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My hatred of scary movies began when I was 6 and my older cousins Michelle, Robbie, and Franklin were babysitting me. They wanted to watch the movie Poltergeist.
“Isn’t that a scary movie?” I asked.
“If it was scary they wouldn’t put it on at night,” said my older cousins.
This made perfect logic to my 6 year-old brain. And in the next moments, I saw a man look into the mirror and PEEL HIS FACE OFF. In my opinion, this was not acceptable viewing for a sheltered 6 year-old.
By far, my most hated scary movie was Child’s Play.
It’s the story of a single mom who gives her son a much sought after doll, only to find out it is POSSESSED BY A SERIAL KILLER. And that killer doll’s name is Chucky.
To be clear, I never watched any of the Chucky movies. My only interaction was through the TV commercials. Chucky was about 2 feet tall with long red hair. He wore overalls and a striped shirt. He looked like the Cabbage Patch kids dolls that sat on mine and my sister’s beds.
As a child, my toys were the only things that were truly mine.
The only things I could truly trust. My GI Joe, He Man, and Star Wars figures protected me. The whole concept of Chucky betrayed that trust. He acted like Jack Nicholson from The Shining, with this cocky swagger and manic laughter. Seriously, who did Chucky think he was?
I was constantly worried that Chucky was coming for me.
So I developed a belief that at night while in bed every second I kept my eyes closed, Chucky would go a mile away. And every second my eyes were open in the dark, Chucky would come a mile closer.
I started to have a recurring nightmare where my Dad and I were at Yankee Stadium, and Chucky was chasing us. I spent many nights in bed with my eyes glued shut.
As I got older, I started to forget about Chucky.
The nightmares stopped. My toys became less important. About 5 years went by without a single Chucky thought.
Until October 1998.
I’m at a costume store with some friends. As I peruse the very cool and topical South Park costumes, I get a tap on my shoulder. I turn around to find just inches from my face, the killer doll himself, Chucky.
In a rush of emotion, I do the only thing my body knows how to do. I punch Chucky in his smug, murderous face. BOOM. He hits the floor. I did it! I beat up Chucky!
As I stood over the object of my nightmares, I realized this was not Chucky. This was my friend Dean Knight in a Chucky mask. I had punched my friend in the face.
My friends decided I still had Chucky issues to work out, and we had to buy the mask.
This decision made me very uncomfortable. But one friend had already gotten punched in the face, who knows what could be next? To get to the root of the problem we began an immersion therapy. One day, I showed up at Dave Wah’s house and Chucky was just sitting on the couch watching Mark Lanham and Joey Monheit play video games. I forced myself to sit down next to Chucky when every bone in my body told me not to. I couldn’t do it.
Later, things got more intense. My friends placed me in a dark room with a strobe light. Chucky entered, dancing to the flickering light, as I cried, “I know that’s you Dean!” “Stop messing around Mark!” “Take off the mask Joey!” but Chucky just kept dancing. I had to leave.
It occurred to me there was only one way to defeat Chucky. To become him.
As I held the mask in my hands, its lifeless eyeholes staring back at me, I forced myself to shove it over my head. I looked in the mirror and saw only Chucky. Greg was gone.
I went to parties as Chucky. And people liked it. I danced with girls as Chucky. Greg couldn’t do that. Chucky became another member of our group of friends. Chucky rushed the field to celebrate after a big girls soccer victory. Chucky even took photos for the yearbook.
Before graduation, our high school had a night to tell stories in the auditorium. When it was my turn to take the stage, wearing my full graduation gown, I put the Chucky mask on my head and proudly told a story about turning an enemy into a friend.
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