The Original

Well, here it is—the day after Halloween, November 1^st, All Saints Day. It’s time to put away the Halloween candy, shelve those scary films and books, and put all spooky thoughts away until next October.

Funny—if I were able to do that, would I? I doubt it. As I wake up this Sunday morning, realizing that I have an extra hour thanks to the government, the first thing I want to do is go on to Amazon and see if Ash vs. The Evil Dead is available (I don’t have Starz, and didn’t get to see it last night). Also, being a lazy Sunday morning, there’s some unread horror—old and new, professional and amateur, calling to me from my tablet.

I am sitting here at my kitchen table, savoring the first cup of coffee and reflecting on why it is that I am so pulled in the direction of the horror genre. I’ve compared it to comfort food in the past, and I’ll always stick with that comparison. I’ve spoken about my sister taunting me at an early age with horrifying ghost stories of maniacs dismembering little children—the same sister who used to make me watch first-run episodes of Dark Shadows (I was 5 or less), and werewolf movies so as not to be alone herself.

The truth is I don’t know why I harken for horror. It has been a constant presence for my entire fifty years of consciousness, so I will leave it at that.

But let me share this little story with you. It’s not a scary one, but one you will appreciate if you follow classic horror movies.

Back in the late 1970s, not quite 1980, a little film began filming less than a mile, and around the corner from my house. A group of students from the University of Michigan were in Morristown, Tennessee, using a later friend of mine’s cabin (either his parent’s, or uncle’s land) to make a movie called The Book of the Dead.

Yes, THAT movie.

We only went down there a couple of times, because we were young and had heard stories that they would have us arrested, or shoot us, or who knows, maybe dismember us (we weren’t even old enough to drive and had no idea what savages film “crews” would employee). I remember specifically going down there one day (they slept during the day, filmed at night), and actually walking around a grave that had been dug (to the left of the cabin), with a primitive cross made of bound sticks at its rim.

What I would give to have that cross today.

You could also see that there were crude holes sawed into the door for when Cheryl later shoves her hands through. Oh, and the blood. Everything was stained with a red Karo-syrup mixture (I know this because two later friends had actually ended up helping with the production).

So, yes, The Evil Dead was literally made around the corner from my house in Quail Hollow subdivision, off of Kidwell’s Ridge Rd. Look it up.

I also attended the premier—at the dinky little Capri movie theater—where they actually flew stars like Bruce Campbell in via helicopter. Big stuff.

Not.

But appropriate.

The movie did scare the snot out of me though, and I will always favor the first over the rest.

The cabin burned down a few years later. I know who did it and—even though he’s dead—I won’t reveal. I’m sure it was drunken foolery, and unfortunate. God knows what a tourist site it would be now had that not happened.

I’m pretty sure I could still take you to the place though—even though I left Morristown 25 years ago. But like most things, it’s probably better in my memories.

You know the rest. Three people—Bruce, Sam, and Rob-- involved with that movie are major Hollywood bigshots now. Good for them. They deserve it.

And now, I think I’m going to go watch Ash vs. The Evil Dead.

Happy All Saints Day!

TWS