What Qualifies as Horror?
By JL Copeland
Horrific experiences: Mad axe men, hideous creatures sucking you down the plughole, a 2-hour photo slideshow of Aunt Petunia’s trip to Delaware.
I’ve been struggling with the question, ’What qualifies as horror?’
Nicksgate, my work in progress, was supposed to be a straight-up horror. But now I’m not so sure what it is.
Maybe because when we think of ‘horror,’ we jump to the fantastic, we don’t want to believe we could experience it in our everyday life.
Like on a visit to the heart hospital, for example.
Late last summer, I started to feel intermittent chest pains. Now, I’ve always been hella paranoid about my health: I exercise every day, am super careful about my diet, have top-to-toe bi-annual health checks yadayadayada.
So, whenever my body plays up. I freak.
Itchy mole = skin cancer.
Flaky crud between toes = gangrene.
Headache = brain tumor.
But unlike the aforementioned minor hypochondriac hysterias, these pains weren’t going away. And I was crapping myself.
What was wrong with me? I was too young(ish) to die.
My long-suffering wife (she just loves my health panics) booked an appointment at a heart hospital.
Several hundred bucks and an equal number of scans, bloods, fitness tests and MRI doo-dahs later, my wife and I were back at the hospital, awaiting the results.
I’d handed back the Holter box that I’d worn for 24 hours to monitor my heart activity. I had to shave my chest and the electrodes irritated the hell out of my skin.
My kids called me ‘robot.’ At least that was tamer than the usual abuse.
The things we do for health.
I had to keep a little diary of exact times I did certain activities or felt pain, and then submit it along with the box.
These activities included ‘walking, eating, exercise, feeling stress and intercourse.’
As a proud, red-blooded and extremely vain male, I was desperate to tick the intercourse box.
Look how virile I am Miss Nurse, don’t let the baldness, pallid expression and crows’ feet fool you. I’m all man.
It turns out that the following image was not on the list of my wife’s turn-ons:
So, back at the hospital.
I’m sat on a bench waiting for the head doctor to present me with my results.
And already nervous.
I’m not helped by video screens showing a loop of actors collapsing from heart attacks.
The woeful acting is followed by messages in Korean that—I presume—reassure patients that such an outcome can be prevented.
Like by hiring some actors who can actually f*cking act.
But my poor Korean ability ensures I don’t understand the reassurance part and the message I’m getting is: ‘You’re going to die, JL.’
The website address of the hospital is emblazoned everywhere. This is also dragging a rusty cheese knife over my nerves.
Why?
Quick Korean Lesson
The head doctor of this hospital studied in Germany, so naturally she’s called it the Germany Heart Hospital.
Germany, in Korean, is pronounced Do-gil. However, that g sound is somewhere inbetween a g and a k, so in English you can take your pick.
Still with me? Good.
In short, the enlightened people at this fine establishment of coronary medicine have named it, in English as the Do kil heart hospital.
I point out this to my wife, trying to appear amused.
But I’m not amused. This is a sign, an omen—the taloned creature outside the window on the wing of my plane about to play shreddy-deady. One that only I can see.
Then the nurse calls my name.
This is it. My doom.
Qualified for Horror
The head doctor is in her early seventies, tall and lithe with bright eyes. Behind her, there’s a whole wall of degree certificates and other qualifications.
She’s kind, friendly, nice.
But as she studied in Germany, her English is—by Korean standards—below average at best. That’s where the problem comes in.
NB: At the risk of sounding like I’m ‘punching down,’ if my Korean ability and her English ability were boxers, she would be represented by Mohammed Ali and I would be represented by Milhouse.
What qualifies as horror? Well for me, the experience that followed ticked a lot of boxes.
The good doctor skips through the results of my tests. Her delivery is a little off. This is also not helped by the surgical mask she’s wearing.
I was a little offended by the mask. I’d even showered that month.
She begins with:
‘So, here we have left atrium.’
A long pause as she looks at the pictures on her screen.
‘Das ist normal. But, left atrium…’
Long pause. Too frigging long. Oh god. I hold my breath.
‘…very good!’
I exhale.
Phew.
‘Now, right coronary artery. Ah, yes…’
*SHE FROWNS*
‘Hmmm…’
Here it comes, the bill for all those years of mainlining Lancashire cheese.
‘No problem.’
Sweet Jesus.
‘Now, left ventricle is…normal. But right ventricle, here, you can see, you have, hmm…
*HESITATES AND SCRATCHES HER CHIN*
What? What? Oh no. Game over, man.
…good ventricle.’
At this point, I wonder how many patients with perfectly healthy tickers have left her consultation room in urgent need of CPR, due her outrageous blend of pause and pitch.
‘Now, pulmonary arteries. You have abnormal, you have problem.’
Shit, no escaping it now. I’m done.
‘Your pulmonary artery… no problem!’
If! Sprinkle a few ifs in there, for crying out loud.
‘See here, your valves, das ist normal. However…’
*SIGH*
‘This valve.’
*TAPS WITH PEN*
‘Very healthy.’
At this moment, I can feel all of these named components of my heart, as they’re attempting to explode out of my chest.
Surely, we must be done? Nope.
‘Now, exercise test. Running machine, yes? Normal, normal… but here, see? But here, there is some problem.’
She points to one of the graphs where scratchy lines show my pulse records from when I was pounding away on the treadmill.
This is it, no more cycling, no more sport. I’m going to be confined to walking and stretching for the rest of my life. Or something as horrific as aqua aerobics.
She continues:
‘But, false positive. No problem.’
I crumple with relief. That was the last test, wasn’t it?
My eyes have teared up. I’m not sure if it’s from relief or the ordeal of her presentation.
She concludes:
‘Congratulations! Your heart is very healthy. But…’
I won’t bore you with the rest, but it wasn’t my heart that was giving me the sharp pains and tightness in my chest.
Her diagnosis was intercostal neuralgia, a nerve issue caused by a number of things. The only ones relevant to me were
- Poor posture,
- A few months back I’d added an excessive number of pushups to my exercise regime, and
- Good old anxiety.
In short, if I stopped hunch backing over the keyboard when I write, cut the pushups and chilled the f*ck out, I’d be okay.
I guess I should be grateful I was one of the lucky ones.
But even in 2026, the memory of Do Kil still makes me hug teddy a little closer at night. And shiver.
What qualifies as horror for you?
Let me know in the comments.
JL
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In this week’s, I get traumatized for life after being run over by a Border Collie.
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