If what remained of my family prayed together the night my mother died, I have forgotten. In my memory, there is only darkness and silence. When my dad, sister, and I went to bed after leaving the hospital, we were inexplicably afraid. We didn’t turn on the lights or the television. We slept together in my sister’s room, my dad on a pallet on the floor. I lay there still with the covers pulled to my chin, listening to them breathe. I had the feeling that something powerful had taken notice of my family, that we had attracted the eye of something monstrous.

For years I’ve been looking for a way to tell the story of my mother’s death and everything that came after, and I’ve also been trying to explain to myself and others why I–pathologically nervous and unable to watch any living thing suffer–love the horror genre so much. Writing this essay, I started to unlock some of the answers. Read it at the Century.

And check out Benedetta Vialli, the artist who created the original illustration, on Instagram:

@benedettacvialli