these interests. Really ask if you are the only one with a certain interest or hobby in your family tree. Are there artists in your family? Writers? Politicians? Because you may not be the only black sheep, but rather a black sheep in a larger herd. Will these interests simply come later on in your life? Are we simply hostages to a genetic mindset, or is this an interest of free will? Any way you come to look these interests, forced or unforced, subconscious on conscious, there is only one thing to say to these approaching, possibly genetic interests:
"They're coming to get you, Barbara."
