- January 11, 2018
It was somewhere in Columbia, Pennsylvania, near the Susquehanna River, when I remember watching “The Skeleton Dance,” and “Night On Bald Mountain.” I don’t know if I was sitting on the floor or living room sofa, but I remember dancing skeletons, flying demons, and swirling ghosts all around us.
Memory is a tricky mechanism. Still, I chuckle as I recall that soon after my mother left my dad she became woefully obsessed over his bi-weekend, 80s horror movie marathons with me and my stepsister. As if an animated, satanic alternative was somehow more Christian. Though, one could argue, watching Jason Voorhees smash a coed’s face through a bathroom mirror with such force it embossed the adjoining, aluminum trailer wall in Friday the 13th part… whatever… does leave an impression on a young mind. Read more