The souls of the dead won't lie still
They're haunting my house on the hill
These spectral remains
My chances of bed rest are nil
Perhaps if I pop one more pill?
To hell with the sleeping
There's skeletons creeping!
I better start making my will
They're haunting my house on the hill
These spectral remains
Are dragging their chains
With seven small coffins to fill
With seven small coffins to fill
My chances of bed rest are nil
Perhaps if I pop one more pill?
To hell with the sleeping
There's skeletons creeping!
I better start making my will
Vincent Price and Carol Ohmart spend a sleepless night in the House on Haunted Hill (William Castle, 1959). Castle's gimmicky, in-your-face literalism is the polar opposite of Tourneur's subtlety. The Countdown to Halloween continues.
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