Page 105 of Doomsdate

“That’s…” I blink at them. “That’s hundreds of horror movies.”

“It sure was,” Mom says, folding her arms over her chest. “You watch some sick stuff, son. Your father almost couldn’t take it.”

Dad regards her with the wariness of someone who’s been teased for this for years. “Everett’s braver than me. We’ve been over this.”

I sit back down, genuinely flabbergasted. All those texts that started with “What are you watching now?” and “How’s the world of horror?” and “Hate to interrupt movie night…”—I thought they were snide digs, cutting little reminders that what I did for a living wasn’t enough. That what I loved didn’t matter. That I was beneath them and their expectations for me. I ignored each and every one of those texts, sometimes fuming for hours at their implications. But the meaning I assigned to them was just that—what I assigned to them. Not the truth.

I feel completely unmoored.

“Really? What did you…think?”

“Well, your mother loved Hereditary.”

“Your father slept with his rifle for weeks.”

He folds his arms. “I prefer the artsier stuff. The Lighthouse. Midsommar.”

“Because you’re chicken.” Mom huffs.

“Because they’re compelling!” Dad points a finger at her face. “And they’re just as scary.”

I stroke Chicken’s head to ground me on this earthly plane as I listen to Mom and Dad recap every horror movie they’ve loved and hated, debating in real time which movies were the scariest, the campiest, the best use of body horror, quoting words I wrote years ago to justify their positions and arguing good-naturedly about where they felt I was wrong.

“Lamb was a work of art!” Dad insists. “Terrifying!”

“It’s about a lamb-man, Hank!” Mom throws her arms in the air, then looks to me. “Back me up, son.”

But I can’t say a thing. They talk and talk, and I listen. I listen to how, one movie at a time, they’ve made my interests their own, showing the kind of fervor for cinema I haven’t seen since my days at NYU. Eventually I start piping up, too, unable to sit back and let these boomers hold court on The Babadook without me. It feels like we could talk all night. It fills me, fuels me, lighting up sectors of my own brain that have long felt out of reach.

“Now, our favorite horror movie in recent years was The Substance,” Dad says, a subtle shift in his tone. “What’d you think of that one, son?”

I breathe in deeply through my nose. “I—heard it was great.”

“Have you watched anything since Louise passed, honey?” Mom asks softly. “You certainly haven’t written anything.”

“I haven’t watched a horror movie in years.” I redirect my gaze to Chicken and smooth her fur down her neck. “Haven’t been able to.”

Mom’s and Dad’s heavy hands are back, bringing with them the weight of feelings I’ve forgotten how to carry. “We’re so sorry, son.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” I sniff back the return of my own tears. “Louise was the reason I started communicating with you again, you know. She wanted me to be happy.” I smile through the melancholy. “And she knew that part of me would always hurt without you.”

“We’re grateful to her,” Mom says. “For loving you and taking care of you all the years we couldn’t.”

“All the years we didn’t, Irene,” Dad corrects quietly.

Mom releases a shaky breath, then nods. “Didn’t,” she agrees. “We are so sorry about that, too, son. So sorry.”

I don’t know if I would’ve believed them, if I could’ve believed them, if they’d said those words before I knew they’d become the kind of horror-heads I used to be. But now the words stick to me, and they don’t shake off, even when I test them. Because there’s nothing that Hank and Irene Greer do half-assed, and they’ve clearly dedicated the last decade of their lives to learning who I am the only way I allowed them to—through the art I loved.

“Thanks,” I finally manage through my tight throat. “Maybe we can watch The Substance sometime?”

Dad smiles, his eyes watering as he squeezes my hand. “We’d love nothing more. Demi’s finest work, if you ask me.”

“Your father is a screamer,” Mom adds. “Just FYI.”

With the sun tilting toward the horizon, Dad gives Mom a knowing look. “Speaking of screaming, Irene, we better get back to command for the transition to evening watch.”

Mom nods briskly. “Everett, would you please bring Maisie to supper with us and Gemma tonight? We’ll be eating in the family barracks at 1800 hours sharp.”