Let's be a horror film!

I’m dusk…

I’m the telephone ring that startles both the protagonist and audience.

I’m the sex that leads to you know what.

Speaking of sun, I’m the sun that just so happens to be shining during a rainstorm.

I’m the obligatory fall down to the ground as the victim is running.

I’m the goofball that either gets killed early on or turns out to be the killer.

We're the retired locals who congregate in front of the gas station/general store as the protagonist fills up her tank. One of our more vocal members foretells impending danger, but there is something off about us, and she does not heed our warning.

I’m the foreshadowing dry cello and thunder clash.

I’m the exposed tit before a death.

I’m the sudden, discordant screech of a 1980's synthesizer that's mostly responsible for the jump scares. I work very hard.

I'm the product placement.

R10 I was going to be the synth next!

I’m the stairs to the second floor. Given the option of me or the front door the female protagonist chased by the crazed killer will choose me every time.

I’m Michael Myers. Even though I walk at a speed of 2 feet/hr, I somehow always catch up with my victims and kill them.

Lol r14!! Good one

I’m the sound of crickets and other critters at night, punctuating the arrival of evil…

I'm the shot of the house at night through the trees. In a few frames, it will be revealed I show the killer's perspective.

I’m the blood that is laughably fire engine red instead of dark maroon.

I’m the retard who sees visions of impending doom or tater tots...could go either way.

I'm the gigantic fixer upper mansion the middle class family buys for a song. Daddy has foie de grandeur which will end very badly. Or maybe Mommy has it. One of them is a striver and will PAY for it.

folie

I'm the stepfather.

I'm the outdoor, padlocked cellar door.

I'm the indoor door to the cellar. I am off the kitchen or pantry. Or under the main stairs. Behind me are the creaky wooden steps to the cellar.

I am the bad decisions. All of them.

I’m the banging, unhinged window upstairs.

I'm the slightly swinging chandelier.

I'm the meat cleaver, and this is my friend, the big kitchen knife (chef's knife).

We're the LITERAL ghouls under the child's bed and in her closet.

I'm the black actor in the movie. I always get killed first.

I'm the paper boy riding a retro bike.

I’m the rain on a dark, gloomy, ominous night.

I’m the flickering light.

I'm the perky tits on the young babe (fucking the producer's son) about to be harpooned through the skull by The Masked Fog Monster.

I'm the eerie piano chords.

I'm the treehouse, or "fort" in the "woods" which no more than a 3 acre zone of old growth surrounded by a suburban middle-class development.

I’m the bloated silence before a kill.

I’m zero bars on your cellphone, your dead cellphone battery, and your lack of cellphone charger.

I'm the babysitter. Why, yes, Amanda, I would love to play with your imaginary friend, Mr. Bloodbath.

I'm a tarantula. I wandered over from Raider's of the Lost Ark.

I’m the bicycle the victim is riding, for some reason the victim gets off and runs instead even though she can peddle faster.

I'm healthy VPL in gym shorts on teens and young adults who work with teens, and I'm standard from 1970 to 1985 or so.

R40 😂

I'm a little cabin in the woods.

I haven't had any alcohol during the entire movie, so I must be the final girl.

I’m the timeframe January 20, 2017 – January 20, 2021.

I'm the gay guy. I start turning up in the 1980s. I'm usually incredibly campy and annoying. I get killed right after the black dude but before the Latina or Asian chick.

I'm the kitchen or family room set design that is the warm secure hearth of the home only to turn into the ironic distantiated mis-en-scene for spectacular gore.

I am the falling autumn leaves.

I'm the elderly servant who answers the door. One look at me would have anyone with two brain cells to rub together outrunning sound to get out of my presence.

Guess what's in short supply in this movie?

I'm the absence of a single recognizable actor in this beloved 40 year old "cult classic" film, despite competent performances.

I'm a pair of glowing eyes.

I'm the hausfraus designed cheery spooky autumn porchscape, shot on a warm sunny October afternoon. A zoom into the pumpkin reveals something vague but uneasy making. On subsequent viewing of the movie the foreshadowing is heavy-handed.

I’m the ending credits that promise no pretty animals were harmed in the making of this film.

I'm teens naked in a gang shower at the school gym.

I'm the thick layer of ground fog at the cemetery

If I'm post-2000, I'm the ghost with black smoky ichor streaming from it as it skitters on the ceiling.

I'm torn or shredded white material: silk, tulle, linen

I'm the creepy singing child

I'm the hard to read housekeeper who prefers to sleep in the village not the house.

I'm a plucky old countess or surprisingly courageous young debutante.

I'm the notebook or scrapbook full of weird shit that let's you know just how strange Crazy Guy is. If he doesn't have a notebook or scrapbook, he'll have a wall in his house that's covered in pictures of dead girls and clippings about famous murder cases

I'm the character that inexplicably sneaks up on and puts his hand on another character's shoulder causing a jump scare.

I'm a lizard like, dark-haired, sufficiently handsome, well-born, immoral local rake.

I’m the creepy child-sized doll and not one of these fuckers thinks I’m out of place in a child’s room.

I'm a heavy floor lamp in bronze with grotesque metal work and spooky stained glass.

I'm silver service on the sideboard in the dining room.

I'm the patron stumbling out of a pub onto the empty London streets at 2 am, drunkenly singing a bawdy song to myself. I'll be ripped to shreds by a werewolf in 3...2...1...

I'm breakfast on the sunny terrace in the garden the night after spooky but not yet deadly goings on. An apprehensive character floats the idea of returning after breakfast to the city (safety) but her/his partner shoots it down.

I'm a mob of angry (or horrified) peasants from the village.

I’m the cat who jumps out at inopportune moments. Along with r10, I do most of the heavy lifting.

I'm an aged Hollywood star making my grand entrance at the 10 minute mark of this, yet another B move horror schlock fest. My makeup is flawless.

I'm the bridge to cross to get to the country house. I'll be washed out in the storm the first night after the weekenders cross me.

I'm a barn. Nothing good ever happens in me.

I'm a midcentury animatronic owl. Difficult to tell if I'm the devil's witness or a wry observer of human madness.

I'm the color cinematography that's so washed out/muted that the film might as well be in black & white.

I am the deserted farmhouse the oh-so-hip teenagers with $1000s of camera equipment visit. Realizing I am a time capsule, they take photos of everything and discuss stealing a few knickknacks. In me, every movement, every interaction, every door closing is pregnant with tension and suspense. From the back porch, the idiots spy another abandoned farmhouse and head toward it. That house is not as innocent as I am.

I'm the director's creepy obsession with high school kid sex scenes.

I'm the high school kids who are the major portion of the audience for these things and we like sex scenes.

I'm a mansard roof.

I'm the virgin who survives the bloodbath.

I'm the clown doll. Although no child has ever wanted a toy that looked like me I am always sitting at the foot of the bed.

I'm a lesbian vampire

I have been hired as the noxious fog that creeps into the village at night and eats the flesh away from people's legs, arms and faces.

Upside: Endless supply.

Downside (for the non-vented set): My pussy stinks.

I'm the Zuni fetish doll from Trilogy of Terror.

I'm the WB/Abercrombie catalog (but alas, not quite soft porn) aesthetic that started creeping into these films at the end of the Clinton era.

I'm the buckets of bright red paint used in giallo films.

I’m the 3.1 IMDB rating for the sequel that stars former soap actors.

I'm the stupid cop.

I'm voodoo and/or witchcraft. The writers don't know shit how I work.

[quote] as it skitters on the ceiling.

That word always makes me laugh, R57 😂

I am the gratuitous teenage sex scene. I am the first guy butt and chick boobs elven year olds will see on screen.

I'm cheap shock scares and bad CGI. I am 90% of any horror film made after 1999.

I’m the soundtrack by a dirge rock band that you have never heard of.

I'm the car that won't start.

I'm the Native American graveyard that some greedy fucking idiot built a housing development on.

[Quote]Raider's of the Lost Ark.

Oh dear!

I'm the guy who decided to only move the headstones.

R97, I'm a tarantula. You know how hard it is for me to use a keebord?

I'm the car that WILL start.

I'm the homoerotic subtext in your favorite teen/young adult slasher!

I’m the killer’s pale mask.

I'm the film's main theme set to organ music in the scene showing the interior of a church.

I'm the goop sliding down the walls. Does anyone know what I'm made of?

Ok the victim who shoots or stabs or pummels the demon/killer/monster and then stands there passively watching as the evil character is stunned and vulnerable. I’ll wait and watch until the evil character can recover and then Jill me. I’d never dream to using the evil character’s temporary vulnerability to save my own life.

Ok=I’m

Jill=kill

I'm the old Creole lady who knows about voodoo