The Other Side of the Closet Door

The Other Side of the Closet Door

By Ollie

Last night I was watching ParaNorman, an animated Halloween film about a young kid obsessed with zombies. The film’s great—I highly recommend it, with plenty of adult quips too. But it was the moral of the story that stuck with me: a lonely boy ostracised for being different, by his community, his peers, and even his family. Thankfully, it has a happy ending—Norman uses his gift of seeing the dead to save the town, and in turn, the town finally embraces him for who he is. As a queer kid, I really resonated with that feeling.

When I was little, I was obsessed with horror. All things dark, strange, and macabre drew me in. Before I knew I was gay, I knew I wanted to be a witch, a vampire, or a werewolf. Spooky films, stories, and dressing up gave me so much joy. It was escapism at its purest—a way to dream up worlds of mystery and intrigue while enduring the dull “normality” I was expected to fit into. Watching films like Edward Scissorhands—with its sharp contrast between conformity and difference—made me realise the real “monsters” often lived in the heteronormative world, not the graveyard.

It fascinates me how many queer kids are drawn to horror while discovering themselves. So many cult classics are steeped in queer undertones: the cross-dressing in Rocky Horror, the bisexual succubus in Jennifer’s Body, the camp brilliance of Frankenstein. You often find more representation in a slasher or alien invasion than in a coming-of-age love story. For many young people, horror mirrors the feeling of being “othered”—for what they are and how they’re perceived.

In body horror—The Thing, Nightmare on Elm Street, Mars Attacks!—characters transform and, with that change, gain power. Ordinary humans become something darker, stranger, more powerful. In Rocky Horror, Brad and Janet shed their bland suburban selves under Frank N. Furter’s spell, ending up in boas and makeup, dancing the Can-Can. In An American Werewolf in London, the protagonist escapes the monotony of normal life through a raw, violent transformation into the wolfman. The parallels to coming into one’s queer identity are striking.

Even when the change is less physical, the symbolism is clear. In Serial Mom or Psycho, we watch people snap and reject societal expectations in explosive ways. In Jennifer’s Body, the meek Needy transforms into something darker—coincidentally after her first lesbian encounter. And queer audiences adore a “final girl”: think Neve Campbell in Scream, outlasting her deranged male counterparts through grit, determination, and sheer will. Innocent people driven to madness by an unempathetic world—it’s a theme that hits home.

Horror makes us feel seen. It tells stories of characters enduring unthinkable horrors and still surviving—winning, even. The grotesque, frightening villains act as an escape from suburban conformity, a reminder that darker, stranger possibilities exist. What angsty queer teen hasn’t fantasised about transforming into a hellish creature and tearing down their school bully? Or slipping into the woods as something fierce, free, and otherworldly? The parallels are endless.

For me, Halloween was always a gateway. It was the one time of year I could openly live out those fantasies—watching slashers, carving pumpkins, or imagining the Salem witch trials. Even now, at 23, I still feel that thrill. Dressing up and stepping into that world feels like showing people the inside of my brain for a night. My love of all things vamp hasn’t faded—come April or June, I’m still scanning for bats, black cats, and eerie omens.

At the end of the day, we all need an outlet. Permission to be creative, to push against the norm, to find others who share the same obsessions. If there’s one thing I love more than recounting plots from 80s slashers, it’s discussing them with someone else who gets it. So I’ll see you this October—with my paper bats, my pumpkin, and a little bit of Pride still lingering in the air.

Mwahahaha.

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