My First Love Story: A Journey into Horror Writing

My First Love Story: A Journey into Horror Writing.

I suppose my journey into horror writing began when I was twelve, though I didn’t fully grasp its significance at the time. That Halloween marked my last experience of trick-or-treating, a bittersweet memory I’ll never forget.

The day began with an early morning phone call from my best friend, Billy, who jolted me awake. “Did you finish the math homework?” he asked, his tone teasing.

“What do you think? It’s too early for this,” I shot back, picturing the smirk on his face as his laughter echoed through the phone.

Billy then asked if I had picked out a costume yet. I told him I planned to swing by McCreary’s, our local pharmacy—though it would eventually become a CVS. He made a joke about his sister mentioning my name, and for a fleeting moment, I believed him before he burst into laughter again.

“Whatever, man. See you later,” I said, hanging up. He was well aware of my crush on his older sister, Stacy, and took delight in teasing me about it. After all, she was sixteen, and I was just a twelve-year-old kid.

First Crush

Later that day, as I walked into the pharmacy, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a crisp five-dollar bill, feeling a rush of excitement. Just then, Stacy appeared behind me and grabbed my shoulder. I might have let out a high-pitched scream, but I like to think I turned around without making a sound.

She raised an eyebrow and asked, “What was that?”

I blurted out, “I have an old football injury, and you must have touched a sensitive spot. Anyway, I was wondering if you could help me.”

She smiled, clearly amused, and inquired, “What kind of help?”

With a sheepish grin, I mumbled, “I need find a costume.” What a stroke of luck—Stacy was actually working today. Sure, maybe I had memorized her schedule like it was the latest blockbuster release. Monday through Friday, 12 to 8, except for Christmas, of course. That was when she took it upon herself to volunteer at the homeless shelter on the south side of town, probably saving the world one can of soup at a time while I was left grappling with the chaos of being a teenage boy.

Stacy led me to the clearance aisle, helping me find a cape, fangs, and fake blood. I admired her kindness, but as I grew older, my feelings for her became more complicated. She still regarded me as her little brother’s best friend.

After I selected my costume, Stacy rang me up, but I realized I was a couple of dollars short. Without hesitation, she reached into her pocket and covered the difference. “Thanks, Stacy,” I said, smiling. Before I left, I nervously asked, “So, when does your shift end?”

She looked puzzled and replied, “Why?”

I stammered, “I thought you were coming trick-or-treating with us, like last year.” A flicker of sadness crossed her face. “Sorry, I’m stuck working a double shift.”

I quickly added, “Oh, I’m not going either. I’m too old for that. I was just messing with you.” I glanced around, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.

She chuckled, clearly enjoying my discomfort, and waved me off with a smile. I turned back, blurting out, “Maybe I’ll see you later,” before exiting the store.

As soon as I returned home, inspiration struck, and I grabbed an old journal to write. I crafted a love story about a teenage boy falling with an older woman.

Eager to share my creation, I dashed over to Billy’s house. After reading it, he laughed heartily for a solid five minutes before suggesting, “You should show this to Stacy. She’s into that kind of stuff.” With a playful glint in his eye, he pushed me out the door. “Don’t forget, meet me here in an hour. I got us invited to a party. You’re welcome.”

The Heart Break

A few minutes later, I stood outside the pharmacy, clutching my worn notebook in clammy hands. I must have looked ridiculous, talking to myself while passersby shot me strange glances. Just as I was mustering the courage to walk in, an older man bumped past me, muttering, “Sorry, squirt.”

I followed him inside, my heart racing as I spotted Stacy at the register. Beaming, I approached her, ready to share my story, when the older man leaned in and kissed her. My heart sank. The innocent joy on my face evaporated as I turned to leave, but not before Stacy called my name. I hesitated, slowly turning back. She asked, “Hey, what’s up?” I opened my mouth to speak, but the words caught in my throat.

The stranger interjected, “Does he know how to talk?”

Stacy pushed him aside, defending me. “Leave him alone; he’s just a kid.”

Overwhelmed, my heart racing with adrenaline, I fled from the store.

A Horror Writer is Born...

I don’t recall the walk home; it all blurred together in a haze of emotion. What I do remember is slamming the door behind me as I stepped into my room, the sound echoing in the silence. I collapsed at my desk, heart racing, and grabbed a pen, letting my thoughts pour onto the page in a furious rush.

What started as a love story quickly morphed into something much darker—a chilling narrative about a young man who descended into madness after losing his girlfriend to another man. The words flowed like a torrent, each sentence reflecting the turmoil within me, transforming my pain into fiction that felt liberating.

I’ll never forget that day; it marked my first venture into horror. In retrospect, it was a defining moment when my writing began to explore darker themes, reflecting the tumultuous emotions I experienced that Halloween. “I know this story sounds overly dramatic, but what do you expect? I was twelve.”

Just as I was lost in thought, the phone rang. My mother’s voice called out from the other room, “It’s Billy.” I hesitated for a moment before picking up.

“I heard what happened. So, you over it?” he teased, his tone playful.

“Man, just leave me alone,” I replied, trying to brush him off.

“Dude, we have a party to go to!” he insisted, his enthusiasm contagious.

I couldn’t help but smile at his energy. With a resigned sigh, I said, “Alright, give me twenty minutes.”

I grabbed my journal and scribbled “To be continued” before tucking it away. Glancing in my bedroom mirror, I forced a smile and then dashed out of the room, ready to embrace whatever the night had in store.

Do you remember your first love? I want to hear from you!