Scare tactic

Movies are the best thing about Halloween

It’s no secret I hate Halloween. Heck, I’ve written about a dozen or so columns outlining exactly why I don’t like this particular day – lack of costume creativity; lack of ingenuity for costumes for my kids; inability to craft anything; lack of a fondness for small talk for trick or treaters knocking standing on my porch; lack of patience for adults pushing strollers and holding out their grubby hands wanting candy for a newborn baby that does not have teeth or the ability to swallow solids.

I really, really cannot stand that part of Halloween. Seriously – buy your own darn candy and leave the Starbursts and Nerds for kids. Holy cow.

There’s only two things I like about Halloween – first, I really do love to think about those long ago days when I went trick or treating in the North End of Norristown with my best friend Denise Vargo – she being the creative genius and designer behind all of our Halloween costumes. I always wanted to go as some type of Bishop Kenrick athlete because there was never a shortage of uniforms and jerseys at the Kehoe house. But going that route would have involved getting my hands on my brother Terry’s Wigwam tube socks. They had green and gold stripes at the top, and I loved them – as much as anyone can love socks. I took my life in my hands each time I wore them on my game days, but I risked it. Those socks were that cool.

Also, while I’m on the topic of trick or treating in the North End back in the 1970s, if someone could confirm for me if that there really was a lady who gave out juice and caramel apples (with nuts!) to the earlybird Halloweeners, that would be great. Kevin Shields and I are desperate to know if this lady did exist, or if it was an urban legend (which has to be, because we never, ever could get those darn caramel apples — with nuts!). And as kids from St. Patrick’s, we still find it hard to believe that we failed in such as important mission.

Aside from childhood memories, I’ve decided the only redeeming thing about Halloween are the movies. And the scarier the movie, the better.

I came of age around the same time the slasher movie gained popularity. But, before that I heard stories about movies like “The Exorcist,” which forced my sister – my I-take-nocrap-from-anyone-on-the-basketball-court-sister – to sleep with a crucifix under her pillow. Wimp.

I heard stories about “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre” – again from my wimp of a sister

who still talks about that movie as if she lived it. Good Lord. (As an aside, when my friends and I did finally see “The Exorcist,” we thought it more than a comedy — and we decided our tastes were much more mature than my sister and her friends!)

As I listened to the stories of these movies, I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to buy my own ticket to see horror movies. Turns out I didn’t have to wait much longer because around the same time my sister was throwing holy water on any Ouija board she saw, my brother Kevin thought I was old enough (mature enough, I’d say) to expand cinematic horizons. I had no idea what the heck “Night of the Living

Dead Was,” and since I was never one for zombies, I wouldn’t have watched this on my own. But Kevin regaled me with the useless knowledge he’s famous for, and dared me to watch it with him. It just so happened that my mom made lasagna for dinner that night, so Kevin and I set up TV trays in the living room and turned on Home Box Office (not HBO, not yet). And aside from the slurping noises, which I didn’t much care for while eating lasagna, I decided that zombies are stupid. And the only people more stupid than zombies are the ones who were caught by those flesh-eating ghouls. That’s right, I don’t watch “Walking Dead” for that reason.

Now, Kevin and I don’t have an awful lot in common, but we both like scary movies. So, when he realized that I would be home alone in the Kehoe house (a rarity in itself, believe me) he dared me to watch “The Shining” – which was playing on Home Box Office, or maybe Prism.

I took him up on his dare without hesitation because by this time I was a seasoned scary movie watcher – I only had to cover my eyes once or twice. Those twins still freak me out.

But I loved every minute of it.

Like I said, by 1981 or so I was a veteran when it came to scary, slasher movies. By this time I realized I was more of a fan of suspense than I was of gore – but “Carrie” was the best of both worlds. The surprise ending of that movie taught me to never, ever trust a movie is over until the credits roll — and even then it isn’t a given.

My friends and I became scary movie junkies – if it had a screaming woman on the movie poster, we went to see it – mostly because we were spoiled/thrilled by “Halloween” or “Friday the 13th” (two classics, of course). And while most of these movies follow a general premise (stupid teenagers do stupid things and then die gruesome deaths at the hands of a maskwearing madman who had been traumatized as a child) – one movie, the one that I maintain is the scariest of all movies, didn’t. “The Omen.” As a card-carrying practicing Catholic, this is the movie that scares the beejesus out of me, so to speak – because, as a believer in God, I am required to believe in Satan, and any offspring he may spawn – otherwise known as the anti-Christ.

With that belief firmly planted in my mind, it’s possible that Damien could be walking the streets of London this very second – hiding those three 6s on his scalp and protected by a terrifying nanny who slices the heads off photographers.

Just like any good horror movies, there have been sequels, prequels and remakes of “The Omen,” but not one of them measured up to the original. None of them mastered the simple yet terrifying ending of a small child, slowly turning his head, and leveling a dead stare right at the camera. Ugh.

I haven’t quite hit the same stride of peak horror-movie fanaticism of my teenage years and early 20s – but every once in a while a movie comes along to tempt me back to the theater (or at least hit the rent button on my remote). Some of them even measure up to “The Shining,” “Carrie” or “Halloween” in terms of scare factors. “The Conjuring,” and its follow-up “The Conjuring 2,” were fabulously scary.

But others – well, regarding the hype of these so-called scary movies, I wanted to sue for false advertising.

I fell asleep during “Paranormal Activity,” and still don’t get the ending of “Blair Witch Project,” which, in my opinion, was a disappointing and complete bust.

My husband, who would rather go to the doctor than watch a scary movie (and believe, that’s saying something) could never figure my taste in movies.

“You can watch a guy get his head cut off or be drawn and quartered, but you can’t watch a bear being hunted or a dog being hurt,” he said many, many times.

And he was right – when I watched “Gorilla’s in the Mist” I came completely unglued – close to a needing a sedative and a brown paper bag because I was on the verge of hyperventilating. And I still have not seen “Bambi,” and have no intention to.

I can’t explain my fondness for horror movies. But I do know, without question, that I’d rather welcome Jason, Freddy, Michael, Damien, Jack and Carrie onto my porch than adult trick or treaters not in costume pushing a stroller and holding their hands out for candy a baby would choke on.