Gosh, I hate when I’m forced to spend the night in an old dark house and a decorative skull (which just happens to be in the room) falls on top of a small animal (which also just happens to be in the room), which then proceeds to strut and squawk around where only I can see it, thus making my roommates doubt my sanity until the creature indulges in a dramatic outburst and we all shout “A G-G-G-G-GHOST!” and get jammed up trying to squeeze through the door at once.
The Legend of Hell House was a lurid, trashy rehash of The Haunting aimed at the jaded audiences of the early Seventies, but its sense of dread-heavy atmosphere is a thing of hair-raising wonder. That’s the reason why it has become a spooky season staple for me, despite the foreknowledge that I will be rolling my eyes when the final act comes around.
Though poor Chuck Cunningham was offered up as a sacrifice to appease the vengeful spirit, its baleful curse would pursue the gang across several more seasons, inflicting the most odious manner of manifestations — first Spike, then Chachi, and finally the grim herald of the sitcom End Times himself under the guise of “Roger Phillips.”
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.
My name is Andrew Weiss. I am happily married to The Queen of Animals, and we live in a house on the hillside filled with pets and a shared collection of popcult ephemera.
I am an obsessive retrologist and hopeless dilettante. I also have a complicated relationship with my home town of Woburn and the Bay State in general.
I can be reached at bitter DOT andrew AT gmail DOT com.
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The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy. - Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus
The saddest day of your life isn't when you decide to sell out. The saddest day of your life is when you decide to sell out and nobody wants to buy. - Norman Spinrad, Bug Jack Barron
The tragedy of your time, my young friends, is that you may get exactly what you want. - Inspector Shrink, Head
It was incredibly stupid, yet we danced to it. - Maura, Queen of Animals
Your tears are sweet sweet nectar to bitterandrew. - Dave Lartigue
Sometimes you are literally the grossest person I know. - Chris Sims
