White Noise pocketed some $24.1 million before disappearing a few weeks later. It wasn’t terribly well-reviewed; indicative of its reception was The New York Times’ assessment that the “problems with this would-be thriller are rooted … in the silly, threadbare plot,” a damnation that could apply to many of these movies, which begin to look as generic as a bar code as they pile up on the sticky googolplex floor. But studios will keep making them as long as they make money; thus far they’re the closest thing Hollywood has to an ATM. And then there are filmmakers like Raimi, who may have once loathed scary movies but have since grown to love them — to, you know, death.

“After I started making them, I appreciated the craft some people put into them,” he says. “When we started Ghost House, I wanted to make films that had something different or cool about them. They can be cheesy like Hammer or fancy like Polanski, but they have to have something that speaks of the filmmaker’s love for scaring people.” 

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