I have been thinking a lot about the ways in which books I’ve read have changed me. In past newsletters, I have alluded to the way reading expands my empathy, affords me a deeper understanding of my own emotions, pushes me to think more critically, and gives me a greater appreciation for this planet we all share. And yet, books have scarred me, too. They’ve exposed me to horrors I’ve never known, disgusted me, and allowed new fears to rear their ugly heads and put down roots in the most vulnerable corners of my mind. There’s one book, in particular, that gave me my very deep, very real fear of home invasions.
When I was 25, I lived alone. Having previously lived in New York City in a flex triple (that's a studio apartment divided by fake walls to be shared by three people to the tune of $1100 per person a month, no, I am not kidding), living alone was, categorically, the shit. I had moved to a small town in Pennsylvania for work and was living in a shabby-chic apartment in an old brick townhouse. I had a washer/dryer in-unit, a backyard, and two (count ‘em) TWO closets in my bedroom– amenities that any sane person would assume as basic human rights but that a New Yorker would salivate over.
The change from a bustling metropolis to Podunk, PA was, to no small extent, fucking shocking. This new town had three bars. There was one gym. You had to drive 15 minutes out of town to hit a Starbucks and an Escape Room. Cultural mecca, it was not.
And perhaps unshockingly, I was alone a lot in this new habitat, and I found it suited me. Not having to share fridge space with four other people and having free reign over the air conditioner settings were novel luxuries. There was no one to answer to but myself. There was a lot going poorly in my life at this time, but autonomy and personal space were not among my issues. I loved being alone.
But as they say, all good things must end, and so too did this solitary bliss. The reason was that I read Thomas Harris’ 1981 novel, Red Dragon. Red Dragon is the first novel in the Hannibal Lecter series, which I’ve since read in its entirety. All the books in this series are gripping and fantastic (even if the third one jumps the shark), regardless of whether or not you’ve seen the movies– but Red Dragon stood apart. It terrified me, making me fearful of my own home– or rather, fearful of being alone in my home, a place I once was at my most comfortable and content.
The book is about Will Graham, a retired FBI agent who is brought back into the force to catch a serial killer. Graham must rely on the help of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, the genius cannibal (same) whom he helped to put behind bars years ago, to profile and find this killer. The killer, of course, idolizes the “work” of Dr. Lecter and frequently writes letters of adulation to Lecter in prison, praising Lecter’s techniques and discussing the murders he himself is committing.
And to say our serial killer is murdering people is putting it lightly. By day, the killer, named Francis Dolarhyde, is a nobody. He’s a quiet, lonely photo technician who works at Gateway Corporation developing film. He is also mentally ill, and when he can no longer hold back, he succumbs to the compulsions of his alter ego, the Red Dragon. On these nights, he will kill a suburban family, but first, he will torture and mutilate them one by one. Once they are dead, he will arrange their corpses in heinous configurations and insert shards of glass into their eyes, turning a once ordinary, idyllic family into a sickening tableau of gore and disfigurement.
This is all horrific in and of itself, but what really got me was how Francis Dolarhyde found his victims. As a photo technician, Dolarhyde spends his days in the dark room, developing film. Dolarhyde would study families from the nearby town via their home films he was developing. He’d watch each family member and learn their habits, their hobbies, and their comings and goings from home. From these home movies, he’d glean the layout of their houses and entrance points, carefully collecting any information that may help him gain undetected entry to their homes and lives. Once he found a viable target, he stalked them in real-time, surveilling them from a nearby field or tree for days, tracking their every move until he was ready to carry out his ritual kill.
Something about the fact that Dolarhyde’s victims were marked for destruction also marked the end of my enjoyment of solitude. These families were doomed months before they met their gruesome ends, but still going through the motions of their lives; going to work, soothing one another, fighting, eating meals– all of those mundane, human things we do every day. They never even see it coming, this unspeakable thing that is going to happen to them; their futures are still unmarred by their imminent obliteration at the hands of a monster.
This novel was the perfect catalyst for my lonely imagination to run wild. I whipped myself up into a frenzy over the fear of a home invasion. I couldn’t sleep without double-checking the bolts on every window and door. Alone in my bed, I stiffened in terror at the slightest noise, never mind that I lived in an old, creaky house. I had vivid nightmares, from which I awoke trembling. I obsessed over the fact that my back door could be reached by stairs from the ground level, allowing easy access for an intruder bold and bloodthirsty enough to smash a window, unlock the door, and cut my throat. I also could not stop reading the book. I had to finish it, despite the fact that it was making me lose my goddamn mind.
You may be thinking, this sounds horrible; what is wrong with you? To which I say– it was horrible, and so much is wrong with me. But reading this serial killer novel affected my life then, and it’s still one of my strongest memories from when I lived alone. It gave me a new fear and altered how I existed in my own space. Nothing makes you more painfully aware of your own mortal heart beating in your chest than getting the shit scared out of you.
Eventually, my then-boyfriend-now-husband moved in, and I was no longer alone in my home. The funny thing about our fears is that when we have to face them alone, they seem huge and imminent, the line between imagination and reality blurring into nonexistence. But when we introduce someone else to our fear by naming and explaining it, the bubble bursts. The fear flattens out and loses its barbed edges, becoming less vivid and more cartoonish. No longer living alone, there was a barrier between me and my fear, both physical in the form of my boyfriend and mental, in that I had less time to contemplate the innumerable graphic assaults that might threaten my corporeal existence.
But to this day, I have to check the locks before I go to bed. The feeling of the doorknob rattling against my palm as I test the bolt gives me comfort. On my worst nights, I can still convince myself that an unfamiliar sound in the night is footsteps making their way down my stairs, undoubtedly headed for my bedroom. I’m no longer wracked with cold sweats at night, writhing with violent dreams of being stalked and killed, but I still have a very ridiculous, very real fear of a madman breaking into my home while I sleep.
I remember this book vividly and with slightly nauseated deference. I’d probably even read it again. Absurdly, I love this book, and I recommend it often. Perhaps it is some perversion of Stockholm Syndrome that makes me admire the work that tormented me so deeply. Or perhaps simply the passage of time allowed me to look at that period of my life more objectively and understand the need I had for that fear in the form of Red Dragon as a distraction from my other problems, like loneliness, boredom, and a job I hated. Whatever the case, it remains a book I love and respect.
What book have you read that scared you the most? How did it change or affect you? Tell me in the comments plz, I want to read it!!!!
Other updates & relevant news:
Some personal news (and another book rec)—we got a dog! Yes, this is just an excuse to post pictures of him. He’s a 9-month-old rescue from Korea, supposedly a corgi/spitz mix, but it's unclear if that’s fact or fiction. His name is Ponyboy, which real ones know is after the main character in The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton.
The Outsiders is a young adult classic that came out in 1967 and was recommended to me by my mom. I loved reading since I was little, but I specifically remember reading this book and being obsessed with it. It made me realize that there were great books out there for people my age, books that were poignant and meaningful. I felt so grown up reading that book. If you haven’t read The Outsiders, you should– your childhood self will appreciate it. If you have read it, you’re probably overdue for a re-read. I know I am.
Another newsletter-related update: the next installment will be the first (!!!!) guest post! I am very excited to have one of my very dear, very smart, very hilarious friends share some literary thoughts with you all. That comes out March 27th.
Talk soon!
Books of the moment:
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📖 Currently reading:
This Other Eden by Paul Harding
The Storm We Made by Vanessa Chan
📚Recently finished:
I Fear My Pain Interests You, by Stephanie Lacava, 4/5 Stars
Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar, 4/5 Stars
The End of the World is a Cul de Sac by Louise Kennedy, 4/5 Stars
👉🏼You should read: My Instagram by Dayna Tortorici
💌 Email me book recs and other literary thoughts at emilygatesjohnson@gmail.com
🛍 Shop all Point of Departure recs (and more!) from my digital bookstore here.
Loved this, Em. Absolutely makes me want to re-read this and Silence of the Lambs too, though not so sure about the final installment ; I remember it as a bit of a letdown. But will definitely look for Ralph Fiennes in the movie version (is it possible I missed it first time around?).
If you want a read to scare you shitless, try going back to Bram Stoker’s original “Dracula”. Yeesh.