THERE is something wonderfully ridiculous about paying good money to be terrified.
We avoid fear in real life – checking the back seats of our cars, pretending we did not hear that creak upstairs but the moment a horror movie hits the big screen, there we are, willingly lining up, popcorn in hand, ready to scream. Honestly, it makes no sense. And yet, I can’t stop.
I have been hooked on horror for years, though “hooked” may be the wrong word since I spend half the time with my fingers over my eyes, peeking just enough to see what is happening. It is the classic horror-movie stance: I’m scared but I must watch. By the end, my popcorn is untouched and my dignity is in tatters.
Why do we do this to ourselves? Science says it is the adrenaline rush, the safe way to experience danger. I would say it is because we humans are strange creatures who enjoy screaming together in the dark; it is like karaoke, except instead of singing badly, we are gasping and shrieking in unison.
No franchise feeds this masochism quite like The Conjuring. Inspired by the real-life cases of paranormal investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren, it delivers scares that stick.
Not the cheap, cat-jumping-out-of-a-closet kind, but the ones that follow you home. The ones that make you switch on the bathroom light at 3am and whisper a small prayer before sleeping.
And then there is James Wan, the director who knows exactly how long to stretch the silence before unleashing a scream. He is like that friend who tells a ghost story, pauses dramatically and then grabs your shoulder at the scariest part – infuriating, effective and addictive.
So when the latest Conjuring premiered on Sept 3, I watched. And once again, I left the cinema with sweaty palms, a racing heart and the unshakable sense that maybe I should not have parked so far from the exit. Walking to my car felt like my own personal horror movie.
But here’s the thing: Hollywood doesn’t have a monopoly on scares. Malaysia’s ghost game is strong. While America gives us Annabelle and demon nuns, we have the Pontianak, who doesn’t need special effects – just a banana tree and the right kind of scream. We have the Toyol, who’ll swipe your cash. The Pocong, hopping its way through the night like the world’s most horrifying pogo stick.
And because I’m an Indian, my childhood ghost stories were a mash of both worlds. I grew up hearing about the Pontianak and the Mohini – the vengeful spirit in a white saree, luring men to their doom.
There were tales of the pey (ghost in Tamil) that lingered around old trees or the Katteri (vampire-like ghost) that roamed kampung backroads but somehow always made its way into conversations at our dinner table.
These stories terrified me and thrilled me all at once. Mixed with Malaysian legends, they spoiled us with nightmare fuel long before Hollywood came along.
These were not just stories, either. Ask any Malaysian and someone will swear their cousin’s neighbour’s friend has seen something. Growing up, I would listen to these tales and immediately regret it when I had to go to the toilet at night.
That faint knock on the window? Definitely a Toyol. The wind howling outside? Pontianak or maybe Mohini. I once even convinced myself the creak of the fridge door was the Kuttichathan, a mischievous goblin from Tamil folklore, looking for a midnight snack.
And yet, I keep going back for more. Because horror movies are not just about the ghosts; they are about the people – the way we bond over fear, clutching each other’s arms in the cinema, laughing nervously afterwards about how we all screamed at the same time.
These were the stories that got passed down, spicing up sleepovers and late-night mamak sessions. Horror makes us feel alive precisely because it brings us close to death while keeping us perfectly safe.
Yes, it is absurd. We invite fear into our lives, knowing full well we will regret it at 2am when the floor creaks. But maybe that is the whole point; fear jolts us awake, it reminds us that life is not just about bills and traffic jams but also Pontianaks, Mohinis and parking-lot shadows – the delicious possibility that something is out there, waiting.
Because the truth is, we don’t chase ghosts for fear; we chase them for the reminder that our hearts still beat.
Hashini Kavishtri Kannan is the assistant news editor at theSun.
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