Some horror stories don’t just scare you; they scar you. You read them, let them into your head, and they wreck up the place; with sharp claws they scratch awful images into your cerebral cortex, like primitive drawings in some dark, ghastly cave. Sure, you might put the book away, and years of forgetful bliss might pass — but then one day, somehow, something reminds you, and instantly you’re right back in that cave, shivering madly, scared all over again.

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve loved short horror fiction. And I’ve got the scars to show it. Wanna see? Go ahead, open me up, peer into the fear center of my brain. Notice all those slashes and slice marks? I’ll tell you exactly how they got there. People often ask me, ‘What’s your favorite horror story?’ I never know how to answer that question fairly, because there are just too many that I love — but I can easily name the stories that have disfigured me.

So here they are, 6 tales in chronological order of injury:

1. Sweets to the Sweet by Robert Bloch. When I was ten, I found a book of horror stories in my parent’s basement, and I made the error of reading this one down there alone. For months afterward, I’d break into a cold sweat at bedtime, dreading another night with the horrible, horrible, horrible image conjured by Bloch’s last sentence leering at me in the darkness.

2. The Lonesome Place by August Derleth. Another scar on my vulnerable ten-year-old psyche. Remember that one old-looking house in your neighborhood that always creeped you out as a kid? This story confirms everything you ever feared.

3. The October Game by Ray Bradbury. Take note, writers. This piece is the absolute perfect example of where to end your story for maximum impact. If Bradbury had gone just a single sentence further, it wouldn’t have cut the same way it does now. In fact, thanks to Bradbury’s mastery, the wounds in my mind are all self-inflicted.

4. Extenuating Circumstances by Joyce Carol Oates. Holy shit, this story is the most upsetting on the list. I can’t even think about it without getting chills. In fact, my eyes just watered as I typed the title. If you haven’t read it, please, please do so. Right now. I’ll wait.

5. The Summer People by Shirley Jackson. This actually might be my favorite horror story (yes, favorite). The horror I like best is shapeless, undefined; we fear what we don’t understand, and nobody owes us an explanation. In this story, I’m caught waiting for something terrible to happen, and I’m not even sure what. As an adult, I often have this same feeling…

6. The Inner Room by Robert Aickman. And here he is, Aickman, the master of unexplained horror in which the monster hides just beyond our perception, ready to grab us. Do I really understand this story? No. Can I tell you exactly what happens in it? Not quite. Did I feel unsettled, disturbed, somehow altered forever when I’d finished reading it? Hell yes.

So there you have it. My horror scars. Six pale lashes on my soul, defining me today as a reader and as a horror writer, too. Now I’d like to know… What are your scars?