When I was about nine I remember begging my parents to let me go with my friends to see the new horror movie, “Them.” “Them” had just been released in time for Halloween and was billed as “the greatest screamer ever.” Being about nine, my friends and I had that childish sense of bravado that allowed us to brag loudly that we wouldn’t be scared at all by a plot that revolved around atomic tests in New Mexico which caused common ants to mutate into giant man-eating monsters threatening civilization. Pretty scary stuff for the 1950s, but we knew better. We fancied ourselves sophisticated moviegoers who could handle it. In actuality, we were sophisticated little liars because all our parents got wind of our plan to go see “Them” and put an immediate stop to the activity. Although usually obedient, I wasn’t above defying my parents occasionally, so one day I sneaked off with a girlfriend to see “Them.” It wasn’t long into the movie before I screamed making a sound I didn’t know I had within me. It resulted in ongoing nightmares for weeks and ultimately having my parents get wind of my defiance. That brought on a whole different kind of horror.