William Castle

Some people on twitter don’t believe that this is MY account. I believe in ghosts, do you?

I am not sure I am ready to talk about “Rosemary’s Baby,” but I think I must.  Deep in my core, I know that somehow I am responsible for unleashing evil into the world.

I read the gallies of Ira Levin’s book and knew it would make a great film.  I bought the rights to the story the very next day.

It would become a day I would cherish and  a day I would regret with every fiber of my being.

And yes, the stories are true, bad things happened upon making this film.  Bad things. Very bad things.

I had an inking of what I had stepped into by the hate letters I received from members of the Catholic church.  I didn’t take the message in these letters lightly. I read each one of them. I read them width=”322″ height=”400″ />

I am not sure I am ready to talk about “Rosemary’s Baby,” but I think I must.  Deep in my core, I know that somehow I am responsible for unleashing evil into the world.

I read the gallies of Ira Levin’s book and knew it would make a great film.  I bought the rights to the story the very next day.

It would become a day I would cherish and  a day I would regret with every fiber of my being.

And yes, the stories are true, bad things happened upon making this film.  Bad things. Very bad things.

I had an inking of what I had stepped into by the hate letters I received from members of the Catholic church.  I didn’t take the message in these letters lightly. I read each one of them. I read them more than once. And each one of them took its place in my beating heart.

Then a dear cousin stopped talking to me.  His wife was appalled that I would make a film so provocative,  a film about the devil. I had very few relatives, to lose him cost me dearly.

The film was made.  And I fought hard so that Roman could tell his story.  And he told it beautifully.  I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed that I didn’t direct.  I was.  But I had my hands full as the producer.

The studio was constantly on back.  “Stay on budget,” they would scream. “Stay on time,” they commanded.  We did neither of those things.

And then there was trouble brewing for poor Mia and her husband Frank.  And at times, I found myself right in the middle of a very complicated situation.

The film premiered in June of 1968.

It was a smash hit.  I had finally made it to the big leagues but the taste of success did not seem so sweet. It was 1968 and everything changed.  The entire world shifted.  I won’t be arrogant enough to say my little film caused all this. But I was a sensitive man.

January 1968, I watched horrible images on my TV set in the comfort of my beautiful living room. The TET offensive affected me deeply.  Our boys were dying in a war I didn’t believe in.  Then in June of the same year, I watched as Senator Robert Kennedy was gunned down in a Los Angeles hotel.  Our nation was in turmoil.  “Rosemary’s Baby” premiered and then a little film by George Romero called “Night of the Living Dead,” opened up in October of the same year. Horror films would never be the same again.  I watched, with thousands of others as “zombies” munched on human flesh. It was a master piece.  And thinking about it now, a brilliant commentary about the time in which we lived.

I enjoyed my success as much as I could for as long as I could.  But it didn’t take long before all hell broke loose.  First, the brilliant composer of the film Christopher Komeda died from head injuries on April 23, 1969.  This was one day before my fifty-fifth birthday.   Months later while I was on a small summer vacation with my family in San Francisco, we were walking by a newspaper stand and the headlines caught my eye,  causing my blood to run cold. The day before, on Aug. 9, 1969, Sharon Tate and her unborn baby were but two victims of the most hideous crime I had ever seen.

We returned home that same afternoon.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

October 31, 1969, Halloween night, my kidneys failed me and I had to have major surgery.  As I watched the anesthesia drip slowing into my arm, I swear I saw Rosemary’s knife carrying the reflection of the devil’s eyes dig deep into my flesh. “No, not that knife” I screamed but nobody seemed  to hear me.

This was the beginning of the end.  I didn’t die right then.  It took years.  But I suffered.  Enough!

I have told my tale.   Now I’m dead.  And I have a responsibility to the strangers.

Who are the strangers, you ask?  You will meet them soon.  God willing.

WC

Hard to believe I would have been 98-years-old today. If I was still alive. As it is, I will always be 63!

Can you imagine what my cake might look like?  I remember my 50th birthday. Howard Koch had a cake made in the shape of a castle. It was lovely. But all those candles. Today you would almost have to double them. The castle would have to be huge to fit all those tiny torches!

But today I would like to take the opportunity to thank all of you for your continued support, your enthusiastic virtual embraces, your unwillingness to let me leave this world forgotten and dismissed.

You  have no idea how much your love and support means to my memory and the memory of those that loved me.

I died on a full moon.  My family was all around me. So many years later, the world is such a different place but there is one constant, we all miss the innocent bedlam.  Those carefree days when we would sit in darkened movie theaters and suspend our disbelief. Life like movies have become so much more complicated these days.

I would like for my birthday to take you back in time. To a place when you were happy watching a double feature in a beautiful movie theater. A place where you didn’t have to spend your entire paycheck for a ticket and some popcorn, a place where you didn’t over-analyze the films you were watching, a place where you wore dungarees and poodle skirts, a place that seems so darn far away.  But close your eyes and feel the feeling if you can. Could man really walk on the moon?  Could an African American man really become president? Could cars park themselves?

So many wonderful advances but I am here to remind you not to forget what we have given up. Never forget your innocence, where you have been, what the costs have been to get here.

Innocence isn’t lost just misplaced. Your voices are heard. I hear them! Loud and clear.

Thank you for bringing me back from the grave. Thank you for the warm wishes and delightfully devilish emails.

Now light a candle for me and remember those days gone by…I will be watching all of you.

It’s my birthday so don’t forget to scream. Scream for your lives!

WC

It was a lovely spring afternoon. My wife, Ellen and I were driving among the picturesque towns of Southern France—the  Luberon Valley to be more precise.

What a day it was.  Sun was shining brightly; you could smell summer in the air. I had been in Europe promoting my films but I finally was able to slip away with the love of my life and meander through the astonishing countryside.

As with my wife, it was love at first sight.  Provence had me by the throat and it wouldn’t let go.

Villages atop mountainsides. Colorful markets in every village. Tree lined streets that ended in fields of lavender.

And that’s when I saw it.  My next home.  I just didn’t think it would be the place where I would spend eternity.  Perhaps it is not.  Perhaps I am only here until????

At the time I had thought the house looked haunted and it called out to me.  I bought it the next day.  Yes, Ellen thought I was mad but I pretended that I thought the house would make a great promotion for my next haunted house—millions of keys made, one lucky movie-goer would win a haunted house.  What I never told anyone was that I wanted that haunted house with its dilapidated violet shutters, broken down front porch, massive wooden door, and old limestone fireplace all for myself.  My own abode.  A place where I could regroup, recharge, refresh my own demented mind. An unusual haven in which to have an artist’s date with destiny.

I played with evil themes in the films I made and I ended up between worlds.  At least that is what I think. Perhaps there is another explanation. Perhaps you don’t want me dead.

Encased by old limestone and rotten wooden floorboards I pace the nights away. I can still build a roaring fire as the Mistral winds shake the leaded glass window panes.  I can still climb up steep but rickety stairs and sleep in a bed with starched white coverlets. They never seem to soil. Cobwebs build and dust collects but I have always enjoyed this kind of ambiance.

And I work.  I write.  I communicate with the other side.

I took years before anyone stepped into my world.

My world. How strange. How lonely.

Come visit me. Please.

I will throw a log on the fire and we can talk. I don’t think I would hurt you.  But I have never been a ghost before.

So, come in and say hello…if you dare.  I live on top of the hill, in a haunted house in Gordes, France.

WC

Say what you want but I am totally jealous. I mean totally. Words have been created for this series of books and films. Words like Twihard and Twilighters.

What about Tinglerosas or Sardonicistas? I would settle for Macabers or HauntedHillers. But no. I am green with envy! Say what you want, but these stories have followers and these followers have names, names that are now and forever in the urban dictionary.

Hey I am for true love and love at first site– does that make me a Twilighter or a Twihard? You tell me.

1. Twihard

Stupid obsessive people (mostly teenage girls) who are “in love with fictional characters and wouldn’t know a good book if it punched them in the face.
Twihard: “OMG!! Isn’t Edward Cullen like so hot??? I’m gonna marry him!!!”

Awesome person who isn’t insane: “Dude, he’s not real.”

Twihard: “How could you say that?! I’m in love with him!!”
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2. Twilighter

An serious/obsessive reader of the Twilight Saga by Stephenie Meyer, one leap above Twilighters.

The difference between being a Twilighter and being a Twihard, is that Twihards have embraced a new Twiligion… er…. I mean, religion based on Twilight. They live and breath Twilight. Most Twihards are for Edward and Bella. Therefore, those Twihards are all for true love & love at first sight. Point out one thing to a Twihard, and they can relate it to Twilight instantly. Savage and wild, they need every single thing to be perfect in the upcoming Twilight movie.

What about Sarah and Edgar in my new novel “From the Grave: The Prayer?”  Will there be “Gravers?”  Or “Prayerlights?”  Romance and unrequited love is in the air.

WC