You can have the lovers and the sleuths and all the historical characters. Give me the monsters. I want horror and all its darkness and its sharp teeth and its wicked laughter. Give me monsters with blood-matted fur and gleaming fangs and serrated claws. Tantalize me with tentacles and too many eyes and the putrid smells of the undead. You can keep the secret agent thrillers and the ghost-written autobiographies and all the who-dunnits. Give me the monsters. I’ll take monsters that drink blood and monsters that breathe fire and monsters that live deep in the blackest parts of the ocean. Give me monsters that growl and monsters that hiss and monsters that rasp “Come give Grandpa a hug.” I want monsters that scratch from the depths of the furnace vent and monsters that masquerade in daylight as clothing on chairs and monsters that live under beds.

Give me the scariest of monsters. The ones on two legs. Give me monsters who lurk in dark vans and in police cruisers and in your neighbor’s house. Monsters posing as babysitters and algebra teachers and Mommy’s new friend. I’ll take them all! Give me the monster that looks like a man with strong hands and a crew cut and the beguiling smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Give me the beast with the gray hair and the flowered apron, the one who calls you “Dearie” and offers warm cookies and flicks a too red tongue over too sharp teeth. Show me the creature that smells of incense and speaks in whispers and wears the collar of a priest and carries a blade disguised as a crucifix.

Oh, give me the monsters!

When the real world starts to feel all too real, I find refuge with monsters. When headlines filled with violence and hate just become too much, when the leader of our country praises racists and ridicules teenage activists, I seek monsters. When my heart is sad and my body aches with grief, I curl up with a security blanket of monsters.

Some may find my preference for monsters puzzling or odd or even disturbing. Many a sweet-voiced innocent has shuddered at my love of horror and has insisted that during stressful times, when the world is scary, solace is best found in “escapist” reading. Romance, celebrity tell-alls, cozy mysteries. Stories to warm the heart. But lovers of horror know that such sentiment is dangerous. No one ever escapes the monster by pretending it isn’t there. In fact, those characters are always the first to die.

A great many writers* before me have described fiction as the lie that tells the truth. This is especially the case with horror. Does this make you shake your head and tut and question my upbringing? Do you think me dark? Do you think me cynical?

Do you watch the news?

Lovers of horror know that monsters are real. Do we believe that Pennywise the Clown lives in the storm drain? Of course not (though I sure as hell avoid getting too close to the one at the end of our cul-de-sac, just to be safe). Do we really think that something is lurking in the closet or under the bed? Don’t be ridiculous (though I never sleep with a closet door open, and no matter how hot it is my feet always stay under the covers). We know Ray Bradbury’s Mr. Dark is a fictional villain. We know Neil Gaiman’s Other Mother with the buttons for eyes is a make-believe nightmare. They scare us and they thrill us and they straight up entertain us. But we are well aware that outside the pages, real monsters do exist. Real monsters live in our neighborhoods. Real monsters drive our roads. Real monsters lead our world’s nations. Facing fictional monsters, we learn to recognize the real thing. Fighting fictional monsters alongside the bruised and bloodied protagonists, we learn how to best the nonfictional beasts.

As a lover of horror, I know the following to be true:

Closing your eyes doesn’t make the monster go away. Or, as Flannery O’Connor said, “The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.” You can’t beat a monster you don’t acknowledge. Squeezing your lids tight and sticking your fingers in your ears and shouting “Nah nah nah you’re not here!” does nothing to keep the gaping jaws from tearing out your throat. Nor does escapist reading. Nor does ignoring the headlines.

Not all grownups are the good guys. In fact, some of them are the monsters. To be clear, I’m not really talking about age when I talk about grownups. Yeah, if you’re a seven year old you might still think all grownups will defend you against monsters. If you’re a nine year old you’ve likely outgrown such illusions. But even if you’re a forty-seven year old, there’s still a child inside. And it can be all too easy for that inner-child to assume certain grown-up figures are safe and are helpers and are deserving of trust. Fire fighters. Doctors. Soldiers. Clergy. White women. Many of these individuals are perfectly nice, I’m sure. But monsters wear many guises. Don’t be fooled by your biases.

If a child tells you there is something in the closet, believe them. This is up there on the list of the many reasons I don’t have children. I’m pretty certain they attract evil. But if I did have a child, and if they told me there was something in their closet, we’d be in the car in a flash (with cats and dogs and fish) and calling 911 on the way to a hotel. Okay, admittedly, the part about this being why I don’t have kids was a bit tongue in cheek (though, it’s not not true…). But in all seriousness, those in a position to face up to monsters often don’t recognize, or believe, the plea for help. Whether it’s a child telling about a monster who looks like an uncle, or like a billionaire, or a woman telling about a monster who looks like a movie producer, or an African American telling about a monster who looks like a police officer, don’t assume that the horror they tell is imaginary just because it doesn’t align with your own experiences. When a child tells you there’s something in the closet, believe them until you confirm there isn’t.

While you might be able to face the monster alone, you’ll be better served with a good friend or two by your side. The Losers Club banded together against Pennywise and Henry Bowers (arguably as scary, if not scarier than, that damned clown). Harry had Hermione and Ron, and during the ultimate face-off with Voldemort he was bolstered, via the Resurrection Stone, by his departed loved ones. If your friends aren’t willing to have your six (and your nine and your three) when things are likely to get weird and bloody, find new friends.

Love, compassion, and kindness will always win out in the end. This likely makes me sound all Pollyanna, but bear with me. I’m not saying that you’ll stay unscathed and win every battle if you sing Kumbaya and offer bouquets of wildflowers to monsters. You go up against a monster, you’re going to get battered. You’ll have scars. Battles will be lost. But the beatings and the lost skirmishes are short-term setbacks. By their very nature, monsters are suffering. They thrive in the darkness of that suffering. Many of them have suffered for so long they don’t even know that they’re suffering. In my very first post I wrote about my commitment to a practice of radical compassion. That is never more important than when going up against a monster. If your strategy isn’t one of light, if you allow yourself to enter the fray guided by hate and anger, you’ll find things going topsy turvy pretty damn fast, and before you know it you’ll be on the wrong side of the battle. So, you see, there’s nothing Pollyanna about this at all. I’m not suggesting that Jonathan Harker should have offered Dracula a hug. But I am suggesting that a bit of sunshine would have done the trick quite nicely.

So, bring on the monsters. The beasts of the darkness. Give me fangs. Give me claws and horns and blades. Give me unseen things that slither in dark places. We’ll curl up together, the monsters and me. And I’ll hold my breath and bring my hand to my mouth as I turn the page, afraid to know what happens next but absolutely needing to know what happens next. I’ll smile a dark smile as I read an especially twisted part. And I’ll read on.

Then I’ll close the book. I’ll breathe a safe breath. I’ll sip my chamomile. I’ll hug my guy. And when next I spot a monster in real life, I’ll employ the lessons that horror has taught.

And I’ll fight.

Guided by compassion, love, and kindness, and flanked by my friends, I’ll fight.

* Albert Camus, Neil Gaiman, Stephen King, probably many others