I grew up in an era where trashy low-budget horror flicks had a marketing presence in newspapers and television. With cable and VCR tech still a ways from becoming ubiquitous household staples, and my peers and I being a little too young (and chicken) to sneak into R-rated movies, these ad spots were the sum total of our experiences with the works in question.

We’d weave entire fantasy narratives out of a 30-second TV spot and a smallish-sized print listing, occasionally leavened by one of the older kids in our orbit giving us a plot summary that was more than likely utter bullshit. These extrapolations ran heavy on blood and boobies — as you’d expect from a bunch of boys on the edges of pre-adolescence — intertwined by the teller’s own personal set of terrors.

It was a groovy subset of Gen X playground lore, and one I wish had more documentation than hazy recollections overshadowed by the memories of catching the actual films on TV or video a few years later and discovering your version was far more terrifying than the actual cheapjack project.

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