The wind almost whistled. Slowly but terrifyingly, two women both dressed in white, walked through a field of sugarcane in the dark, toward the distant drums of a voodoo ceremony. My vivid and youthful imagination – I remember thinking distinctly- this could just as easily be happening in an Indiana cornfield. The TV screen was so charged with atmosphere it was if any minute Papaw’s trailer would suddenly fill with Shadow and Fog. Weekend sleepovers at my grandfather’s would be the place I discovered the films of James Whale, Jacques Tourneur and Val Lewton. Like the majority of scary movies I obsessed over, they contained the eerie use of shadows: deep black and shades of gray and silver. Fog that wrapped its way up and down wet deserted streets. Always a beautiful woman, eyes darting here and there and her heels clicking on the damp pavement. She pauses while a hand reaches out from the shadows. Films that I loved from the 1940’s were layered with these techniques. Beautiful, poetic, these movies made you less scared than simply mesmerized with such striking imagery. Like looking through a breathtaking old photography book you discovered in the attic, these films were old and contained scratches making them imperfectly perfect. “Boy, you are on your own with this crazy Goddamn movie.” This would become Papaw’s standard proclamation every Friday night throughout my childhood. Needless to say, his tastes ran more toward John Wayne. But he would make sure I was all set up for my movie night, even if he wouldn’t stick around to watch it with me. So there I would be on a dark night. Settling in with “The Body Snatcher” a bag of pork rinds, ice cold Mountain Dew and knowing soon a foggy, black- and-white apparition would appear on the screen, and make me smile.