Susan Shultz's Blog

“Be careful!” Susan said to the slamming car door.

She sighed as her second teenager ran off to join her friends at a Halloween party. It was the first year that she wouldn’t be trick or treating with her kids. A new era. It was a bit melancholy but meant at least Susan could kick back once home and watch scary movies, something no Halloween would be complete without.

She’d always loved Halloween and scary movies. Susan would often quote that the original 1978 “Halloween” had changed her life. Heck, even now, as she was driving home from drop offs this Halloween early evening, the jarring theme song played on loop out of her car windows.

As Susan smiled at the cute and scary costumes, she recalled as an 11 year old watching the first movie with her older cousins on her brand new “VCR.” It was in the family room of her childhood home and it was summer time. The movie was terrifying and the first time she had really seen some adult themes, having grown up rather sheltered.

What always impacted her the most was the end. Because while during the warm summer day, it was easy to laugh it off, at night, it was a completely different story. At the end of the movie at first, it seems Michael Myers, the film’s omnipresent protagonist, has been vanquished by his long-suffering psychiatrist, Dr. Sam Loomis, in an attempt to save his final would-be victim’s, Laurie Strode, life.

Loomis shoots Michael numerous times until he falls backwards off the balcony. Naturally, any living thing would be dead. However, when Loomis looks over the balcony a second time, the spot where Michael’s sprawled body lay was empty.

He was gone.

The ominous ending notes of writer/director/composer John Carpenter’s theme haunts the various empty scenes that had been visited throughout the movie. The meaning is evident.

Where did he go? Where was he now? He could be anywhere.

This was the scene that kept Susan up at night as a child for a long while. She would imagine she’d see him in her driveway, looking up at her bedroom window. Or lurking in her home’s hallway. Yet, despite her terror. She, much like Michael, kept going back for more.

Halloween II, (we don’t talk about III here,) IV, V, etc. She’d seen them all dozens of times.

It was funny, Susan thought, driving through the festive streets to her equally festively decorated home, how that music could make anyone walking down the dark streets be mistaken for Michael. That little Susan whispered in her ear. She shrugged it away, chuckling.

“Come on, you’re 52. You aren’t SCARED!” she said out loud.

Susan turned up the long, and frankly terrifying to most, dark, and woodsy driveway up to her home, lit with pumpkins and orange lights. She smiled. She just loved Halloween. It was her favorite day of and favorite time of the year.

Susan grabbed her purse and a six pack and slowly made her way to the sliding doors of her cozy home, stopping on the stoop to admire her jack-o-lantern. This year, she had paid homage to the jack o’lantern that makes its appearance in the opening scenes of the original Halloween, which was oddly and crudely done for such an important moment. Still, Susan was a sentimental sap at heart. The off-size eyes and smile made her happy.

As Susan put her hand on the door, she heard a crack of a twig behind her that gave her a little chill. She turned her head slightly to the left and just out of the light of her patio, she thought she saw something. She put her items down on the steps and walked back slowly toward the twig noise.

And then, she saw him.

Just faintly silhouetted in the moonlight, her flashing purple skeleton lights reflecting off what she knew could only be a knife.

Michael had come for her. At last.

Susan thought quickly, her breathing racing. Her only neighbors weren’t home. Her driveway was impossible to find in the bright light of day, let alone night. Even if she called the police, no one would get to her in time.

Much like Laurie Strode, in the first movie (and in the second and then 20 years later, and then the one after that and then most recently in entirely unnecessary sequels that ignored an entire storyline that the franchise was built on, but we digress), Susan knew she had met her fate.

That moment she had feared since she was a little girl. That the long-lost Michael would finally come for her. It was now.

Susan prayed it was a dream as he slowly advanced in the way only Michael did. Michael didn’t run like Jason. He didn’t crash through your bed sheets like Freddy. He just…walked.

Having viewed herself a Michael expert at this point, Susan knew turning and running was a waste of time. So she just waited.

He walked slowly toward her, coming fully into the light now. She could hear his signature labored breathing from his beaten-up mask. He was not as tall as she’d expected.

Now they were face to face. Again, much like he does, Michael turned his head slightly to study her face. His hand opened and closed on his extremely clean knife.

“Does he actually wash it?” Susan though, manically for the moment.

Then suddenly, shockingly, he spoke.

“Wait a minute! You’re not a teenager,” he said an in an uncharacteristically high-octave voice muffled by his mask.

“Wait a minute,” Susan said, “You don’t talk!”

Michael crossed his arms.

“Of course I talk. Everyone is always ‘Carpenter’s a genius, such a great writer, such a great director. Blah blah.’ You know why he’s a genius? His main character doesn’t have speaking lines. Not ONE! Do you know what that means in acting contracts? I get a quarter of everyone else’s pay. It’s bullshit,” he said.

“Wow, ok. I’m sorry. That sucks,” Susan said.

“Yeah yeah. It is my movie and Jamie Lee Curtis got paid twice as much as me and it was her first job. Apparently Jason Vorhees and I got screwed by the same shitty agent. Meanwhile Freddy Krueger just bought a second home in Jackson Hole. Bullshit,” he said.

Susan was too startled to say anything.

“Anyway, why aren’t you a teenager? I thought you would be by now,” he said.

“Um, first off, thanks for telling me I’m old. Is this your new method of being a slasher. Slashing people’s egos?” she said.

“Hardy har,” he said.

“No, dude, I’m not a teenager. You’re off by three decades or so,” Susan said.

“Ugh,” he said. “Damnit, I was on the way here from Illinois, but I got stuck in a few sequels along the way. Didn’t realize how long it would take,” he said.

Susan cracked a beer and offered him one.

“Thanks,” he said, taking it.

“Then my Cab and Stab driver didn’t show up on time, on top of which we got lost trying to get here. What kind of driveway is that anyway? I was scared and I’m Michael Myers,” he said.

As he tried to fit the bottle neck into his mask’s mouth hole, Susan chuckled.

“I know, I know. Half the time my neighbors get my pizza delivery by accident,” she said.

After he swallowed, he paused — “Neighbors? Any teenagers over there?”

“No!” she said firmly. “Would you cut it out? What’s with the obsession with teenagers? It’s weird. I’ve seen you kill other ages before.”

“I know, I know. But on Halloween, I like to keep things traditional, my evening kills have to be teenagers mainly. I think Loomis tried to say years ago it was to replace my sister Judith, who I butchered my first Halloween, but who knows. That’s a whole other thing,” he said.

“Well as a mother of teenagers now, I would greatly appreciate if you could not do that anymore,” Susan said.

“Listen, do you think I want to do this?” he said, gesturing with his knife.

“Actually,” Michael said, pausing, “Take that back, I do want to do this.”

Susan sighed.

“Why me, though? How did you find me?” she said.

“Well when you first watched my movie way back then, I could sense your fear. It is something that attracts me. The more people fear me, the easier it is for me to find them and makes me want to kill them more. Maybe it’s a kink, who knows,” he said, shrugging.

“Dude, please, TMI. I am not your shrink,” Susan said, raising a hand to initiate the stop sign.

“Well, I do have a vacancy in that department. I think Loomis bit it in Halloween VI so I could really use a new one. Any interest? It pays well,” he said.

“Uh, I’m pretty sure by the time he was killed he had burns on half of his body, had been shot and might have been missing an eye. Not sure the occupational hazards would be worth it,” Susan said.

“Ugh. I really need the help,” Michael said.

“Look, I personally think the knife is a ‘metaphor,’ if you know what I mean,” Susan said, uncomfortably.

“No kidding, genius,” Michael said exasperatingly. “Do you think it is a coincidence that I always manage to stab couples to death just before he ‘metaphorically’ stabs her,” he said, raising two scarred over finger gestures in the quotes symbol.

“Gross,” Susan said.

Suddenly Michael’s arm made a noise — Susan realized it was his watch notification. Michael raised his Apple watch to his eye hole and muttered under his breath.

“You have an Apple watch?” Susan said, incredulously.

“Yes, how else do I keep up the countdown to Halloween? These other guys have more flexibility. Me, I oversleep one day and blow the whole thing,” he said.

“Just got a text from that asshole Krueger sending me a pic of him in his new jacuzzi on the ranch with a bunch of hot chics. Meanwhile I’m drinking a crappy beer on my big night with a 52 year old,” he said, then paused. “No offense.”

“Gee, thanks. At this point it might have hurt less if you’d just stabbed me to death,” she said.

“Well…,” Michael said, offering his knife.

“That was sarcasm,” she said.

“Anyway, I hate to tell you this, but in today’s day and age, teenagers are not just hanging out at home waiting for you to arrive. They go out with friends. In fact, I’m not so sure teenagers in Haddonfield were really babysitting that much in 1978 on Halloween night, convenient as that might have been for the plot,” she said.

“I told you, everyone thinks Carpenter’s a genius. Me? Not so much. Hey! My pumpkin!” he said, and for a moment, he sounded like the 6 year old he might have been had he been given an actual speaking part in the first movie.

“Yeah, I decided to carve it this year,” Susan said, smiling.

“Speaking of Carpenter, why the heck would this tremendously important pumpkin have a mistake in it. I mean there’s a plain as day knife slash between the mouth and the nose,” she said.

“Well — I made it, and in case you haven’t realized, I’m a little ‘knife happy,’ as it were,” he said.

Susan actually laughed.

She grabbed the pumpkin off the patio.

“Here, I can’t give you your teenager but I can give you your pumpkin,” she said.

“Hey, thanks!” he said, balancing the pumpkin in his hands.

“I guess I’ll head out,” Michael said. “So…you said you had teenagers, any idea where they are right now? Just for curiosity purposes of course. No particular reason.”

“Miiichael,” she said, menacingly, “Don’t even think about it.”

He put his knife hand up in a mea culpa.

“Ok, ok! Sorry!” Michael said.

“So what else am I going to do tonight now,” he said, glumly.

“You could always go see Halloween Ends,” Susan said.

There was a beat of silence before the two of them started laughing.

“Even I don’t want to see that shit,” he said.

“Oh well, I guess I’ll head back where I came from. Maybe Jason will let me mooch off his next Friday the 13th. At least at summer camps there are always stupid teenagers,” Michael said.

“Good night Michael. Happy Halloween,” Susan said.

“Thanks for the beer! Nice to finally meet you,” he said.

As she watched him walk off, he pinged his Apple watch and she heard the gravelly voice of Freddy Krueger pick up.

“What up man! How’s your body count going?” he said.

“Eh, not great, which is why I was calling. Are there any teenagers in Jackson Hole?” Michael said.

“Yeah, man, tons. I think some of the Kardashians have a house nearby and I’m sure they have plenty of groupies outside,” Krueger said.

“Perfect, can you send your jet to pick me up? If there’s anyone I would enjoy killing truly it’s a Kardashian fan,” he said, as his voice faded into the Halloween night.

I always choose the service road
If I have time to spare
I get more life that’s picturesque
And skip the speed and tear

I don’t mind the stop sign or two
The traffic light that slows
I’d rather see what I pass through
Than feel the road rage blows

The country diner, sketchy spot
The thrift shop that I’d love
Lest I’d be flying 65
Switching lanes, and push and shove

The road less traveled, service lane
Slow down, less stress, less worry
Unless you find the Bates motel
And end in taxidermy

August and the fireflies are gone

Free from those who’d seize their light

Your jars can’t capture childhood, air tight

The darkness a reminder until the dawn

The dusk now has a welcome cool

But we are never satisfied

Long for the heat, long for the fall

With its bees and angsty school

Perhaps a Halloween ghoul

The fireflies are gone

And we lament,

forced to move on

Proceed our flight’s descent

Their flash. A slow beat

A soft, vulnerable heat

Death a thumb’s fluorescent streak

A century of children need to seek

Their soul purpose –

To Light your night

Amuse you with their random, oddball sight

The dusk has a welcome cool

But we are never satisfied

The fireflies are gone

And only darkness is left behind

Are they free – or has fate dissolved their stars?

All we can do is try to fight our jars.

No matter where I tuck it, it can’t stay
I don’t keep everything, just bits of clay
That make up who I am, in effigy

It’s not like I keep idols on display
A root I save to grow another day
Newspapers now forgotten, fade away
My dusty hands are earnest when they pray

I know what I should save and what can’t stay
Mostly inside my heart, where memories lay
I don’t scrapbook, organize, fillet
My memories, in frying pan sautée

Leftovers that I’d rapidly misplace
So my deliberate archive is the way
To mentally decide what I should save
To choose what my sad legacy may say

But everything I save gets thrown away
The bulbs I dug out after garden’s prime
Now lost to basements, bad luck and time

I guess my ultimate legacy will lay
Despite my efforts, in your hearts, I pray
Please let it grow there — a stable, sweet soufflé
Since everything I save gets thrown away

It’s my own fault, as I can’t seem to see
What matters more is saving what’s in me

LOS ANGELES – CIRCA 1967: Mike Nesmith on the set of the television show The Monkees circa 1967 in Los Angeles, California. (Photo by Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images)

“Now my whole world opens up in different rhymes and tunes
With highways making up the verse
And then suddenly I see the light of something called the moon
And though my path is planned, it’s not rehearsed.”

The Crippled Lion, Michael Nesmith

Mike. Michael Nesmith. Nez. The one with the green hat. The one whose mom invented Liquid Paper.

For me, it was Papa. Papa Nez. The eccentric uncle to us all.

Michael Nesmith, of the Monkees, and so, so much more, left us this past weekend at the age of 78 — and returned to the psychedelic, xylophone-shaded, shimmering sunset pond of a universe from which he came. He gave us glimpses of the beautiful place — in his eyes, in his voice, and the palette of his paintbrush lyrics. But we never truly knew the full expanse of beauty that lived in his soul and mind. And now we never will. And maybe that’s the way it should be. We’re not worthy.

Much has been written about Nez over the last few days – many exquisite personal reflections, including this lovely one by Rob Adams, many incredible news articles lauding his incredible contributions to music, pop culture, the art of the music video, and basically inventing country-based rock. While these celebrations are so incredibly deserved, I can’t help but be a bit melancholy he’s not here to read them. There’s also a great musical tribute that I hope offers a bit of Papa Nez’s genius to the new generation by Ben Gibbard of Death Cab for Cutie. Watch it!  One would think there’s nothing left to say. But I’m going to try.

I fell in love with the Monkees a bit late by nature of my 1970’s birth. Not TOO late, as their rise to fame was in the late 1960’s with their meteoric rise and equally cataclysmic fall from glory. I didn’t pay any heed to all that. I saw those smiling faces on my greatest hits album and played it over and over again in my vintage 70’s era party basement, completely with pleather barstools on which I could spin repeatedly along with my vinyl. My first Monkee love was Micky Dolenz. Then as I grew older it was Davy and the Brady Bunch era. But as I matured, I realized that for all the mugging for the camera and the screaming girls, Nez was the quiet captain who steered the Monkees ship.

Mike’s relationship with the Monkees was notoriously complicated. There’s the famous moment when he punched a hole in a wall arguing for the Monkees to have musical control over their own content. And looking back on his musical catalogue, can you blame him for his anger? This guy had decades of music inside him and he and his band mates were being forced to mock playing other peoples’ songs. Without his furious passion, we’d have lost out on so much incredible music.

Those who know me love analogies. I can’t help but see the parallel of Mike’s driving passion about the love of music in his speech in the Monkees episode “The Devil and Peter Tork.” In the episode, my favorite, Peter, a gifted musician himself, in his sweet naivete makes a deal with The Devil to be able to play the harp. To save Peter’s soul, the Monkees participate in a trial. In order to prove the contract invalid, Mike passionately argues that The Devil gave Peter nothing. The passion for playing the music was always inside of him.

“Don’t you understand what that means, when you have that inside of you? If you love music, man, you can play music. People say, I can’t carry a note, I’m tone deaf. But nobody is tone deaf! If you love music, you can play music, and all it takes is just love. Because, baby, in the final analysis, love is power. That’s where the power’s at. You want to tell me you gave it to him? But I know different, because I’m a musician.”

I wonder if that was the speech he gave in that office before he punched the wall?

Following the break-up of the Monkees, Mike continued to do his own thing — successful song writing, pioneering video production, and much more. During those years he did not always have such kind things to say about the Monkees and as a Monkee fan, and I can’t speak for others, that hurt sometimes. But I’ve come to realize that it was less about the Monkees and more about the frustrating situation they were all in.

The comeback in 1986 was super fun and MTV gave them new life and legions of fans. Mike was not entirely participatory but did make one surprise appearance in 1986, ironically at the same theater that he and Micky would perform their last show together on Nov. 14.

My children both love the Monkees now and especially Mike. My 12-year-old has a vintage Monkees poster on her wall. My 14-year-old freaks over birthday wishes from Micky Dolenz and the three of us harmonize to Propiniquity, one of our favorite Nez tunes, in the car on a regular basis.

“I’ve known you for a long time but I’ve just begun to care,” is the chorus, and is such a perfect Nez expression of affection. It’s over before you can figure out if he complimented you or not but still it makes you smile and want to hug him after you consider giving him the finger. #PapaNez

That’s Nez though. And that’s why, while I dreamed of one day interviewing him in my various celeb interviews, I truly was afraid to. I couldn’t have this larger than life adoration be dashed because I would be easily dashed to pieces by his razor sharp wit or verbal gymnastics.

How do you interview someone who writes lyrics like this?

“But staying with her, and my little bit of wisdom,
broke down her desires like a light thru a prism;
into yellows and blues and a tune that I could not have sung.”

Joanne, Michael Nesmith

It was better to always stay close enough for his light to hurt my eyes and keep me warm than have that love set on fire.

And that’s what I started to think about over this last year. I belong to a lot of Monkees fandom and there’s been talk about him being ill. Even Ben Gibbard mentioned he saw Mike in June and while he was still Nez, he was clearly unwell. Many fans questioned the wisdom of him doing the Mike and Micky farewell tour. I certainly began to worry when reviews came back that he wasn’t playing guitar (unheard of) and struggled with some of the words.

But the over-arching reviews were that Nez was joyous, thrilled to be on stage, emotional at times. We get the “farewell” tour a lot. Part of me now and I’m sure many others realize for Mike, this was, quite literally, a farewell tour — and he knew it.

They say the soul often holds on and waits until the body is truly ready to let go. For all of Mike’s complicated relationship with the Monkees, I find it truly poignant that the one place he wanted to be as he took his last journey toward that “Angel Band” was to be loved and celebrated by and with Monkees fans, his beloved Micky Dolenz by his side. As for the words, we got you, Mike. We’ll sing them for you.

And we as Monkee fans, whether we were there in person or not, we had our arms wide open to welcome back our band leader. He was never really gone, you see. He was just following the beat of a different drum for a while.

My gift in memory of Michael Nesmith is to commit to exploring as much of his music as I can. I’ve not done nearly enough. I hope he can forgive me for being late.

Thank you, Papa Nez. I hope you are soaring over a twilight-lit prairie in your tricked out cowboy-wear, giving us your famous wink from just beyond that purple moon.

“Though the essence is gone,
I have no tear to cry for her
and my only thought of her is kind.”

Joanne, Michael Nesmith

Part of the reason I am drawn to horror movies is they speak to those of us who feel like we didn’t fit in. Namely me. I was a quiet and shy kid. I certainly didn’t have the confidence my kids have to express themselves and embrace their individuality. Watching scary movies wasn’t just entertainment — in some ways it was therapy.

Another reason I am drawn to these movies is I tend to sympathize and often side with the person who outwardly is perceived as the villain.

This brings me to today’s choice. Each main character in this movie is an outcast in their own way. We have sympathy for some more than others.

The movie opens with Sarah, a new girl in town, getting ready to start at a new high school. She’s already an outcast because she doesn’t have her uniform yet. Sarah lives with her father and stepmother. Her mother died earlier in life, which matters later.

Sarah runs into three young women who are her classmates. They look bad ass, to put it bluntly. They reach out to her to an extent. Meanwhile, the charming Don Juan of the school, Chris, played by Skeet Ulrich, later of Scream fame.

He sees her as new “meat” as it were, Sarah doesn’t know his reputation. She accepts his flattering attention. Chris invites her to a date and also invites her to “watch me practice” football which is the most narcissistic thing I’ve ever heard.

Nancy, the mesmerizing Fairuza Balk, Rochelle, played by Rachel True, and Bonnie, the beautiful Neve Campbell, also of Scream fame, the outcasts, wander in Sarah’s orbit. They see what she’s doing and know its not going to end well, but she won’t listen, as Chris has told her they are witches and to avoid them.

Sarah naturally goes on a date with Chris and doesn’t live up to his expectations, as it were. Being the quintessential jock cliche, Chris saves face by spreading rumors about Sarah’s dignity and when she confronts him, pulls the full gaslight approach that she is not confronting him about defaming her, but instead begging him for attention.

Pause as I bit my fist in anger.

Sarah is now perfect fodder for the “I told you so” from the mini-coven of the high school. Nancy, Rochelle and Bonnie. All four have personal challenges that draw them together and make them want to take control of a higher power to right the world’s wrongs. Sarah has lost her mother. Nancy is probably the worst off. She’s not financially blessed, and lives in a trailer. Chris has also used and abused her and ruined her rep at the school. Her mother is beholden to a creep who owns the trailer and is inappropriate toward her, which her mother tolerates to survive.

Bonnie has vast burn scars on her body that make her incredibly self conscious as a result of a childhood injury. Rochelle is racially targeted by a bitchy popular girl who outright states that she dislikes her and bullies her due to her race.

Let’s face it, all of these girls have an axe to grind. They are justified in looking to even the scales, but with great power comes great responsibility.

The three girls tried hard to create a coven and become witches. In this way, Chris wasn’t wrong. But before Sarah arrived, it was just a hobby, not an effective effort. Sarah has witch in her bloodlines. Her late mother may or may not have been a powerful witch. With the addition of Sarah, the “Four corners” can be called. Suddenly, the girls finally have the power to right their wrongs.

It worked!

The connection is literally magical. They can “invoke” the powers finally, they feel uplifted and superior, rightfully so. But the power goes to some of their heads, especially Nancy, whose spell out of anger results in a windfall that saves her and her mother from lecherous clutches and delivers them into better digs and money.

You can’t blame Nancy for being intoxicated by this newfound power, but she makes the mistake of letting it go to her head. Do no harm is the name of the game. She also forgets that it is a combined bond that has created this power, and she not only dismisses it, she outright aims to destroy it.

I feel for Nancy, and for all of these ladies. They carry heartache and it is understood they turn to torture and bully Sarah when she opts to withdraw from what has become a toxic relationship. High schoolers bully for much lower stakes. But yet we can’t help but cheer for Sarah when she eventually shows her hand. Because she’s got the true power that they squandered due to greed.

This lesson is as old as the golden goose. Be grateful for the universe’s gifts. They are rare. If you spit in their eye, it will come back to bite you in the ass. Be good. Be grateful. Do no harm. Good lessons from The Craft.

It’s a rainy, rainy day. And it calls for a true, misty, gothically dark and spooky movie.

I’m not just cold because my house has no heat, I’m cold with the chills of recalling this movie.

When I began to think about this project, I wanted to try to document movies that may not be the go to for everyone thinking about a Halloween movie. I wanted to bring movies to light that may not always pop up on AMC or what not in October. To me, this is one of them.

This movie is terrifying in some parts, sad in others. It’s fears are both human and inhuman. The loneliness and desperation is palpable in a way that we will never understand. We read about the decimation of World War II, but we can’t truly understand it. We can’t understand what it did to some areas of Europe and what it did to some families who were left with nothing.

Grace Stewart (played fantastically by Nicole Kidman) lives in a hulking and isolated mansion on “a channel island once occupied by the Germans” thanks to my good friends at Wikipedia. Her children, Anne and Nicholas, have an allergy to sunlight, which is of course the perfect allergy for a vintage goth ghost story. I think I have an allergy to sunlight sometimes myself.

To help care for the children and this enormous house, with her husband presumed dead in the war, Grace hires three servants who appear out of nowhere since she never actually sent for any despite needing them — the previous servants, the “others,” just disappeared.

They seem nice.

Mrs. Mills is the leader of the group of servants, along with a Mr. Tuttle (who btw was also the name of the caretaker The Changeling. He must be with the paranormal servants agency.) There’s also a young lady named Lydia who can’t speak.

Strange things begin happening in the mansion. Pianos play themselves. Anne says she sees other people including a young boy named Victor who claim it is their house. Grace believes the house may be haunted by a ghost. At one point, all the curtains she has set up to block the sunlight are removed and no one admits to doing it.

A small graveyard is located on the property and Grace believes that it might be related to the hauntings. The servants have previously served at the home and seem to know more than they let on. What is their agenda? Hmmm.

Grace also finds a book of mourning photos, which is a real but super creepy tradition in early America. Google it. Or maybe don’t. It is profoundly disturbing. Photos were set up and taken with those who have died. While I am personally freaked out by it, given the diseases and early lack of medical care, often families lost loved ones at early ages. Mothers died in child birth, sometimes with their new babies. Young children were susceptible to fever and tuberculosis. So while I don’t enjoy looking at them, I can understand why people wanted to remember these family members and death was a familiar bedfellow vs. something strange and frightening.

Grace, who naturally is extremely devout in her faith, is preparing Anne for her first communion. A terrifying scene happens when Anne is allowed to try on her dress and Grace stumbles upon an old woman in her place, with her voice, in her dress and veil. Yikes.

There is the additional dynamic of Grace and Anne at odds constantly, which can be the case with mothers and daughters specifically. Anne is acting out and asserting her independence, Grace tends to take out her anger and frustration, her fear and sadness on Anne more than any others.

The servants also tend to earn her wrath to the point where she eventually orders them out of the house.

At one point, Grace’s husband returns through the mist and fog. She is shocked as she was sure he was dead. But is he? His return is very odd. She is of course joyful to see him, as are the children. When Anne is alone with her father, she confides in him how things have gone in his absence. Charles tells Grace that Anne told him what happened. We aren’t sure what that is.

The next day, Charles is gone.

Little by little, the tension continues to rise in the old house. The servants eventually return, whether Grace wants them to or not, and now she fears them with their foreboding images. It is time for their secrets to be told. Grace fights them but their agenda is unstoppable. They are coming in.

When Grace and the children finally learn the truth, it is shocking to them, and to us.

It is true that some things cannot be unlearned, but whether we want to or not, it is often best to rip the blinders from our eyes, let the sunlight in, and only then can healing and renewal begin. Grace’s stern adherence to order, discipline and control crumbles around them. It has to. It is the only way forward. And finally, they can truly say, “This house is ours.”

This house is ours.

This house is ours.

Love. Jealousy. Murder. Greed. Betrayal. Vengeance.

No, this isn’t the latest nonsequitor-laden ad spoken by Natalie Portman for Dior “parfum.” It’s the subject matter of today’s movie, Dead Again.

When you think “horror” movies, Sir Kenneth Branagh and Dame Emma Thompson probably do not spring to mind. Shakespeare? Jane Austen? Probably. Horror? Nah.

But we’ve got the above. We’ve got ghosts and other supernatural phenomenon. We’ve got a great cameo by Robin Williams of all people. We’ve got reporters and we’ve got investigators. We’ve got nuns. That works for me.

Roman Strauss is about to be executed for the murder of his wife in 1949. He tells a reporter in his last interview that he still loves his wife, and ends with a chilling phrase that sounds very much like a warning.

“This is all far from over.”

Dead Again covers the story of that terrible murder of a beautiful classical musician, Margaret Strauss, allegedly by her composer husband, Roman in 1949 with a pair of antique scissors. Roman from prison is fairly terrifying and a far cry from the dashing and talented composer who steals Margaret’s heart. The couple is played by Branagh and Thompson, who at the time, and for a long time, were a couple in real life. I think I was the third saddest person about them breaking up besides the two of them. (Go watch Much Ado about Nothing and tell me these two don’t belong together. I’m still holding out hope.)

The movie flashes back between the present and the past. A mysterious woman who is unable to speak or remember her name, also played by Thompson, arrives at a local convent in Los Angeles. Investigator Mike Church, also played by Branagh, is called to the convent to assist in solving the mystery. He names her Grace for practical purposes and asks a local newspaperman to run her photo to see if anyone can help him solve the case and offer info as to her identity. In the meantime, Grace is plagued by nightmares that harken back to the murder.

Simultaneously, we watch the Strausses fall in love in the 1940’s. Roman is taken with Margaret’s beauty, humor and confidence. While conducting her in a performance, Margaret gives him a cheeky wink and the guy is sold. They have a glamorous wedding but already the troubling seeds are planted, as a journalist, played by Andy Garcia, who has had an eye on Margaret for a while, continues the flirtation.

Margaret moves into Roman’s luxurious home where his housekeeper, clearly in love with Roman, runs the household. Her son, Frankie, who suffers from a stutter, also lives in the home. This just adds to the happy couple’s outside stress factors.

Back to the early 1990’s, an antiques dealer offers Mike the option to hypnotize Grace to see if helps. She begins to finally speak. It turns out the hypnosis leads Grace all the way back to the Strauss era and their lives. Upon bringing Grace out of hypnosis, the hypnotist shows Mike and Grace news articles about the murder. It is noticed that they bear a striking resemblance to the tragic couple.

While working on the mystery, Grace and Mike start to “connect” as it were. They even go on a date and share a romantic time. The next morning, a young man shows up to claim Grace is his long lost wife. While they both should be happy that the mystery is finally solved, the emotions are mixed for several reasons. One of them being they sort of dig each other. But another is that Grace is not getting any sort of “Honey, I’m home” vibes from the guy. Mike has also gotten protective of Grace and demands some id from the guy that proves he is legit. He confirms that Grace is wearing Claddagh ring and claims to have the glove that matches the one she was wearing when found.

Reluctantly, Grace and Mike say a tearful goodbye. My heart! Until…

Mike casually examines the glove provided by the guy, and guess what? “You were thiiiiiissss close,” Mike says. The glove was for the wrong hand! Liar Liar Gloves on Fire! The fake Mr. Grace takes off and Mike pursues him to figure out WTF is going on, but he loses him.

Mike says the aim to find out who Grace is and what is making her so popular is more urgent than ever, as “you’ve got people after you in every life” or something to that effect.

While we watch both couple’s dramatic relationships evolve, Mike develops a friendship with his local deli man/disgraced psychiatrist, Cozy Carlisle, played by Robin Williams. Carlisle had a great career until he formed an inappropriate relationship with a patient, now he offers casual advice from the meat counter.

Back to the Strausses, Roman suffers from writer’s block in his composing career. If he didn’t already feel inadequate he is suspicious of Margaret’s connection with Baker, the reporter, who shares gossip about Roman’s past. Meanwhile, Inga, the housekeeper and Frankie, her son, are not fans of Margaret. Inga is holding a torch for Roman and Frankie gets a little too invasive in Margaret’s room. Roman bought Margaret a beautiful anklet for their wedding and Frankie is caught with it in his hand. Margaret insists he fire them and Roman refuses, saying they save his life. Margaret begins to question Roman with info clearly provided by Baker which only increases the tension. Yikes, man.

Meanwhile, Grace sees all this in her hypnosis and then sees Mike over her with scissors. She awakes terrified. Now, we get it. Mike has been Roman all this time, we see, and will history repeat itself?

Much like the Strausses, Mike and Grace are at odds. Grace is now afraid of him, while Mike’s temper isn’t much better than Roman’s. He angrily says he’s not Roman, defends himself. This is a great scene as the downstairs neighbor, Trudie, repeated practices her piano scales, only upping the tension. Finally, the two break as Mike holds her close, reassuring her..

He whispers, “I would never hurt you…Margaret.”

Oh shit! The two back away from each other in a terrified gasp.

Both couple’s stories continue to escalate, and in his latest visit to Carlisle’s meat counter, Mike is warned that sometimes lives who were wronged in the past return for vengeance. In other words, he tells Mike to kill Grace before she kills him first. Things are getting crazy! Further hypnosis only increases the tension and confusion as more info is revealed and Grace’s actual identity comes at the worst possible time.

To say anymore, (and I’ve already babbled on) would ruin the twists and turns at the end that reveal all.

Love is messy, man, and make sure you hide the scissors.

(Because this is an older movie and more obscure, I did you the favor of seeing where you can watch since I know you want to know, don’t you? It is apparently streaming on Hulu, and available for rent or purchase on Amazon Prime video.)

How does someone like me choose one Tim Burton movie for this list? It’s so difficult. The man is not just a horror movie genius, he simply creates completely unique and gothically spectacular universes. Most of them truly reflect the backdrop of most of my thoughts on a daily basis, year-round. I’m trying though to pick the best option for a Halloween movie, though, which helps narrow it down.

What? Not Nightmare before Christmas, Susan? The sacrilege! Listen, I get it. Burton’s animation is spectacular, the story and music are amazing and it’s all about Halloween.

However, part of my motivation in creating this list is to share movies that may not always get as much fanfare as I think they should. And a quick whirl around Hot Topic or basically any retail place related to Halloween will show you that there is endless love for Nightmare before Christmas. And well deserved.

Edward Scissorhands, Beetlejuice, etc. The list goes on.

But when I think about fall, Halloween, leaves changing, bonfires, etc., Sleepy Hollow is my go to. Why, even The Onion’s Mr. Autumn Man is speculated to love The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

So put on your coziest flannel, snuggle up to the fire, and listen closely. You might hear the thunder of a horse’s gallop in the distance. Don’t be afraid. We’re on the right side of the covered bridge.

Who hasn’t heard the legend of Sleepy Hollow? If you are one of the few, the original story was published by Washington Irving in the early 1800’s. It is a spooky story set to the backdrop of the early years of the U.S. and specifically New York state. The disparity between indulgent wealth and the struggling in the village of Sleepy Hollow are present.

The story has been a beloved one for American folklore, and the actual town is one that celebrates its headless heritage. It offers an impressive jack o’lantern festival each year. It’s been reproduced on screen, both big and small, too many times to count. One of my particular favorites is the Disney version narrated by Bing Crosby.

Tim Burton’s version is gorgeously dark, and his frequent collaborator, Johnny Depp, plays a dedicated, passionate, fumbling and amusing New York City-based investigator in Ichabod Crane, a revamp of the former role Crane usually plays of the local school teacher.

Depp is summoned from NYC, where is originating the CSI techniques of using science to solve crimes. His weak stomach for crime scenes, especially those of a decapitated head, are both relatable and amusing. His bravery is not innate as he is terrified at his first encounter with the horseman. Depp is wonderful in this movie as he shows Ichabod’s growth in his confidence, courage and commitment.

He is put up at the Van Tassel home, a rich family with a beautiful young daughter, Katrina, played by Christina Ricci. Their connection is immediate. Katrina practices spiritual witchcraft which reminds Ichabod of lost memories of his mother, a soft and loving spirit whose habits are painted dark and misunderstood by an unforgiving and Puritan father. Katrina’s father, Baltus, is married to his second wife, one not much older than Katrina, and there appears to be not much love lost between the two Van Tassel women.

Ichabod discovers the villagers believe they know who the horseman is  — a dead mercenary from the Revolutionary war played by Christopher Walken who manages, as only Walken can, to be just as terrifying looking in life as he is in death. When further Sleepy Hollow villagers are killed, Ichabod takes on a newly orphaned young man, Young Masbeth, as an apprentice.

Ichabod, Katrina and YM run into an old witch in the woods and discover the horseman’s grave, which, to no surprise, is missing the skull.

As more die at the horseman’s scythe, a deeper mystery begins to evolve among the village forefathers. Using his science, Ichabod begins to deduce the horseman’s targets aren’t random, while finally accepting, at Katrina’s urging, there is something more otherworldly at play. He appears to be a directed assassin. But by whom, and for what?

You’ll have to watch to find out. This is the perfect movie to watch on a chilly October night. The gothic settings and colors, the sky, the special effects, the use of music and Ichabod’s passion for Katrina, and the truth make it well worth it. This is one of those creepy movies that manages to have both a human and a supernatural explanation for the crimes, an unusual and interesting combo. With the usual theme, as you know I love, of a reckoning of sins — and there are plenty to choose from here, lust, greed, envy, coveting, shall I go on?

Just watch your neck — because tonight, the horseman might be coming for you.

For Lucy and Annabelle, and for Stephen King, for making corn scary

Fallon put the car in drive and winced at the sore spot left behind by the medical test she had had the day before.

It was a beautiful fall day, and she loved the season and Halloween.

However, a mysterious finding in her regular mammogram resulted in the need for a biopsy.

Her doctor assured her it was unlikely to be an issue, but the cold, sterile room and her white knuckled hand over the nurse’s made it hard to remember that.

Regardless, Fallon was seeking to clear her head with a drive through beautiful New England fall scenery in search of some rustic autumn décor. Rather than go for the Home Depot or supermarket choices, she sought out cornstalks from a real farm. She contacted a farm about an hour away and secured some stalks. Fallon also hoped to find some hay bales.

Only the most eager of leaves had started to sprout colors, but it was enough for her to clear her mind. The mild weather prompted her to keep her windows open.

Fallon loved Halloween. She had already been digging out her holiday decorations. It was funny, she thought to herself, how you get a slightly different twinge looking at skeletons, shrouds and gravestones when faced with the fleeting drift of your own mortality.

Again, she thought of the cold testing room. What’s the expression? Feeling a goose walk over your grave. That was it, Fallon thought.

She continued her drive until she was near to the farm. Fallon thought to herself this wasn’t the smartest move. A middle-aged woman driving out alone into the middle of nowhere.

“I’ve seen this episode of 48 Hours and it didn’t end well,” she mumbled to herself.

She jokingly told a friend the address she was headed for “just in case I don’t come back.”

Sort of jokingly.

Fallon listened to classic radio horror tales as she drove along. She clasped a crystal she’d recently discovered at a thrift shop. Her youngest daughter loved thrift shops as much as she did. Fallon was what one might call a “flake,” as she self-described often.

She believed there were many things one cannot see around us, and she believed in the energy from things like crystals. The moment she saw the pale pink crystal on a thin rope necklace, she had to have it.

Fallon clasped it for, real or imagined, strength, comfort and protection.

The road finally turned into a farm that was less rural storybook than she had hoped. There were unpleasant looking chickens and guinea hens walking about.

Dirty milk crates piled in a corner. And there, on top of a tattered bench, were her corn stalks.

The stalks were fine, Fallon thought, but they were clearly out of the ground for a while. Deader than dead. But then again, she thought, what better for Halloween décor?

“Something wrong with the stalks, lady?” a voice commented behind her.

Fallon turned, startled.

“No, no. Not at all,” she said.

The man was tall, with a scruffy beard. His jeans were ripped, and mud caked. His flannel shirt looked like the first flannel shirt ever made.

This is where I die, she thought to herself.

“That’ll be $20 bucks. Five dollars a stalk,” he said.

She nervously pulled the $20 out of her pocket and he took it in his gnarled hand.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Need help getting ‘em in the car?” he said, as she popped the back open.

No thanks. I’ve seen Silence of the Lambs, and I have learned from it, she thought.

Out loud, she said, “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

She dragged the musty corn stalks into her semi-clean car and shoved them in.

“Funny, ain’t it,” he said, watching her.

She closed the back and turned to him.

“What’s that?” Fallon asked, keys in hand, eager to leave.

“It’s funny how you rich ladies from downstate want to come up here and take our hard-earned work and crops to use for your ‘decorations.’ God forbid you grow things yourself. Might dirty up your manicure,” he said, barely concealing his disdain.

“I’m not rich,” she said, barely concealing her own. “But thanks.”

+++++

Fallon shrugged off the dirty farm and attitude as she continued her drive. Along the way, she stumbled upon another farm, one with the storybook farm atmosphere she had hoped for.

Driving down a sunflower-lined dirt road that led to a cheery tent filled with Halloween pumpkins, haybales and corn stalks that were still green and lustrous, Fallon wished she had waited to shop there.

A middle-aged woman with piercing and pretty blue eyes asked if she could help Stella.

“I was looking for some haybales,” Fallon said.

“Oh, we got ‘em. Drive up there and my husband will get ‘em into your truck for you,” she said.

Fallon drove up further to the tent and asked the man lugging bales around for two.

“No problem,” he said, a glint of good humor in his eyes. “Open up the back and I’ll put them in,” he said.

His overalls had what her mother would have called “clean dirt” on them, earned by working the land.

The farmer noted her corn stalks critically.

“Where’d you get those?” he said.

“Oh, another farm down the road,” she said, sheepishly, gesturing the direction.

“Up there? That old guy still trying to make that ‘farm’ work, eh? I thought he’d about quit. And you got the roots on ‘em too? Never seen them sold like before,” the farmer said.

Fallon blushed mildly.

“Yes, I clearly should have just done my one-stop shopping here,” she said, smiling. “I’ll make a note for next year!”

The farmer smiled.

“You do that, ma’am. Safe travels,” he said.

Now, THAT is what visiting a farm should feel like, Fallon said to herself.

With her successful road trip completed, Fallon turned the car to home. It was about 45 minutes and she hoped to get home before her daughters, a freshman in high school and a seventh grader, got off the bus.

She happily gazed at the fall colors, with the windows half open, and drove in the southern direction toward home. She opted to take backroads vs. the highway to make the drive more scenic. Also, the slower pace would make the wind rustle the corn stalks less.

The sound was unnerving.

She was not driving fast, yet Fallon continued to hear the rustling of the stalks in hear ear. She should have loaded them the opposite way with the roots by her head, but she was trying to keep the dirty root ball out.

The yards she passed were littered with inflatable ghosts, skeletons dressed in a variety of undignified outfits, including one set up with a full poker game.

“Now that’s a poker face,” she said to herself, giggling.

Still, the rustling in the back continued. Fallon unconsciously took hold of her crystal. She knew there was nothing wrong, but the uneasiness of the unpleasant corn stalk salesman along with her lingering uneasiness over her medical testing continued to plague what she had hoped would be a distraction.

“Asshole,” she mumbled, cursing the negative vibe the man had left her with.

Still, the corn shook and shivered with her every turn.

Maybe if I just close the windows, she thought to herself. Reluctantly, she locked out the pleasant fall air in the hopes the noise would cease.

Stephen King would be so into this road trip, Fallon thought. The Children of the Corn had to come from somewhere.

He who walks behind the rows indeed, she thought. That guy probably bbqs squirrel behind the rows.

Suddenly, Fallon felt something touch her ear. She gasped and nearly drove off the two-lane road. A searing pain hit her fingers as she reached for it. She stopped the car almost on someone’s lawn, and opened the door and leaped out, the car still running.

Fallon stood in the road as the lumbering yellow jacket that had stung her hand drunkenly flew off.

Several choice words left Fallon’s mouth and as she turned, she screamed as an oncoming car screeched and swerved quickly to avoid her.

“Trying to get yourself killed!!!?,” the driver screamed out the window, leaving Fallon in the dust.

It is surely starting to feel like it today, she thought.

Fallon nursed her stung hand as she reluctantly got back into the car with the stalks. She was certain the yellow jacket had hitched a ride in her unpleasant cargo. Fallon was nearly tempted to dump them on the side of the road and not look back, but she’d already paid, and it wouldn’t have been very considerate to leave them on someone’s lawn to clean up.

She put the car back in drive, leaving the windows open now, and instead turned on the radio. The rustling was only louder with the wind whipping through them, but she tried to concentrate on whatever the latest pop song was blasting from her speakers. Fallon clasped her crystal in her injured hand, hoping whatever healing it emanated was also physical.

Nearing home, Fallon was relieved the trip was over.

She drove up her rocky driveway and the corn stalks were in their full rustling glory, leaving its of their dried tops in her hair. She swatted it away, wondering if maybe they’d be better for a fall bonfire at this point.

Fallon pulled into her driveway and popped the back hatch. She went into the house for some ice for her hand. Then she looked at the clock and realized there wasn’t much time before her girls got home. She had hoped to have her fall accoutrements set up to surprise them when they got off the bus.

She went back out to the driveway and winced as she lugged the heavy haybales out of the truck. Between her hand and her incision, it was not pleasant.

With the haybales set up, she amusingly tapped her Halloween witch and chuckled as it let out its animated screech as its eyes glowed red.

Fallon returned to the car for the rest of her bounty.

“Ok,” she said out loud, “Last stop, guys.”

She tried to get a grip of the stalks, but they were unwieldly. She reached in and a piece split off, causing her to sneeze.

With both hands, Fallon tugged hard on the first bunch of dried stalks. There was no movement.

“One more time,” she said, gritting her teeth.

She reached in again, and Fallon had no time to react when she felt two stronger hands within the corn stalks grip hers tightly.

And yank.

++++++

The corn had just finished its shivered rustling when two young girls climbed up the stairs from their bus.

“Oh cool! Mom got haybales!” the older one, Lucy, said.

“Mom! Mom???” both girls called.  

The younger, Annabelle, went into the house and saw the ice pack on the counter.

“Mom?” she called.

She went back outside to her sister.

“Did you find her?” Annabelle said.

Lucy had reached the back of the car.

“No. So weird. Are her keys inside?” she said.

Annabelle nodded. “And an ice pack.”

Both girls stood, puzzled.

“Where could she be?”

“Mom!” they yelled in unison.

The only noise in return was the cackling witch decoration, her green eyes glowing in amusement.

+++++++

October — one year later.

“Daddy, daddy! I want to do the corn maze!!!” a little girl shouted, holding on to her father’s hand.

“Hold on a minute, Stella,” the man said.

He didn’t like the looks of the farm. Or its proprietor.

The man looked like he hadn’t bathed this century and had a seedy look in his eyes as he regarded the smartly-dressed man and his child.

“Can I help you with somethin’, sir?” he said.

There was something sarcastic in the “sir” that further bothered the man with his daughter. Yet, the six-year-old was so excited and really loved Halloween.

“Do you have a corn maze here?” the man said.

“I wouldn’t call it a maze, but we sure have a corn field out there. You’re welcome to take a look around,” the unpleasant farmer said, again his tone mocking.

“Yay!!!” the child yelled and took off running.

The father’s innate concern rose, and he cautioned his daughter to wait. The corn field looked vast, unmanicured, and hungry, he thought.

Hungry? Where did that come from? He thought to himself.

“Stella, Stella WAIT,” he said, running after her.

He finally caught up to his daughter inside the corn field.

“This is SO cool,” Stella said. “Come on, Daddy!”

Grabbing her father’s hand, she pulled him through the dusty, dry corn, until she stopped short.

“Daddy, I see something!” Stella said, pointing to one of the stalks.

He covered his eyes from the glare of the sun and could see something glinting ahead.

“Where?” he said.

“Here!” she said.

She reached up with her little hand and clasped something in her fist.

“Look, Daddy,” she nearly whispered in awe.

She opened her clasped hand and in it was a shimmering crystal on a string.

“It is so pretty! It’s PINK, my favorite color! Can I keep it, Daddy? Can I? I found it!” Stella said.

The two nearly jumped out of their skin when a loud voice behind them said, “No, child, you cannot keep it.”

The rumpled farmer must have been following them the whole time.

He reached his hand out and the child reluctantly placed her treasure in his hand.

He held it to the sky, and they all watched it shimmering and catching the light.

Stella was crushed.

“But why can’t I keep it, Daddy? I found it. It was just out here. It doesn’t belong to anyone,” she said sadly.

The farmer clenched the crystal in his fist and leaned down to meet Stella’s gaze. Without even realizing it, Stella backed two steps into the security of her father’s body, his hands tightly on her shoulders.

With his eyes on the child’s, he said quietly, with a twisted, “Oh, yes, it does belong to someone.”

Stella gasped.

He opened his and showed her the crystal again.

“This here…it belongs to the corn.”

With a whishing sound, the farmer tossed the crystal deeper into the field.

Stella watched as the crystal’s beauty was swallowed by the rustling stalks.

Later, as the fall moon rose to its apex, the crystal caught its luminous reflection quietly in its place in the dirt —

It glimmered softy, until the jealous, suffocating stalks rustled together — to once again extinguish its light.

Thank you for visiting my site. If you like this, please check out my horror anthology on Amazon, Tales from the Graveyard. Its first entry, The Blacksmith, is free on Amazon.

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