Horror films weren't scary. Not really. It was the atmosphere that was scary, the music it was scored with, the pacing, the surroundings. Haunted houses, storms, ghosts, witches and goblins. Serial killers that refused to die. They were only feared as a result of make up and Hollywood. A couple of clever quips and they'd be immortalised as legends.
Murdock wasn't afraid of things that went bump in the night. He didn't fear the bogeyman beneath the bed or the monster in the closet, Dracula wasn't thirsting for his blood and the coven wasn't collected beneath his window.
Zombies wouldn't awaken from their graves at midnight seeking the living to snack on, even if it was Halloween.
No, clichés and children's stories didn't bother him one bit.
It was Alfred Hitchcock that had him spooked.
Alfred Hitchcock and the owl outside his window, perched on a nearby tree hooting in the blackness, it's beady eyes round and glassy slicing through the dark.
It moved, a jittery hop from left to right. The gaze never wavered.
It was watching him.
Uneasiness knotted itself tight in Murdock's stomach as he kept his eyes locked on his distorted reflection in glowing orbs. The glint of a beak caught the light glaring against the windowpane and spurred Murdock into action. He grappled for the blinds, tugging earnestly until they crashed against the sill before yanking the curtains shut.
There, it was out of sight, out of mind.
Except he could still hear the occasional screech, and the images from the movie were playing on repeat in his head. He shouldn't have watched 'The Birds' so late but Hitchcock had persuaded him. He couldn't bypass the director's genius, it'd be a crime. So he'd watched.
And now the birds were tormenting him.
The fear had niggled its way into his brain and drawn roots, cemented by their realism. Witches and ghouls were a rare occurrence in this part of LA but birds? They were very real and very capable of causing damage.
He just knew that owl was out there sizing him up, waiting for him to foolishly succumb to sleep so it could peck him to pieces or something equally grizzly.
Well he wasn't going to fall in line with the owl's plan. No sirree. He dragged the blankets and sheet from his bed, shrouded himself in them as he worked on turning his bed into a makeshift fort. He'd have liked a castle with a moat, they were historically proven to stall attackers but beggars couldn't be choosers and he'd have to make do with pushing his bed away from the wall and tying spare sheets to the basketball hoop above to create a sort of canopy.
He rummaged in his bedside drawer for his flashlight before making himself comfortable in the gap between the bed and the wall, aiming the light square at the window through the gap in the sheets.
He could keep watch all night. Just like being on a mission with the Team.
Maybe next Halloween he'd just watch "Dracula." At least Béla Lugosi wouldn't turn up outside his window, watching his every move. He might get bitten, but anything was preferable to being pecked to death. At least with "Dracula" there was a slim chance that Edward Van Sloan would arrive, reassuring him he'd suffer no nightmares.
Murdock glanced back at the window, watched the tree branches sway in the night breeze as the Owl serenaded him with its monotone hooting.
Next year, he was definitely watching "Dracula."