R. L. Stine was a man ahead of his time. In the early ‘90s, he started a children’s horror series that would go on to sell over 400 billion copies worldwide. His success was largely due to an impressive ability to connect with children: the cover art alone was like visual candy (credit Tim Jacobus). The first chapter reeled us in with something relatable (sibling rivalry). And the next thing we knew, we were under the covers, frantically hoping Carly Beth could escape the Halloween mask before it was stuck on her forever (The Haunted Mask, 1993).

There was one other aspect of Stine’s formula that was critical to his success: the titles. By his own admission, this was the first thing he’d come up with before starting a new book. And while most of them seem pretty silly, a strange pattern reveals itself once you review them as a whole. Stine wasn’t just writing horror for kids. He was writing about the horror of being a kid. In fact, most of his titles perfectly summarize the single most terrifying thing his readers were going through at that time: puberty.

Last time: Dracula's type.

Next time: Ginger opens her heart.