So too, just like those fascinated with those who wrote the Bible gospels, us horror fans became enthralled by the auteurs of our favorite horror films. Names like Raimi, Craven, Carpenter, Romero, Argento, and Cronenberg became as mythic (if not more so) than the films they made. These guys went beyond filmmaker status, these guys were fucking royalty — synonymous with rock gods and sports heroes. And near the top of that list is Tobe Hooper’s name.

Hooper tapped into magic. Do you know how many cheap, poorly written, poorly executed imitations of Texas Chain Saw Massacre I’ve endured in my life? I’m telling you right now, there’s a difference between someone out to get a quick buck and someone who knows how to play an audience’s emotions like a full string orchestra. And Massacre, with its low budget, snuff film disguise, is the work of a great artist. A Maestro.

Like my other heroes, he’s had his up’s and down’s, but goddamn, he created some excellent work: The Funhouse, Invaders from Mars, Chainsaw 2, Lifeforce, Eaten Alive and a couple of great Masters of Horror episodes. Poltergeist is as about as good as it gets for Hollywood Horror, and anyone growing up in the ‘80s would have had a poorer childhood without it. I wish he would have gone on to make more films with the budget and scope of Poltergeist.

Tonight, I’ll celebrate his work by throwing in my favorite of his: Salem’s Lot, a miniseries that seared into my 8-year-old subconscious mind with images of floating children scratching at bedroom windows, glowing silver dollar eyes and rolling mists in the woods. It did what all great horror films are supposed to do: supply a fresh disciple with mystery and awe, a gift from the Gospel of Saint Tobe.