Carrie at 50: the bloody history of Stephen King’s audacious debut novel

Unfortunately, I came of age during the “sexy Halloween” era. The annual festival of all things frightening was becoming gaudier, more candy-strewn and American. But it was the Noughties, so it was also enthusiastically promoting the idea of young women being “sexy” versions of scary things. The sexy witch. The sexy devil. The sexy black cat (?). The... sexy Freddy Krueger – yes, I’m afraid so. Personally, I found this a shame, because what I wanted to be was not sexy, but a girl covered in blood. A grand guignol prom queen who burnt down her school, then her whole town. I wanted to be Carrie White.

I never dressed up as Stephen King’s cult antihero, which was perhaps a good thing, at least in terms of practicalities – think of all the chairs I would have ruined. But despite this, and despite the fact that I’ve never had telekinetic powers, I felt something kindred with Carrie.

Published 50 years ago, on 5 April 1974, is the debut novel of the “”, the simple but twisted