winter-damon First, let me openly admit that, in delving into the darkest regions of the human consciousness, in exploring the most demented extremes of perversity and aberrant behavior—a task I’ve committed myself wholeheartedly to in creating my own somewhat notorious body of works—an undesirable side effect is I’ve become quite jaded when it comes to horror fiction (and film, too, for that matter). Regardless of their pandering promises of gut-wrenching terrors, there is very little I read or see that draws more than a bored ho hum of ennui… So very little to match those sick, feverish sensations of dread gleefully suffered while surviving a first encounter with, say, the writings of the Marquis de Sade, or Jack Ketchum’s Off Season, or Wes Craven’s The Last House on the Left, or Tobe Hooper’s original The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, or George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead, or David Cronenberg’s They Came from Within, or Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Salo, or Jorg Buttgereit’s Nekromantik, or John McNaughton’s Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, or the ripoff Confessions of a Serial Killer, or such classics of seemingly “unredeeming social value”
