H and I just watched half of The Amytville Horror.
I’d read the book as an easily spooked 12 year old so when we found the remake on Netflix I got all excited.
‘Oh go on, let’s watch it, it’s dead scary this is, it’s brilliant, go on, you’ll kack yourself watching this,’ I said, huddling under the duvet and taking an excited gulp of Booze Bargains, Vin de Cheapo.
We watched as blood dribbled out of light switches, fridge magnets arranged themselves into misspelled messages and the door to the boat house slammed all by itself.
I explained to H that no horror movie was worth watching unless there was a boat house with a door that slammed all by itself. He nodded sagely.
We continued to watch. After a while I said, ‘If you want to turn it off, I don’t mind.’
‘No, it’s OK Mum, let’s watch it,’ said he, rather charitably.
Time crawled by. It was excruciating. A slutty baby sitter got trapped in a cupboard with a wild looking, blood spattered child. (A dead one). Shortly after, Dad underwent a predictable personality change and went a bit psycho, just like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.
Both H and I fidgeted. After a while I said, ‘Aw sorry, this is shite, let’s turn it off.’
So we did.
But y’know, I’m still in need of a quick blast of something light, like Jeremy Clarkson’s belly wobbling across Africa, before I go to bed.
Else the slamming boat house doors, wild blood-spattered children will and fridge magnets that can’t spell, are going to appear in my bedroom all night long.