Growing Up in the Horror Aisle

The first video rental place that opened near me was small—tiny, actually. It had replaced a bodega, which meant you could still smell faint traces of plantains and Goya cans behind the plastic clamshell cases. The aisles were barely aisles. The tapes were crammed into sagging shelves and mismatched display racks like someone had dumped a film collector’s attic into a corner store.

But I didn’t care. Because one section called to me louder than the rest—the horror section.

Maybe it was the thrill of horror that hooked me, or maybe it was just the adolescent hope of catching a glimpse of skin. At that age, it was hard to tell the difference—horror had a way of delivering both.

I would stare at those covers like they were forbidden grimoires. The Gate freaked me out. There was one with white ooze—I think it was The Stuff, though it could’ve just as easily been something called Blood Slime Vengeance 2. But the one that changed everything for me? Evil Dead.

That cover got its claws in me. A woman being pulled underground, her hand reaching out, that stark, brutal font. I had no idea what I was getting into—but I rented it anyway. I watched it alone. And it turned out to be, at the time, the scariest thing I’d ever seen. It hooked me for life. Horror didn’t just entertain—it seized me.

And then came the tree scene.

If you know, you know. One minute I’m watching a cheap possession flick with rubbery monsters and screaming teens, and the next—bam. The woods come alive and assault a character in a way that didn’t just cross a line—it set it on fire and danced on the ashes. I didn’t even fully understand what was happening, but I felt it. Deeply. Uncomfortably. Like I had seen something I wasn’t supposed to. Because I had.

That moment wasn’t just shocking—it was a crack in the foundation. It told me that horror could go anywhere, that there were no rules, no safety rails. And I think that’s when I truly got hooked. Not on the gore, not on the screams—but on the idea that horror was the one genre where the ground could fall out from under you at any second. HOOKED.

And here’s the thing: we didn’t even own a VCR yet. That was luxury tech. So every weekend, I rented not just tapes—but the VCR itself. A top-loading beast you had to hook up with that same switchbox I used for my Atari. It felt futuristic. Like I was operating a NASA launch panel just to watch a movie about demons in the woods. And I loved every minute of it.

A Carnival of Nightmares

The horror section was the weirdest, wildest part of the store. Every box was a carny barker shouting, “Hey kid! Wanna see something sick?”

Ghoulies had a toilet goblin. The Stuff promised killer yogurt. Chopping Mall showed a robotic claw holding a shopping bag full of severed limbs—finally, a slasher for the retail class. And then there was Dead Alive, with that iconic skull-in-the-mouth shot, which made no sense but felt like a dare from Satan himself.

The art didn’t just sell the movie—it sold you to the movie. It pulled you in like a spell. Half the time, the cover was ten times better than the movie. But that was part of the magic. You learned to appreciate crap. You learned to laugh at disappointment. You learned that Microwave Massacre was not, in fact, the Citizen Kane of cannibalism.

And yet… you never forgot it.

A Test of Courage (and Taste)

There was a rite-of-passage energy to it. You’d clutch a tape like a stolen treasure and show it to your friends. “This one?” Nervous nods. One kid always bailed. One kid always bragged. And someone’s older brother had definitely seen it and claimed it wasn’t that scary—even though he was clearly lying.

Sometimes you stayed up all night. Sometimes you made fun of the effects to save face. Sometimes you had to pretend you meant to rent The Video Dead even though it looked like it was shot on a camcorder in someone’s garage. That was the game. That was the gamble. That was horror.

The Box Was the Hook

Back then, the box art mattered. It had to work without a single frame of footage. No autoplay trailers. No click-to-preview. Just the box. The cover was your opening scene. The tagline was your plot. The back was your entire pitch deck.

It wasn’t accurate. It wasn’t honest. But it was evocative. It made you feel something. Even now, you can probably recall the exact texture of a clamshell case and the vague mildew scent of a well-loved tape.

That’s what we’ve lost. Not just the movies—but the mystery.

The One Box I Never Picked

Of course, there was always that shelf. The one that dared you not just to be scared—but to see something you could never unsee. I’m talking about the Faces of Death tapes.

Even the covers felt dangerous. They didn’t promise rubber monsters or final girls—they promised reality. Real death. Real footage. Executions. Accidents. Animal cruelty. The kind of horror that wasn’t fun, wasn’t campy, and didn’t fade when the credits rolled.

I never rented one. I’d stare at those boxes like they were radioactive. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, but I knew—knew—that going down that road would be something different. Something worse. As a kid, my imagination filled in the blanks, and that was bad enough.

As an adult, I’ve seen things like that in the dark corners of the internet. I wish I hadn’t. There’s no thrill in it. No artistry. Just pain. Trauma masquerading as entertainment.

Looking back, I’m glad I left those tapes on the shelf. Horror’s supposed to scare you—but in the end, it’s still supposed to play. Faces of Death wasn’t play. It was punishment.

Final Thoughts: We Were Curated by Chaos

Streaming gives you a curated feed of horror based on complex algorithms and user data. Video stores gave you a busted shelf of psychotic randomness. And weirdly? That chaos made us.

But it wasn’t just the chaos—it was the commitment. You picked that tape. You walked it to the counter. You rented it with your own money or your parents’ patience. And that meant you were in. You watched the whole thing, even if it sucked. Especially if it sucked. Because maybe—just maybe—there’d be one glorious moment that made the whole gamble worth it.

 Moments like a Kung-fu priest roundhouse-kicking zombies in the face while spouting this line like a Saturday morning cartoon preacher. 

I kick ass for the lord!

Or when Trash (Linnea Quigley) gets naked in a cemetery, dancing on a grave to a goth-punk soundtrack that somehow becomes the most memorable scene in a movie full of bangers. Freddy smashes a girl’s head into a TV after growing mechanical arms and delivering this now-iconic one-liner. 

Welcome to Prime Time bitch!

A killer practical effect. A weird line reading. A single scene of pure nightmare fuel. And when you found that? It was like striking gold in a landfill.

Nowadays, we bail after ten minutes and scroll to the next thing. There’s no risk, no ritual, no return deadline breathing down your neck. It’s all convenience, no connection. But back then, the effort mattered.

The act of choosing gave the movie value—even if it turned out to be a flaming pile of monster guts.

So here’s to the horror aisle. To the schlock, the trauma, the toilet goblins, and the gamble. We didn’t stream our nightmares—we rented them. And we paid the late fee with pride.