INTERVIEWER: People usually use [the term “elevated horror”] to refer to A24’s movies, horror that’s very heavy on the metaphorical. Hereditary, Midsommar, movies like that.
JOHN CARPENTER: I have no idea what you’re talking about.
— From the AV Club’s interview with legendary horror film director, John Carpenter.
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Honey? We need to talk.
I wanted 15 Thornhill Road to be perfect for us. We’ve put so much into this move, and I think that we wanted it to work so badly that we’re pretending nothing’s wrong. But the signs are all there.
The howls from the basement. The bloody child’s handprints on the bedsheets. The face that appears for a split second in the bathroom mirror and makes a deafening sound whenever we look up from washing our faces.
Honey. I don’t think our haunting is elevated.
Well, of course, the house is haunted! But after that down payment? In this market? If spirits are trying to communicate with us from beyond the veil, they should at least have something substantive to say.
Look. I’m not saying that the ghosts don’t work on any level. The little clown boy that pops out of the fridge startles the shit out of me every time I grab a handful of cold cuts. But he doesn’t make me think.
I just don’t understand how this happened. This is a good school district. We have Crate & Barrel furniture. But when I take out the garbage, why am I getting jump-scared by a cat I don’t own?
This morning alone, I have found six types of goo congealing in the breakfast nook and not a single metaphor for grief.
Every time I hear that theremin start up, I get a chill down my spine, because it’s like, ooooh—what kind of cliché shit am I going to witness next? A floating white sheet? A Ouija board? God, this is so embarrassing.
I have to tilt my own goddamn head if I want to see a Dutch angle. And the lighting? Not even bi-curious.
Don’t get me started on the dead-weight dead people.
Hey, I’m just saying: if a deceased Civil War general is going to squeak that rocking chair all night long, he could at least do so in a way that grapples with the legacy of American slavery.
Did you know that the Parks next door are being haunted in Korean? With subtitles??? How is Eva going to get into a good college if our ghosts are monolingual? I don’t think Clown Boy even learned to read.
I suppose “Boo!” is technically Latin.
I’m just going to come out and say it: is this because we’re a heterosexual white couple? I get it—we haven’t exactly cornered the market on intergenerational trauma. But, for the record, my parents divorced when I was nine, and I just think the ghosts could be doing more with that.
Wow. Well, sorry for not having a long-standing issue with substance abuse. I’ll get right on that.
You could be doing more, too, you know. Do you realize that, since we moved in, I haven’t seen you obsessively construct a single miniature? Not even an antique dollhouse. It’s really the least you could do.
No, no dolls! Those are pedestrian—just the house.
The only time I feel a sense of creeping dread is when your parents come over, and I’m just waiting for them to notice Eva pressing her face to the TV and talking to the static. They already think we give her too much screen time.
I feel like I’m in hell. Spectral children giggle for no reason and move the furniture. Self-proclaimed “mediums” show up with no context or credentials. When I cry, it never feels narratively earned. You literally never take your bra off, even when we go to bed. And I can’t even say the f-word about it! How are we supposed to feel something real when we’re constantly being censored?
Sure, visually, we’ve had some moments. I have to admit, the blood geyser shooting out of Eva’s bunk bed was quite something. But, when Mrs. Park is getting closure with her deceased Umma and forgiving her in their shared tongue that she never speaks with her own children, our little spookfest just seems, I don’t know, cheap and pointless?
I don’t mean to be bitter. It’s not a competition. But if a demon named Bugaboo runs over my head with a lawnmower, I just want it to mean something.
Oh great—now I’ve summoned him. Of course, saying his name aloud summons him. God forbid there be any ritual specificity.
Honey, it’s too late for me. Take Eva and run.
But, first, promise me something: Please put on a cheeky, yet haunting needle-drop before you go.
And, when you tell my story, make sure it’s in a twenty-minute YouTube video called “Demon Lawnmower Head Explosion Ending Explained.”
