A horror film gave me nightmares. Decades later, it was time to try again

When it comes to movies, I am a chronic, lifelong wimp. Graphic violence, gore, paranoia and dread – I’ve spent most of my life avoiding this stuff. But this winter, with horror-movie hype reaching fever pitch, I jumped on the bloody bandwagon.

My horror of horror began when I watched The Shining, aged nine, at our next-door neighbours’ house, while our parents had a dinner party together. I sat through the whole thing in a state of pure, wretched terror. There were months of nightmares.

My parents had to ban my sister from raising a crooked index finger within my field of vision. (She was already banned from uttering “redrum”, after I screamed and threw myself at a wall.) And I developed a sudden, irrational aversion to the smell of South Asian cooking.

(Our neighbours were Sri Lankan. The smell of coconut milk and turmeric now conjured images of Jack Nicholson limping with an axe through a frozen Colorado hedge maze.) It was clear I had an obsessive, hysterical imagination.

I steered clear of horror for decades. It all changed about a month ago. My family were away for the night and I decided to take myself to the movies.

Scrolling through the cinema session listings, I saw Backrooms. Even with my long-standing protective blinkers against horror, I’d heard about Backrooms. I knew it was based on a massively popular web series.

And I knew that, along with Obsession, it had been heralded as a beacon of hope for the anaemic film industry – a low-budget horror flick made by young filmmaker Kane Parsons. Don’t overthink it, Quick, I told myself, zipping up my parka and striding out into the cold night. Embrace the future of cinema.

But was it wise for me – tremulous little lamb, unwise to the tricks and tropes of the genre – to face this alone, then go home to an empty house? I had underthought it. Soon enough, the disorienting opening sequence, shot on frantic handheld, was unfolding before me.

Backrooms is about a guy (played by Chiwetel Ejiofor), who runs a furniture showroom in suburban San Jose. Through the showroom’s basement, he discovers another dimension of endless rooms, freaky liminal spaces, and nightmares. My allocated seat was J18 and I don’t know if it was a great night for my neighbours in J19 and J17.

I writhed, shrieked and barked insane cathartic laughs. I watched entire scenes, whimpering, from behind my hands. Still, I never thought of walking out.

I was enthralled. I took fast, decisive action as I left the cinema. I called a friend and asked him to stay on the phone for the next half an hour as I walked home, then opened every cupboard in my flat and checked that each cupboard did not lead to infinite other cupboards.

Once I’d completed this task, we hung up. It was a cold night. I lay in bed under two blankets.

The important thing was not to think about Backrooms at all. I listened to a podcast and played Tetris on my phone. This was soothing – a game of strict parameters – and I slotted those Tetris blocks into tight rows with great urgency, scoring a new personal best.

Soon my eyes were drooping. I slept like a baby; adrenaline drained from my body. In the light of day, I could appreciate Backrooms, especially the brilliant production design and Ejiofor’s performance.

Some critics have found fault with the logic of the plot, but I didn’t care about that. It was enough for Parsons’ immensely creepy vision to wash over me. Emboldened, I went off to see the other horror smash hit, Obsession, a few days later.

I chose a discounted daytime session. In the snack bar line, two students exchanged jittery pre-screening disclaimers (“I’m terrible with jump-scares” ... “me too”).

More my crowd, I thought: tight-arse, daytime wimps. Obsession is less eerie than Backrooms – more crazed and gruesome – but it was funny and creative and hugely entertaining. Adulthood is underrated, I reflected, as I strolled home from the cinema past the towering elms in Carlton Gardens.

I’d eaten about a kilogram of popcorn in three days and I could eat more if I felt like it. My psyche – once vulnerable and porous – was now like a helmet. Frightful fictions were bouncing straight off me.

I felt strong and stout-hearted, until I watched The Sheep Detectives about a week later and leapt out of my seat during a midnight fight scene between two fluffy animated rams. I guess that’s horrible progress. You have reached your maximum number of saved items.

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