New River Voice columnist Charles Smith offers his enthusiastic endorsement of horror films and the fact that October is upon us.

Horror films are a part of my life in the way that family dinners are a part of the lives of others. My fondest childhood memories involve staying up until the early hours of the morning with my insomniac grandmother watching films like Warlock II: The Armageddon and The Howling II. There’s nothing quite like waking up on your grandmother’s couch at 3 a.m. to the sight of her sewing a pair of pants to a werewolf orgy playing in the background.

Horror films are a part of my life in the way that prayer is a part of the lives of others. When I’m suffering personal crises, rather than opening a dusty, poorly translated religious tome, I consult the oneiric, often nonsensical “spaghetti nightmares” of Lucio Fulci and Dario Argento. (I desperately want to make a Dr. Freudstein reference here, but much like referencing an obscure verse from Deuteronomy, I suspect it would only fall in deaf ears.)

Horror films have been a major part of my life. When my first girlfriend was essentially kicked out of her dorm room in 2004, I consoled her by providing consolation … and by putting in Fulci’s slice-of-hell masterpiece The Beyond. The end result? I bored her into a much-needed sleep. Thank you, eyeball-hungry tarantulas!

Zombies, Karo syrup, and that house on 1428 Elm with the barred windows have been there for me when little else has. When the going got tough, Ripley got tougher. My mentality is, if Laurie Strode can evade her juggernaut of a brother for more than 20 years, then I should be able to handle school, work, and whatever else the Fates toss my way.

I was a devoted horror-phile since before I knew my multiplication tables. Every Friday the 13th, I’d giddily await marathons of Friday the 13th. I wrote my undergraduate senior thesis on gender in horror films—and yes, it’s a far more complicated topic than you think. Every year, come October, I celebrate the impending macabre holiday with the excitement of a child on Christmas Eve. Screw presents: give me Black Christmas, or that episode of Tales From the Crypt where Larry Drake stalks a less-than-picturesque family in Santa garb.

There is nothing more attractive to me than a woman decked in death. I spent half an hour one Halloween enthralled by a woman dressed like Samara from The Ring. The most attractive sight I have ever seen was a tall blonde dressed as a French maid … with large, realistic fangs descending from her lips, and a thick ribbon of blood trailing down her luscious neck. You might call me sick, or demented, but I know that there are others like me. We’re far and few between, but we’re out there, stalking the video aisles for some morsel of five-star gourmet mayhem.

Contrary to popular belief, these films can achieve a kind of poetry. There are some awful horror films out there, which, depending on your tastes, may be the perfect Saturday night rental. However, there are diamonds in the rough. Some of the brains behind horror fiction are every bit as capable as Shakespeare or Goethe. Take Clive Barker, for instance. The shortest line in the Bible is “Jesus wept.” The surrounding text is a bit on the dry side, but it’s still a solid line. In the original Hellraiser, just before his borrowed flesh is ripped into pieces by Pinhead’s chains, Frank says those very words: “Jesus wept.” If you ask me, it’s a definite improvement over the source material.

You can write off all of horror as dumb art if you like, but you’re overlooking a genre rich with subtext. Alien reflects changing ideas about sexuality and gender: It’s no fluke that the alien that bursts from Kane’s chest bears a striking resemblance to a penis. Although it’s by far overshadowed by his earlier works, George A. Romero’s Land of the Dead is a horror-art response to 9/11 and America’s relationship with the Middle East.

If films with a message bore you, then try Feast. If you’re into artsy psychological horror, there’s William Friedkin’s Bug. The performances in that film are fantastic. In a perfect world, Ashley Judd and Michael Shannon would have been Oscar contenders. If you dig zombies, but your girlfriend likes romantic comedies, try Zombie Honeymoon or the already-classic Shaun of the Dead.

Whatever you do, don’t let your pregnant wife watch the French film À l’intérieur, or as it’s called here in the States, Inside. Trust me on this one. Rosemary’s Baby she may be able to handle. Inside is an altogether different story.

These are movies for any occasion. In October, they have an occasion. Horror fiction has survived for a reason. Good horror is a study of fear and of the abject. Horror examines the things we’re uncomfortable examining. Horror is the return of the repressed; it’s the manifestation of what ails us. Horror art allows us to contain our fears in a neat little box, the TV prison. More importantly, it allows us to face those fears.

And bad horror? Bad horror is just plain fun. Watch Umberto Lenzi’s Nightmare City. The film is a failure on every level, but it’s a hell of an experience. Once you’ve seen zombies driving cars and hijacking bloodmobiles, you’re never the same. Never.

It’s October. It’s like Christmas, only the reds are brighter, and the greens … . Who the hell said anything about anything being green? Unpack your costumes. Hit the parties. Hit on the lass with the foam tentacles—hit on her before I do, because I will. I most certainly will. October is my month. Halloween is my holiday. If it’s your holiday, too, then let’s get things started. I get first dibs on the tentacle-ed lass, though. You go for Sarah Palin and Kate Gosselin. I don’t want either one.

The author of this piece is a writer who is creepy and he’s kooky, mysterious and spooky, he’s all together ooky—he’s Charles Smith!