MONSTER IN THE HOUSE

I’ve spent my entire life preparing to be murdered in a house.

When I was a little girl, we lived briefly in a cabin in the woods in Oregon. My room was on the basement level. My sister’s was one floor above, near the kitchen, and my mom was a floor above that…if you had any questions about her maternal instinct.

Each night, I dreaded going to bed. I knew that as soon as the lights went out, it was only a matter of time before my imagination got the best of me and I spiraled out of control. I was afraid of monsters, intruders, rapists, aliens, men in ski masks, men not in ski masks, and anything with arms and legs lurking under my bed.

Most nights, I ended up racing back upstairs and climbing into my sister’s bunk for protection. She was always asleep by the time I got there and of no practical use, but having another body nearby put me at ease.

I check locks, I check closets, I look behind shower curtains in other people’s homes, and I never sleep with the bathroom door open because mirrors are portals to other dimensions, duh!

I’ve seen every eighties slasher film, from Friday the 13th to The Slumber Party Massacre, and I held my breath through all of them. I hate being scared, but I also needed to know the rules if I intended to be the Final Girl.

The Final Girl is the one who stays alive. She’s observant, resourceful, sarcastic, and brunette. Blondes always die.

Survival depends on following a few basic rules. Most notably:

Never go into the basement.

Never have sex.