I Can’t Go On, I’ll Go On… To Kill

While cataloging some issues of The New Teen Titans from the late eighties, I noticed that the back cover advert for a few issues was for Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan. I chuckled, remembering when that came out and how it was universally panned as the installment when the series crossed the line from frightening to silly. Then I realized that since then, they’ve made three more films.

Then it struck me: the true nature of horror is banality that never ends. It’s not a boot stamping on your face forever. It’s not the unknown made manifest. It’s not even the lurking fear of the infinite creeping up on you in the cold gray four o’clock morning. It’s some dick in the attic, wearing a sheet as a shroud and rattling chains. Who Never stops. Ever. Even after you’ve gone to a gun shop, filled out the paperwork, waited the three days for the license to clear, bought a gun and some ammunition, practiced at the firing range until you’re a Navy Seal sniper-level marksman and then marched upstairs and shot the bastard between the yes. The moment you get back down to your bedroom and settle into bed, he’s at it again with the chains and the moaning and the clanking. Forever and ever. Amen.