I remember a time when a new season of American Horror Story was something exciting. Friends would gather in front of the TV to witness what horrifying and quietly brilliant storylines Ryan Murphy had cooked up. From a coven of sardonic teenage witches in New Orleans, to ghostly next-door neighbors with a privacy problem, to a hotel co-run by a vampire and an undead serial killer trapped in a loveless marriage, AHS stood for campy maximalism and controlled shock factor. Each episode delivered something new yet grounded in a culture the show had built for itself.
