When I was in elementary and middle school, I lived in Iowa. At my summer camps, I would play in cornfields. My favorite part of the farmer’s market along the Mississippi River was getting fresh sweet corn to eat. I am an Iowan stereotype, and corn is one of my true loves. I was also an anxious little thing who couldn’t even fathom doing anything scary. The T-Rex in the Land Before Time films had me hiding behind my hands until he’d been crushed by rocks or whatever, and the Hydra from Disney’s Hercules? No, thank you, I was not interested, we left the movie theater. My mom has never let me forget we wasted money on the tickets for that one. I had the peer pressure fueled desire to go to the local haunted house at the time, Terror in the Woods, but never the guts to ask to actually go with my classmates.
Not much has changed for me as an adult. My time in Iowa left me feeling incredibly connected to corn—I wax nostalgic whenever I drive by a cornfield—and I have too much natural anxiety to want to participate in anything related to horror. Sometimes it happens, but usually for reasons adjacent to the scary media. When I discovered that Carrie was a musical, I had to see the Sissy Spacek film and read the book. Two years ago, I finally went to my first haunted house, convinced by an ex that it was a good idea since the proceeds went to a local charity, and I hated every second of it. It takes a special creator to truly make me want to dabble in horror.
Rory Power is that creator.