A Writer's Tale

And it had colorful patrons. Some were certainly devoted film and horror fans, like myself. Others seemed a bit shady.

I sat by myself, never spoke to anyone, and usually felt creepy about the whole experience.

Which added to the flavor of the films, no doubt.

After watching movies like Halloween or Prom Night or any of a hundred others, I always had to leave the theater alone and walk through the empty streets to reach my car.

If the movie’d been good enough, the walk back to my car could be harrowing.

I not only had to worry about real thugs, but about the likes of Mrs. Vorhees or Michael Meyers coming after me.

I know, I know. They don’t really exist.

I knew they couldn’t get me, but the power of certain movies set me on edge. I’d hurry down empty sidewalks (and an especially creepy passageway alongside the theater), glancing over my shoulder, goosebumps often skittering up my spine. At the car, I’d always be careful to check the back seat before climbing in. Then I’d lock the doors. And on the short drive home, I always worried that I might arrive home and find that someone had butchered Ann and Kelly in my absence.

A grown man.

Hey, I was in my early thirties at the time.

But frequently spooked.

Though I always felt guilty about going to those movies, my Culver Theater experiences not only kept me current with what was going on in the world of horror cinema, but gave me loads of firsthand material.

Though many of my novels and stories contain references to horror films and movie theaters, such matters are at the veiy heart of Out Are the Lights and Night Show.

“The Haunted Palace” in Out are The Lights was inspired by the Culver Theater.

And so was the movie theater in Night Show.

Night Show is about a creepy fellow named Tony who loves to frighten people with cruel and frightening tricks. He drives a hearse. His ambition in life is to become a special effects makeup artist for slasher movies, and he wants to study under the best in the field, Dani Larson. (She is something of a young, attractive female version of Tom Savini.) Now, Dani doesn’t want an apprentice. But Tony won’t take no for an answer.

It is very much a book for horror movie buffs. I never could have written it if I hadn’t spent those years making my weekly pilgrimages to the old and creepy Culver Theater.

The Culver still stands, and I see it on the other side of Washington Boulevard now when I make my weekly visits with Ann and Kelly to the Culver Mann theaters.

For years now, it has been closed.

Abandoned, it seems spookier than ever before. I wonder if the rows of torn seats are still there, shrouded in dust and darkness. And I wonder who might be sitting in them now.

TREAD SOFTLY

On June 15, 1982, less than a month after finishing Night Show, I started to write my novel, Curse. During the time I spent working on it, I also wrote several short stories, spent time collaborating with Robert Colby on The Dump (never finished) and working on the first draft of my secret project, Hollywood Goons. Because of so many other activities and because Curse was significantly longer than my previous horror novels, I didn’t finish it until January 27, 1983.

On February 1, I changed the title to Tread Softly With Care. It would eventually be published as Tread Softly, and later as Dark Mountain.

The writing of this book marked a new stage in my career.

Largely due to the influences of Dean Koontz, I’d decided to “mainstream” my horror novels. He’d not only advised such a step personally, but he’d given detailed advice on how to go about it in his book, How to Write Best-Selling Fiction. Taking his suggestions to heart, I was determined to enlarge the scope of my material so that my next book would be more than simply a “horror genre” novel.

Before Tread Softly, my horror novels were short and to the point. They never lingered.

They never elaborated. The scenes shot by rapid-fire, with a breathless pace that never paused for a description, rarely for an explanation. The stories raced along non-stop from start to finish.

In Dean’s opinion, I insisted on the slam-bang pace because I lacked confidence in my ability to hold the readers’ interest.

I was afraid I might bore them if I didn’t plunge from one wild, over-the-top scene to the next.

He was right, of course.

On my way toward getting a high school diploma, a B.A. in English and an M.A. in English literature, I’d been forced to read huge amounts of fiction. Much of it was great, exciting stuff. But much of it had bored me.

From a very early age, I was a rebel against boring fiction.

I equated “boring” with lengthy descriptive passages and with scenes in which nothing much seemed to happen. I always wanted the writer to “get on with it.”