E-Mail This Article to a Friend The horror The latest spate of awful scary movies has left me trapped in a Sisyphean cycle of excitement and disappointment BY ALAN OLIFSON

IT PROBABLY started with my mom — a woman whose idea of a good time is curling up on the couch with a Stephen King book. When I was 11, she took me to see An American Werewolf in London. When I was 12, she suggested I read The Exorcist. That same year, she gave me her copy of The Keep — a book about Nazis being killed by a vampire in the remote hills of Transylvania, where it left their "bloodless and mutilated corpses behind to terrify its future victims."

I guess she never heard of Goodnight Moon.

So my mom made me a horror junkie, a fan of all things macabre: cemeteries, Edgar Allan Poe, and, of course, scary movies.

You would think, then, that I’d be excited for the upcoming release of The Amityville Horror.

And I am.

But I know it’s only going to end in heartache. These days, it always does.

The original Amityville Horror is near and dear to my cold, black heart. It was the first movie that scared the absolute living bejesus out of me (and also the first time I realized I had a bejesus in me). My aunt took my sister and me to see it when I was 10 — questionable judgment apparently being a family trait. In my aunt’s defense, I chose the movie. In my defense, I was 10. I also would have chosen to eat Cap’n Crunch all day, not go to school, and never take a shower. So, anyway, I loved the movie — and for five years afterwards, I refused to go into my walk-in closet without using a chair to prop the door open.

From there, I reveled in the golden age of slasher films. My early adolescence saw the release of titles like Halloween, Terror Train, and Motel Hell (an oft-overlooked classic involving a roadside motel selling the beef jerky harvested from a garden of de-larynxed people buried up to their necks with sacks over their heads — a practice that might actually pass current USDA regulations, if what people are finding in Wendy’s chili these days is any indication). I once spent an entire Saturday watching Friday the 13th parts one and two on video, then rushing to the theater to see part three ... in 3D, no less.

I’d be lying if I said this obsession were normal for kids my age. I certainly caught my share of flak for preferring movies like The Fog (about a town suffering the expected ramifications for being built on the remains of an old leper colony) to Bo Derek in 10 — a movie about a model running around in an alarmingly non-waterproof bathing suit. But to be fair, at eight years old, seeing a naked supermodel or a bunch of zombie lepers would’ve probably ended the same way for me: with a lot of crying, confusion, and wet pants.

Although slasher flicks began to lose their charm as I grew older, my love for the horror genre as a whole has remained. But it has been pushed to its limits, this year in particular.

The latest spate of unforgivably awful horror movies, from White Noise to The Ring Two, has left me trapped in a Sisyphean cycle of excitement and disappointment. The previews get me every time. With no need for pesky explanations, internal logic, or good acting, movie trailers are the perfect vehicle for terror: just quick cuts of dark woods, creepy children, and — my personal favorite — people crawling around on a wall like insects. Throw in some music, a few choice snippets of dialogue, preferably whispered, like, "You’ve let the dead back in," and I’m hooked every time. Toss in the phrase "Based on a true story" or, even better, "Based on true events," and I almost wet myself. When the preview ends I turn to my girlfriend, all smiles and excitement. As a social worker, she knows that look well. It’s the look of a person hoping against hope that this time, things will be different. She gazes at me patiently, shakes her head, and says, "You’re on your own."

When the movie comes out, the bad reviews inevitably pour in — at which point I sink into the denial of an abused spouse:

"A sloppy, poorly executed mess of a film confusing horror with child endangerment." Oh, they just don’t understand him.

"As inherently unthrilling, incoherent, and unsatisfying as scrambled porn ..." But they don’t know him like I do.

And so I run back to the waiting arms of inevitable disappointment and head to the theater. By the time the movie is over, I am angry and hurt, and I have half a box of Milk Duds lodged in my teeth.

After The Ring Two, I swore I’d be fooled no more. That was it. Time to move on. Then I saw the Amityville Horror poster. Damn it.

As I said, my aunt took my sister and me to the original. As a responsible adult, she had serious reservations, but I promised her I could handle it. I remember the opening credits rolling. It was dark. It was raining. Lighting revealed the now infamous visage of the house, its eye-like second-story windows glaring down at the audience. Then the kids started singing. Those friggin’ choir kids. I turned to my aunt and announced, "I’d like to go now." She was three tickets, two tubs of popcorn, and a box of Milk Duds into this thing. "Don’t worry, it’ll be okay," she said.

I’ve been haunted ever since — haunted by bad horror movies. So now, 25 years later, I will go to see The Amityville Horror again. And I hope against hope that it reunites me with my inner bejesus. That I’ll get to see him come out and do his little dance of terror one more time. And then maybe, just maybe, this time everything really will be okay.

Want to scare the bejesus out of Alan Olifson? Find him at www.olifson.com