When my sister and I were kids and living in Memphis, we used to go to the Saturday matinees at either the Park or the Airways theaters. The Park was a nicer place, with first-run movies and comfortable seats. The Airways had sagging seats and threadbare carpet, but the concession stand was cheap and the second-rate movies they showed were our favorites. It was at the Airways that Elaine and I caught all the Vincent Price horror movies. They scared us to death, but every weekend we'd go back to watch another one.

 The worst was called "Premature Burial" and was supposedly based upon Edgar Allen Poe's work. It was a Victorian horror flick in which almost everyone in the cast was thought to be dead and buried alive, only to try to claw their collective ways out of the grave. It kept us riveted to the screen, letting our attention wander only long enough to refill our popcorn bags.

 That one movie -- melodramatic, overacted  and totally terrifying -- has had a lifelong influence on me. When I was in 6th grade, I had to write a report on any subject I chose and I picked a real-life (and extremely rare) disease that made the person appear dead, resulting in some being buried alive. My less ghoulish classmates chose topics like  "puppies" and "baking cupcakes".

 I have no doubt my teacher, Mrs. Lane, thought I was a future serial murderer when she found that paper in her homework basket. And, when she taught my equally morbid sister a few years later, I'm certain she strung some garlic around her neck before class.

 Movies played a big part in our lives but we weren't influenced by Orson Wells or Cecil B. DeMille. Our juvenile tastes ran more to "The Attack of the Fifty Foot Woman". I loved watching that gigantic female lift grown-ups and sort of flick them away with her fingernails. And then there was that all-time favorite "Cyclops", which featured an enormous bald-headed guy with a large eyeball pasted to his forehead. It wasn't really very scary -- it looked like someone had thrown a fried egg at his his head -- but we thought it was great.

 Elaine has fond memories of "The House on Haunted Hill" but I was more partial to the mummy movies. I liked seeing Boris Karloff unravel as he stalked yet another victim who was stupid enough to mess with the Temple of Karnak. Horror movies back then didn't show much mayhem -- they frightened you into imagining what was happening.

 Today, people dressed in hockey masks chase shapely and extremely stupid teenagers around with ice picks and chain saws until they catch them and carve them up like a Thanksgiving turkey -- and all in gory living color. And, face it, when the people in those movies get it, they pretty much deserve it. After all, there's a madman murderer on the loose, the nubile teen hears a noise downstairs and goes to investigate it, in the dark, alone, armed only with a high-pitched scream and a flashlight.

 Just one time, I'd like the 50-foot woman to be waiting there. After she dispatched the screaming teen, she could flick old Jason and Freddie Krueger into another universe, where they belong. And then we could all settle back and let old Vincent Price show us how it's supposed to be done.