When I was around six, I was obsessed with the Goosebumps series by R.L. Stein. (Mostly the movies, as I couldn’t read well at the time). One of the first of the Goosebumps movies I ever saw was one of the scariest and most traumatic moments of my young life. It was enclosed in a creepy little VHS tape with an almost AMITYVILLE HORROR-style house on it with the words “Welcome to Dead House” written above it.

I don’t remember the plot very well (it WAS 9 years ago, after all) but it was something about this family who moves into a house and the neighbors start acting weird, and then something about burning a wreath. I dunno. I do know that this movie scarred me in ways neither me nor my parents would have expected.

Even now, 15, a freshman in high school, my Dad has to close the windows for me at night and shoo the rabbits out from under my bed (I let them out to run, they like to hide under there) because I am terrified of bending down to look. I have been totally petrified of horror movies and scary pictures to this day (even reading your site has induced some heart-jumps) and I can owe it all to that wonderful story about zombies and some stupid rotting wreath.