Spite, Mr. Kreeg's dog, as Hell Hound.
I mentioned to Mr. ShellHawk yesterday that I was trying to plumb the depths of my very foggy childhood memories for where the fascination with Halloween and dark things began. God knows, my mom tried her hardest to turn all my attempts at horror-story-writing into sappy sweet hearts-and-flowers stories, but the only lasting result is that I still struggle to complete the numerous stories (of any variety) that I have written to date.
In any case, I told Mr. ShellHawk that I was an avid watcher of In Search Of... as well as all the horror movies that made it to television. I was bespelled by the idea of vampires, and at age five or six was so convinced of their existence that I would, as part of my childish nightly ritual, lie down to sleep on my side and carefully nestle my Snoopy doll over my neck as a protection against the noctural, jugular-seeking behavior of whatever local vampire happened to break into my house. Of course, if I had realized that vampires can only enter a house with an invitation, I probably would have slept better, figuring that no one in the house would invite them in.
I asked Mr. ShellHawk what he used to do to protect himself at night. He shared that his mother, Mary Alice (who, btw, nearly became a nun before she met his father) was a big fan of horror movies. Like me, his exposure to old horror movies came from L.A.'s Channel 5 and its Family Film Festival host, Tom Hatten, as well as Elvira's Movie Macabre on Channel 9 and whatever was playing on Channel 13 on a Saturday afternoon. Like many kids, Mr. ShellHawk had a lively imagination, and horror movies watched during the day would come back to haunt him at bedtime.
He told me that he would essentially mummify himself in his bedclothes, completely covering his head and leaving only the tiniest little hole by his mouth to breathe through.
How did you defend yourself against the Creatures of the Night?
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