Ever since I stopped my cousin’s house, saw ten minutes of Friday the 13th, Part 163, imagined a far worse ending than the movie actually had (probably – how would I know? I was there for ten minutes), and paid my brother every night for a month to turn on the lights in my room, I have hated horror movies.
I have all sorts of self-righteous moral objections to the genre as a whole (what kind of person thinks this stuff up? does it actually neutralize the horror by sharing it or does it just escalate it?) and to Stephen King personally (as the primary parent of the form), but the most closely it has touched me after that first foray was the time I nearly broke up with my best friend my freshman year in college because she tricked me into watching The Shining. She apparently didn’t really believe my serious promises of dire retribution for exposure. Naturally, she lived in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere at the time, so that made it all the better for both of us. Ah, good times…
Displaced 
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