What’s a book or movie that genuinely scared you?

My first reaction to this question was: none. Not because I’m particularly brave, but because I have absolutely no interest in being terrified for entertainment.

My second thought was that quite a few of my friends enjoy horror films and true crime stories, and somehow we still get along perfectly well. Provided, of course, that they don’t try to tell me about them. I tend to shut those conversations down rather quickly, preferably before my stomach joins the discussion.

In fact, my aversion to horror once cost a young man his romantic prospects.

Many years ago, a gentleman was courting me whose great ambition was to become a successful horror writer. Things were going reasonably well until he proudly sent me one of his manuscripts.

Poor man.

Approximately three pages into his literary masterpiece, our romantic future was sealed. I felt physically sick, and suddenly I couldn’t stop wondering whether the charming young man who was trying to win my heart might also be spending his evenings inventing particularly gruesome ways to murder people.

I ran for the hills. Or rather, disappeared from his inbox.

I’m not proud of the ghosting, especially as he probably thought sharing his creative passion was a rather romantic gesture. Unfortunately, I was too busy imagining myself as the protagonist of his next novel.

Romance: 0. Horror: 1.

Years later, I’ve come to appreciate that enjoying fictional violence doesn’t necessarily mean someone has violent tendencies. Which is reassuring, considering how many perfectly lovely people I know who happily spend their Friday evenings watching imaginary psychopaths chase imaginary victims.

But why do some people love horror while others, like me, would rather watch paint dry?

Naturally, I had to investigate. Because apparently, even when I don’t want to watch something, I still need to understand everything about it.

And it turns out there are some rather interesting psychological explanations.

For some people, horror offers a form of controlled fear. Their brains recognise that the danger isn’t real, allowing them to enjoy the adrenaline rush without actually being threatened. A little adventure from the safety of the sofa, preferably with popcorn.

There’s also the satisfaction of surviving the scare. When the monster disappears or the victim escapes, the relief can feel genuinely rewarding. Some people enjoy that emotional roller coaster enough to buy another ticket.

I, on the other hand, seem to get stuck somewhere between the terror and the nausea. My empathy becomes so involved that the fact the victim is fictional makes surprisingly little difference. And when the ordeal finally ends, my only reward is the overwhelming desire never to experience it again.

Different people also vary in how much excitement they seek, how intensely they respond to frightening images, and how easily they maintain emotional distance from what they’re watching. So it’s not simply a matter of being brave or sensitive.

Then there’s morbid curiosity, that peculiar human tendency to look at things we find disturbing, dangerous or forbidden.

I suspect most of us have a little of that. Even I occasionally find myself peeking at a true crime story, usually with the vague justification that perhaps I might learn something useful about avoiding a similar fate.

Five minutes later, I’m regretting every life decision that brought me there and solemnly promising myself: Never. Again.

Until the next time curiosity gets the better of me.

So, thanks to this little investigation, I’ve acquired yet another piece of knowledge I didn’t realise I needed.

And perhaps next time someone tells me they love horror films, I’ll be slightly less inclined to wonder what they keep in their basement.

Although, if I’m being perfectly truthful, I’m still not convinced a devoted horror enthusiast would make my ideal romantic partner.

Then again, you never know.

Perhaps somewhere out there is a charming gentleman who loves horror films, writes gruesome murder mysteries, and is otherwise an absolute delight.

I’d just prefer he kept his manuscripts to himself.