Why horror…?

“The great fish moved silently through the night water, propelled by short sweeps of its crescent tail. The mouth was open just enough to permit a rush of water over the gills. There was little other motion: an occasional correction of the apparently aimless course by the slight raising or lowering of a pectoral fin – as a bird changes direction by dipping one wing and lifting the other. The eyes were sightless in the black, and the other senses transmitted nothing extraordinary to the small, primitive brain.” Jaws, Peter Benchley.

I was eight years old and lying in my parents’ bed; my dad on his night shift at Fords’ Car Factory, and my mum asleep. My sisters and I took turns to sleep with her when dad was away. My turn meant that I could sneak a peak at the book she was reading. That week it was Jaws. 

“A hundred yards offshore, the fish sensed a change in the sea’s rhythm. It did not see the woman, nor yet did it smell her.”

My recollection is vivid, just enough lamplight to read by in that dark room, me turning the pages carefully, so as not to disturb my mum, and that creeping sense of horror that made me want to stop whilst not letting me go. I was unable to stop myself, my heart beat faster than usual. I practiced pronouncing the longer words under my breath – uncertain of their meaning – but they felt delicious on my tongue. Something awful was about to happen.