The one that sticks in my mind the most comes from when I was aged around seven or eight. Every Friday night, without fail, my dad and I would curl up on the settee, big bag of sweets at the ready, to watch Hammer House Of Horror. I wasn’t an impressionable child and wasn’t at all scared by horror films; in fact, I found most of them rather funny. On this particular occasion, they showed Dr Terror’s House Of Horrors. I cheerfully watched it all the way through, throwing Midget Gems into my mouth at regular intervals.
This is the film where Peter Cushing tells the fortunes of his five train-travelling companions. One, I seem to remember, involved a garden creeper that had taken on a mind of its own, resisting any and all attempts to remove it. Another, equally camp prediction revolved around a man who murdered his new bride, convinced she was a vampire.
The one that sticks in my mind, though, was the artist who lost a hand. The artist committed suicide, but his hand lived on to torment a particularly vicious art critic who had been very scathing of the hand’s works.
Now, my mum had a ventriloquist’s dummy. It had clay hands and face. The hands and face had been made by a sculptor and were very, very lifelike. The hands were easily detachable so that its velvet suit could be washed. My dad, my loving, caring dad, for reasons known only to himself…..yes, you’ve guessed, haven’t you? You’ve guessed what I found on my pillow when I went to bed that night.
To say I screamed the house down would be an understatement! Fortunately, it didn’t destroy my love of horror films, but I’ve never watched Dr Terror’s House Of Horrors again!
