Roots of Personal Horror: Fears As A Kid (Part I)

Everyone has their own story. We're as different as our own fingerprints. And among those personal differences, we have differences that fall under various umbrellas, including that of social experience. And with those unique experiences come unique fears, depending on where and how one grew up.

The boat that is this particular blog entry set sail early last week. I teach library media in an urban school, which is a far cry from the rural Midwestern town in which I was educated. With the widely varied experiences I've had in my life, I have had little problem adapting to environments unlike the ones closest to me. In fact, I cherish the chance at the challenge or the adventure.

During an eight-grade class, one of the young men handed in his worksheet dealing with Black History Month. One of the names I had the kids research was the brave Medgar Evers. As is well-known, Evers was murdered in 1963 by cowards that were part of the Ku Klux Klan. This student and I fell into a great conversation about Evers, and during the course of the talk, he asked me what the KKK was, as he'd never heard of them. I described them as an "evil, racist gang that hated...actually feared anyone different from them." The young man's expression turned wistful and he admitted to me that he was just chased the week before by a gang that "tried to jump [me]." I told him I was glad he got away, and he continued on about the experience. "They wanted me to join their gang because I'm fast," he said. "But they couldn't catch up to me. " He described how they flanked him, how they ordered each other to "take him down," and how his cousins who are actually in the gang protected him by telling the others to lay off.

"That has to be scary," I told him. "I'm really glad they didn't get their hands on you." He smiled - as many of these children do when an adult expresses genuine care for them - and told me something hopeful, "They want me in their gang, but I won't ever join a gang. They'll keep coming after me, but I won't do it." I patted him on his back and said, "Good. But just be careful, got it?"

I thought about that conversation. I thought about how different his childhood is from what mine was. Yeah, we can't all have the same things or be the same way - nor should we as being unique is what is so interesting - but I couldn't help but think about how wide apart our fears were.

When I was in eighth grade, my biggest world fears centered around the Cold War. On a personal level, however, there were no gangs, per se. Not much "hard knock life" in the small town of Cadillac, Michigan, at least not compared to Bridgeport, Connecticut. Worlds apart. Sure there were the "Jock vs. Burnout Fights" that happened every other day, and the worst that would happen would be someone might have brought a small knife to the rumble. People had rough lives, but I only knew my own life.

I can only imagine the fear that my students live with daily. Torn-apart families, drugs, gangs, and at the center of it all, violence. Violence to each other, from their parents, from others in their community. I wish they could have their childhoods, lives without the real-life fears, but I know it's just that: real life.

Doesn't stop me from wishing though.

Roots of Personal Horror: The Sheik, Wrestling's Original Madman

The year: I'm going to go with 1976. That's the best I can remember. The place: outside Cadillac, Michigan. My brother and I sit glued to the black and white TV, one of three channels. That's right, young'uns. Three channels is ALL we had: the local ABC, CBS, and NBC affiliates. FOX wasn't even a sparkle in an executive's eye back then. My brother and I, we're glued to our favorite weekend entertainment (after the dearly-missed less PC cartoons): Big Time Wrestling.

Big Time Wrestling was a staple not only in the Detroit wrestling scene, but the national one as well. Anyone who was anyone back then came through the Detroit territory, and this is before Vince McMahon turned his little corner of the wrestling territory into the juggernaut it is today. Dick the Bruiser, Abdullah the Butcher, Andre the Giant...they all passed through the Detroit area.

And they all, in their own way, met up with The Sheik.

The Sheik - or Ed Farhat - ran the territory for decades, their heyday coming in the 70's with a wide-ranging TV deal and regular stars that captured the hearts and imaginations of impressionable youth such as my brother and I. The Sheik was a madman who slinked into the ring, often prayed on his sacred rug to the chagrin of his opponent, the proceeded to maul, bite, and carve up his hapless opponent with a sharp foreign object before clamping him in the dreaded Camel Clutch, his signature submission hold (as seen above as he applies it to Terry Funk).

My brother and I were scared out of our wits by this guy. He made ugly faces as he jabbed whatever object he could into the face of his foe. He fish-hooked the guy's mouth. He stuck his fingers in his eye. Our hearts beat wildly with equal parts fear and awe. We'd go into a frustrated frenzy at his actions...how could he get away with it? Fortunately, there was a hero: Bobo Brazil. Bobo was one of the pioneers of diversity in the business, a black man wildly cheered by predominately white audiences. Bobo, the commentators always reminded us, was the only person who could scare off The Sheik. Sure enough, the roar of the studio crowd prefaced an eleventh-hour rescue by Bobo Brazil, who would almost get his hands on The Sheik. Arrgh! So frustrating! Again, the villain gets away. But matches were signed: Bobo would face The Sheik at the legendary Cobo Arena in Detroit, and there would finally be a reckoning. My brother could only imagine, as we lived nearly five hours north in Cadillac, Michigan.

Flash forward to January, 2003. I was still fresh to my new position as wrestling commentator in independent wrestling and was attending my broadcast colleague and dear friend Jim Hall's debut show for his Marquee Wrestling. At the after-party, I received the sad news: Ed Farhat, the fearsome Sheik, had passed away at the age of 76. There was silence followed by hushed tributes from the wrestlers and staff who had either known him personally or, like me, had been affected by the man's work in our younger lives.



In something of a "come around full circle" thing, we flash forward once again, this time to December of 2004. Jim and I were asked to be commentators for a benefit show for Sabu - The Sheik's nephew - organized jointly by Scott D'Amore's Border City Wrestling out of Windsor, Ontario, and BCW's Detroit affiliate Prime Time Wrestling. Now the young kid who sat in front of his old TV, mesmerized and completely afraid of The Sheik in the mid-70's, was a small part of a show that paid tribute and respect to not only Sabu, but The Sheik. This was in Detroit. This was the heart of Sheik country, and a real heart of professional wrestling as history. Getting to say his name as a lasting part of DVD commentary cemented my own personal "horror" history with The Sheik.

Through my travels in that time, I met other connections to The Sheik, such as his son, Ed Farhat Jr., who runs the direct descendant of Big Time Wrestling, the All-World Wrestling League (AWWL). I also met a man I'm still proud to consider a friend, Mark Boone, a longtime musician, current wrestling manager, and lifelong Detroit wrestling historian. If there is anything to be known about wrestling in Detroit, he's the go-to guy. He even contributed to the soundtrack of the film about The Sheik, I Like To Hurt People. There's never a doubt in his voice when he says that The Sheik was the "Daddy of what became known as 'hardcore wrestling.'" The following pictures were taken by Mark himself during the 70's, at the same Cobo Arena that my brother and I longed to go to, and are only a drop in the bucket of his personal collection:

Previous two photos courtesy of Mark Boone

Simply great stuff. Thanks, Mark!

The Sheik was the monster under my bed. His was the name my brother and I evoked to scare each other. Back in a time when I was too scared to watch anything close to horror, a bloodthirsty, foreign-object-wielding, biting, scratching madman was enough monster for both of us.

And we wouldn't have it any other way.

(Like scary wrestlers? Then check out this post by my friend B-Sol of The Vault of Horror - trust me, this man also knows his wrestling. After you check out that post, check out more of his posts - you won't be sorry.)

Trilogy of Terror (1975) Bonus Roots of Personal Horror

Not only is this a movie review, but it's also another in my series of blogs about how certain things have affected me throughout my life in terms of horror - my Roots of Personal Horror entries. There's only been one other entry so far, but hey, now it's a series.

It's March, 1975. I'm in first grade, and I'll be eight in July. It's a northern Michigan twilight between winter and spring. I'm at my buddy Todd's house for a sleepover when I catch a glimpse of something in a TV Guide. It's something horrible, something wretchedly terrifying to a kid. It's this handsome fellow:



Yeah, that's right. The Zuni fetish doll from the 1975 cult classic TV movie, Trilogy of Terror. My little brain, despite the presence of superheroes and dinosaurs, was absolutely sure this toothy little guy was going to sneak into where I was sleeping at Todd's house and start stabbing me. I was positive that's what was going to happen. I couldn't sleep and when I dozed, there he was, whirling through my half-awake dreams. I did the only thing I thought I could do: I screamed like a banshee-in-training. Still a blur, but I think I calmed down eventually but I would have nothing to do with that little Zuni joker. I refused to look at picture of it for years. Even now, about 36 years later, I still hear the ghost of my seven-year-old self whimpering when I see a freeze-frame of "He Who Kills."

It occurred to me that I had never actually watched Trilogy of Terror. I should have by now. I mean, the trailer for Dawn of the Dead frightened me in 1978, and I faced that (obviously). The voice of little possessed Regan in The Exorcist made me cold with terror when it aired on broadcast TV, but I eventually faced that one down, too. Yet Trilogy of Terror eluded me.

No longer, dear readers. I pushed this baby to the top of my Netflix queue and it is now viewing history. And allow me to say this: it was worth the wait.



You know when a movie starts off with a title card over the actual film itself, it's scoring points in my book. Barely a few minutes into it, and the movie is already in the plus column. Did I mention that the three stories are based on the writings of the legendary Richard Matheson? Oh, and did I mention that the top star of each piece of the trilogy is the beautiful and talented Karen Black? And, oh, did I mention that Trilogy of Terror is directed by Dan Curtis, who helped bring the iconic gothic soap Dark Shadows to the viewing public, and who introduced us to the wily Carl Kolchak (Darren McGavin) in The Night Stalker, AND who directed the cult classic Burnt Offerings? Yeah...seriously winning points with me here.

Before jumping in, I'll warn you of spoiler material and black out the revealing sentences - highlight them if you want to take a sneaky peek.

The first story in Trilogy of Terror is "Julie," and if you look at the title card picture above, you'll see the characters Chad (the "douche") and Eddie (the "you'd-better-not-do-that sensible friend"). Chad is a privileged horndog who bets his friend he can bed their stuffy literature teacher, the titular Julie Eldrich. Chad makes advances and invites Julie to a drive-in to catch a horror film (actually clips of Night Stalker). He drugs her and brings her to a motel, where he takes provocative and - it's suggested - overtly sexual pictures of the unconscious teacher. Chad blackmails Julie into a dominant relationship that reeks of his misogynistic, douchebaggish stink. He even has a sneer. Perfect casting. I mean, Robert Burton (Black's real-life husband at the time) really nailed it.

It doesn't turn out well for Chad, though. SPOILER: Turns out Julie had been manipulating him the whole time, and she may or may not be a witch who derives pleasure from her own fear of the men in her life. When she no longer feels fear, she gets bored, and the boys get dead. She poisons Chad (great choking scene, too, by the way) and burns down his house. When the segments ends, she's meeting a new, handsome young man (Gregory Harrison in a small role) who just glows with the aura of a soon-to-be-dead-meat fellow.

The second story is called "Millicent and Therese." Black plays polar opposites in twin sisters, the prudish Millicent and the vivacious Therese. Millicent hates her twin, sure that she seduced their father and caused their mother's death. She's positive that Therese is a devil-worshipper and sex freak, and she may be right. Millicent keeps a diary of her observations, and she fears she may have to kill Therese at some point. Therese tries to seduce Dr. Ramsey (George Gaynes of the Police Academy movies), but he resists somehow. Millicent decides to kill Therese with her own black magic, and is successful in a way because...SPOILER: Millicent and Therese are one and the same, as Millicent suffers from dual personality syndrome.

The third segment, "Amelia," is the drawing power of Trilogy of Terror. Amelia, who's subletting a high-rise apartment, tries to have a social life despite being under the thumb of her domineering mother. She buys a gift for her anthropologist boyfriend: a Zuni fetish doll called "He Who Kills." You know what he looks like. I don't need to describe him. But beware, because if that gold chain is removed from his body, he'll come to life and...uh-oh, it just fell off and Amelia didn't notice.

Amelia hears little noises here and there, and sees no sign of He Who Kills, until she experiences a slight stabbing around her ankles. There's the little guy, poking her feet with a kitchen knife. He Who Kills is like a homicidal blend of the Tasmanian Devil and a Gremlin, frenetically chasing Amelia around the apartment, stabbing and cutting through everything. She tries drowning him and trapping him, to no avail.

After HWK gets all bitey, Amelia manages to throw him into an already-on oven, burning him to a wildly flailing little crisp. Amelia opens the oven to investigate the burning-Zuni-doll progress and freaks out. She apparently calms down enough to call her mother and invite her over. Amelia then crouches down - and you know it ain't good - and begins stabbing the carpet over and over before smiling...SPOILER: revealing a mouthful of thin, sharp teeth, just like that of the Zuni doll.

*shiver*

I made it through without screaming, but damn if I didn't feel that little crawl in the back of my neck, that slight shiver in the spine. It was 1975 all over again, only this time, I loved it.

Trilogy of Terror wasn't as hokey as I'd expected, and that's OK. Karen Black is tremendous, showing great range as each lead character. They're rich characters as well, and we get decent backstories for most of everyone who has a speaking part. The weakest segment for me was the middle one. It had an ending you could see a mile away, but it was still enjoyable. Of course, my favorite segment is the one that gave me nightmares oh, so long ago. It's taut and terrifying, and the relentless image of that doll shaking and flailing in murderous rage is unforgettable and scary as hell, even in this jaded day and age.

As for He Who Kills, who knew that one day, I could purchase him for myself years later if I'd wanted at Chiller Theater.



I didn't buy him, of course. I was too scared.

Until next time, fellow survivors, don't remove any gold chains from your kids' dolls. You know, just to be safe.

Roots Of Personal Horror, Volume 1

There have been a lot of factors that lead to my love of the horror genre. Everything from my fascination by the original "Kolchak: The Night Stalker" series to collecting ghost stories contributed something along the way. It's no secret that I have an affinity for apocalyptic revenant or infection fiction. You know, that unstoppable juggernaut of disease that might only spare a few lucky sociological experiments. However, it doesn't take away from my love of supernatural fiction, especially when it involves ghostly, often abandoned, locales.

I may have always been enamored with abandoned places, especially businesses or even spookier, services like hospitals or - gulp - asylums. I don't know. I have always imagined what history they had - they're ghosts with walls. But I can trace back to an adventure on wintry night in Northville, Michigan, when it took root in my subconscious for good.

One of my very best friends, Keith, lived near Detroit and often told us tales of childhood shenanigans. One such set of shenanigans involved sneaking into an enormous complex of abandoned buildings that were once the Wayne County Training School for Feeble-Minded Children. Yeah, you read that right. Try getting away with that kind of name these days. Or don't, because it's not cool. But back in the 1920's, that's what passed for a serious name. To Detroit residents, it was known by the much shorter, much more politically correct, "The Tunnels." This name was a result of the method by which one gets around in there without being detected: the steam tunnels connecting all the major buildings.


One weekend, Keith and I were joined by Ric, another of my very best friends and roommates, and made the trip to Keith's home for the weekend. There, we met up with Jim, Keith's childhood friend who knew The Tunnels like the back of his hand. It was a dreary, hazy winter night. Snow on the ground, slight rain glossing it with an icy sheen. We weren't even there yet, and it was surreal.

The first thing we did was hide from a train. Talk about a bunch of grown men acting like kids in the 1940's, we were that. Plus, we were going into an area that was forbidden. To get caught at that time was a substantial fine for trespassing. We had no intention of vandalizing anything, but the police don't care. Approaching through the woods, we found the first building and in that strange night, our flashlights and the fuzz-toned moon in the sky the only source of light, it looked like ghostly past and post-atomic future all in one.

My mind reeled. I got scared. And then I fell in love.

Old buildings with rust and brick and decay and graffiti, derelicts beached by history. I imagined: what was their purpose? What kind of person worked or lived inside the walls? What ghosts remained?

Jim took us inside the first one, then down into the tunnels themselves. Cramped, we could only go single file in the absolute and pure darkness. There was real danger. Maybe Jim didn't know every nook and cranny of the place. And there were a lot of those. Gangs had been known to frequent the place. We'd heard tales of an LSD-riddled girl trapped down there for who-knows-how-long. When Ric's flashlight started flickering, it was icing on the adrenaline cake.


The everyday trappings of society were everywhere, too. There was a bowling alley in the activity center. We found a pool. A theater. Rooms, beds, desks, even canisters filled with food in the fallout shelter. It was like we'd found a place frozen forever in time, aided by the cold winter air. So quiet, too. Only our voices and the wind, and that was fairly calm.

We saw some other things, too. A blue light moving past a set of windows. Looked at straight on by all of us. No road nearby, so it wasn't headlights. It may have been something entirely innocent, but we've always liked to think it was something else. There was also ominous, telling, and often hilarious graffiti. One scrawled message blurted out "Hail Satin!" I guess we were to praise fabric.

It was a real adventure, almost like the kind The Goonies have, only much less dangerous and marketable. But the images I came away with have stuck with me for years since then. I still dream of underground tunnels, ghostly feelings, and empty places. They aren't nightmares. They're sleep gold.

Much like the horror genre binds many of us as friends, the thrill of The Tunnels binds anyone who visited them. They're gone now, but those who experienced it even once still talk about it. As a wrestling insider in Detroit for a few years, all I had to say was "remember The Tunnels?" and it became a campfire story-fest backstage. Keith, Ric, and I still talk about it to this day. And we toast the memory of Jim, who passed away several years after. He was a really, really good guy.

The abandoned asylum and good friends. The rush of doing something we shouldn't and seeing things that were pieces of history. There is no doubt it contributed to my horror palate.

For some great pictures (which is where I got the two above) try this link at Forgotten Michigan. For more information, including maps, try this link at Northville Tunnels.

Thanks for reading this long post, fellow survivors. See you next time...