Since a very young age I have been haunted by lampshades. “Why?” you ask. Well, don’t you know that if you stick your hand up a lampshade you risk being attacked by a miniature Zuni warrior?
The only kinds of lamps you will find in my house are lava lamps and floor lamps that point toward the ceiling. You think that’s irrational? Then you weren’t six years old in 1975 when ABC aired a series of horror movies during Halloween week. Or maybe your parents had the good sense not to let you watch them.
I clearly remember sitting on our black, vinyl couch, curled up next to my dad, watching scary movies. Two scenes stuck with me; one involved a woman falling into a vat of acid and resurfacing as a skeleton. The other involved a little black statue with a hatchet, hiding under a lampshade and chopping off a woman’s hand.
I have had no trouble throughout my life avoiding giant vats of acid, but lampshades pose another problem. I was well into adulthood before I could turn on a lamp without checking under the shade first.
The real problem was in the fact that no one, not even my dad, could remember this movie. I have spent years asking people, “Do you remember that movie with the statue that hid in a lamp and chopped somebody’s hand off?”
I just get blank stares or looks of pity. Seems I was the only person in the world who had witnessed this terrible act. That got me to thinking, maybe it wasn’t a movie. Maybe it was just a really bad dream. And then I thought perhaps I could make it into a movie and get rich! But then I realized it would be my fault that kids spent their lives traumatized by lampshades. So I decided against pursuing a career in writing horror films, and it’s a good thing too. I would have been sued for plagiarism.
Last Saturday we had dinner at the home of my husband’s boss. I was deeply involved in trying to eat chicken wings in a mannerly fashion, when I realized the dinner conversation had turned to a movie called, Trilogy of Terror.
Craig, the guy sitting to my left, said, “I saw that on T.V when I was a kid and it terrified me!”
Ellen, the boss’s wife, replied, “Oh! I know! That little doll coming to life and chasing that woman around her apartment was awful!”
I dropped my chicken wing and spluttered, “Do you mean the black statue? Chop, chop, chop?”
They agreed that was indeed the movie, so I asked, “Wasn’t that scene with the lampshade absolutely horrifying?”
Blank stares from both parties. Craig falters, “Um, I don’t really remember anything about a lampshade, but do you remember when she shut him in the microwave and exploded him?”
Now it was my turn, “I don’t remember a microwave. Did they even have those in the mid-seventies?”
As we sat there contemplating our sketchy childhood memories Ellen announced that she actually purchased a copy of the movie. Not only had I found two people who remembered it, I was going to get to view it again. Talk about a great therapy session.
When she handed me the VHS version, memories came flooding back. I couldn’t wait to get home and watch it. I was thankful hubby would be there to protect me.
It turned out to be three, half-hour, mini movies. I was a little disgusted to find that my entire life had been traumatized in a mere thirty minutes.
There was no microwave, but he did get burned up in a regular oven. And the woman’s hand didn’t get chopped off with a hatchet, but she did get stabbed in the foot with a spear at the exact moment that she turned on the lamp.
It’s no wonder my dad let me watch it. The effects were ridiculous and the Zuni “warrior” looked anything but real. It’s funny how your perspective is so different as a child. Makes me wonder what my kids are going to remember about our life. I’m guessing they will spend plenty of time on the therapist’s couch, and they’ll be sending the bill to hubby because he has no compunction whatsoever about letting them watch scary movies.
I guess I might as well head to the store for some new lamps. I’m rather tired of all our lighting being directed at the ceiling, and now I have nothing to fear. In the meantime, if you remember a movie where a woman falls into a vat of acid, or one where a guy slams an ax into the electrical box of an old farmhouse, let me know ASAP. I’d really like to wrap up the loose ends of my haunted memory.
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