No one could walk into a movie titled Boogeyman with high hopes. Yet, admittedly, I walked into that theater tense with a deep yearning to be impressed, or maybe to be stressed, or maybe simply not to be frustrated. Honestly, recent horror films have left my patience tried and my faith in the genre pretty fragile.

I’m not sure if my low expectations or my high hopes are responsible, but I was duly impressed by Boogeyman.

As it turned out, I was distracted by conversation when the movie first began; and, consequently, I was not sure whether the screen was showing a preview or the subtle beginning of the film I’d come to see. After about two minutes of watching a little boy squirm in his bed (an absurd scene that somehow worked a deep magic inside me), I leaned over to the girl I was with and said, “I hope this is our movie.” And then the Boogeyman made his debut. From that moment until the credits, I never relaxed.

In retrospect, I have to say there is little to compliment about Boogeyman. The character development is shallow, the acting is trite, the premise is laughable, and the ending leaves you feeling like you just went on a sugar binge. Yet, I also have to say that I aged about five years in the hour and a half I spent watching the movie. Indeed, for all its probable mediocrity, this movie achieved something few films ever do: it kept me on the edge of my seat. It wasn’t so much I wanted to know what happened, but rather it was my understanding that anything could happen.

And things did happen. Doors flew open, nails shot out of planks, dead folks showed up and walked around and just when you thought Barry Watson’s character would wake up—he didn’t. As Danny found out in The Shining, closing your eyes and counting does not always make ghosts go away.