Now, not to sound like a tough guy or anything, but there's never been a movie that has ever really scared me. Sure, some have creeped me out. I think that scene in Salem's Lot (the original one) where the little vampire kid was scratching at the window gave me perhaps the biggest feelings of heebie-jeebies I've ever felt. I watched it with my twin brother(#7) and my older brother (#5).
When scared, #5 talks. And talks... And talks.
"Holy crap, Dan," he'd say. "Did you see that? Freaked me out. Wasn't that awesome? He's floating. There's fog. Is there any more popcorn? Do you think mom and dad are going to ground me for making you watch this? What the hell's wrong with Dave?"
Dave --aka #7-- my twin was not good with things like water, scary movies or vegetables. All three of them scared him pale, and watching Salem's Lot with him, for example, was a genuine chore. If he knew it was a scary movie, he would scream like a Girl Scout with skinned knees the second the opening credits popped up, and things continued to descend into utter terrified childhood madness from there. However, if he knew going in that it was scary, it was somewhat tolerable.
On the other hand, if #7 didn't know that what we were watching was a scary movie, at the first sign of terror, he'd run around the house yelping like a neurotic poodle during a thunderstorm.
Now, obviously, as a result of #7's fearful nature, Halloween was a wonderful time for #5 and I (I'm son #6). And, one Halloween post-Salem's Lot viewing in particular stands out to me (though #7 may very well have blocked it from his memory).
The knock on my door came shortly after midnight. It was #5 telling me that our black-op of terror was a "go." I lept out of bed with a giddy excitement and crept toward the bedroom door of #7 where I silently started stacking rolled up sleeping bags, pillows blankets and everything else I could find against the door.
Once the first part of my mission was complete, I went downstairs and outside to help #5 wrestlethe ladder from the garage. We lugged it through the dark and carefully propped it beneath #7's bedroom window.
I started giggling with excitement as I held the ladder and watched #5 climb slowly up to the window where he started tapping and scratching on the glass.
It didn't take long before I heard the first of #7's blood-curdling screams punctuated by the wild laughter of #5 as he shimmied down the ladder, and we ran into the house, up the stairs, turned on the lights and found #7 wailing in a tangled mess on the floor beneath a mountain of sleeping bags and whatnots.
However, our laughter at #7's misfortune was quickly replaced with the bone-chilling fear that can only come from hearing the sound of a sleepless and angry father's heavy footsteps trudging up the stairs accompanied by a raging lecture on the importance of sleep with the closing caveat that should he need to make this arduous trip again, all three of us will pay with our lives.
Good times, though. Good times...