Last week, I awoke in the middle of the night to an engulfing darkness, my alarm clock’s crimson digits casting 3:42 a.m. into the shadows. After briefly tossing about under a heap of covers, I headed to the bathroom for a glass of water.
My bathroom looked as it did at any other time of the day. Towels were neatly stacked on a metal shelving unit and my toothbrush rested unmoving upon the sink’s countertop. But, as I turned on the faucet, a prickling sensation suddenly began to crawl up the back of my neck. It was a familiar feeling. Trying to catch it before it’s full-blown onslaught, I averted my eyes from the medicine-cabinet mirror before me. I hastened back to bed, huddling deep beneath the blankets with only my face peeking out.
This happens far too frequently than I care to admit at age twenty five. Nonetheless, the fact remains that Candyman, the mythical figure from the 1992 horror film bearing his name, still lurks about the corners of my mind from time to time. His hooked hand and his penchant for popping out of bathroom mirrors when summoned, leave me as terrified of medicine cabinets today as they did when I first saw the movie as an adolescent.
The terror is, of course, a strange brotherhood of horror and happiness. I’ve always loved scary movies. My partner says it’s because I have an overactive imagination. A psychologist might say it’s because I can explore my anxieties from the safety of my own living room. I would say, however, that maybe I haven’t grown up much after all, if the same movies that scared me years ago still test my courage today.
Like the movie Jaws, for example. Sometimes when I’m swimming laps at the local pool, I still half-expect to see a dorsal fin cutting through the water, much like I did as a child in the bathtub. At other times, a blaring phone call when I’m home alone is surely coming from somewhere inside the house, as it was in When A Stranger Calls. Though I haven’t seen this movie since I was twelve, chomping on a bag of Doritos as a thunderstorm thrashed beyond the living room curtains, I can’t say I’ve been entirely comfortable with unidentified callers ever since.
Candyman, however, has forever been the kingpin of horror films for me.
This strange love affair began in fourth grade, when I first watched Candyman at a sleepover. My parents had long recognized my fascination with scary movies, and though they wanted to indulge my interests, they played it safe by renting benign thrillers like Ben and Cujo. I jumped when Cujo attacked the family car, but I yearned for something more.
Fortunately, my best friend Lisa shared my fascination with scary movies. Her parents didn’t care what movies she rented, so each time I spent the night at her house, our first task was to tackle the horror section of the video store. After grabbing packages of Starburst and bite-size Milky Ways with our rental, we were set for the evening.
I don’t remember being particularly scared of Candyman the night Lisa and I rented it in fourth grade. Maybe having a friend to fall asleep with afterward made it seem less ominous. All I know is that once I returned to the quiet of my own bedroom and those images of Candyman lurking in empty parking lots and bursting through bathroom mirrors began to settle into my brain, things began to grow somewhat tense.
The mirror in my bedroom was the first to go. Large and painted yellow on its wooden frame, it rested comfortably on the wall above the head of my bed. I politely asked my parents to remove it. But, when that wasn’t enough—when I was still lying awake at night, imagining Candyman emerging from the bathroom mirror down the hall and charging into my room—I was next to go.
