You could make the case that we’re already deep into this century’s new Roaring ’20s. Retail sales are soaring, the demand for concerts and live events is through the roof, the economy is great (despite many people’s feelings to the contrary), polyamory is making its way into the mainstream, and what was Brat Summer if not viral permission to forget about a virus?
Next week, we face an election in which one campaign declares “Let’s turn the page!,” while the other looks at the country, pronounces it a hellscape, and promises to “Make America Great Again!” In their own ways, both candidates want to bury the past and offer a vision of a brighter future. But if we Make America Great Again, we will create a literal underground of trans people, immigrants, and pregnant women who will have to break the law to survive. If we “turn the page,” there will still be millions of people trapped beneath it who feel that Trump gave them a voice. And those people aren’t going anywhere, even if they lose their political power. We can call Trump the Big Orange Cheeto or the Fascist in Chief, but like it or not, there are millions of Americans who believe in what he has to offer and connect with him in a profound way. Maybe they’re all stupid? Maybe every single one of them is an idiot, and those of us who read (and write for) Slate are smarter and better educated and superior in every way. Maybe all the deaths, the isolation of lockdown, all this struggle to change the country, maybe it’ll all just disappear into the past and never be heard from again. Maybe.
But I’m a horror writer. And the one thing horror has taught me is that you can wish it away, you can lock the doors and draw the curtains, you can even burn it alive—but the past always comes back. Just when you’ve finally relaxed, just when you’ve nailed the last board over the final window and locked dead bolts on all the doors, it’ll come crawling out of its grave and smash through the walls or break through the floor. The past always, always, always returns, looking for its pound of flesh. And horror has one other lesson to teach us: We won’t see how it manifests until it’s far too late.