Southbound represents a logical extension for the guys and gals behind the V/H/S series: another indie-horror anthology featuring work from the likes of Roxanne Benjamin and the Radio Silence collective, but the rare omnibus that dares to ditch the rickety wraparound device in favor of a seamless flow of one story into another. They number five in all, concluding with something of a mind-blower.

With filmmaker Larry Fessenden (2013’s Beneath) acting as a radio DJ — our ersatz Wolfman Jack, yet neither seen nor consulted — the movie opens on a stretch of highway in the middle of nowhere, as two guys specked with blood are on the run from … something, yet caught in a Möbius strip. Their maddening journey gives way to a riot grrrl band stranded, thanks to a blowout on their VW van, only to be “rescued” by a very odd couple.

Southbound peaks with the middle tale, “The Accident,” in which another unlucky motorist (Mather Zickel, I Love You, Man) attempts to save a downed pedestrian by performing emergency surgery, assisted only by instructions given to him over the phone. Written and directed by David Bruckner (2007’s The Signal), the scene builds from nervousness to an agonizing intensity. Anything following that would be at a disadvantage, but “Jailbreak” from Patrick Horvath (The Pact II) is a letdown either way — the only dud of the bunch. Not to worry, as the pleasure of terror quickly snaps back into place with a You’re Next-level home invasion, with a kick. And what a kick!

Admittedly, Southbound is not styled for mass-audience consumption. For starters, it refuses to dish out full details or satisfy your curiosity about every question it raises; it assumes you are smart enough to fill in the blanks, even if what unfolds before your eyes gives the finger to laws of nature. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.

I have a morbid fascination with the efforts of classic-era Hollywood directors who, post-Exorcist’s Oscar and box-office glory, tried their hand at modern horror, too. Perhaps they were always drawn to the genre; perhaps they just wanted to show the big studios that they, too, “could stay hip with the kids.” Whatever their reasoning, they pretty much sucked at it: Arthur Hiller’s Nightwing, John Frankenheimer’s Prophecy and, of course, John Boorman’s most infamous Exorcist II: The Heretic.

Exhibit D, fittingly: Phobia, courtesy of John Huston, the legendary director of certifiable, for-the-ages gems as The Maltese Falcon, The African Queen and The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Today, there’s good reason Phobia remains forgotten — or perhaps repressed.

Fresh off a four-year stint playing the top half of TV’s Starsky and Hutch, a sleepy and ineffectual Paul Michael Glaser stars as Dr. Peter Ross, a psychiatrist specializing in helping patients conquer their fears, albeit through highly controversial methods. For example, scared of snakes? Dr. Ross will make you handle one. Terrified of heights? Prepare to traverse the girders of an under-construction building like a trapeze wire. The doc’s problems begin when he takes an agoraphobe prone to severe panic attacks, plops her at the corner of a bustling city street and orders her to walk to his nearby home. When she arrives and he’s not there, a file cabinet goes kablooey, killing her instead of the intended target: Ross. Shit happens.

Over and over it happens — patient after patient, each while confronting his or her own fears — yet all at a ho-hum, humdrum pace. Although working from a story by genre vets Gary Sherman (Raw Meat) and Ronald Shusett (Alien), Huston has no grasp of suspense in this realm, as if it must be treated entirely different from the ways of film noir. (It doesn’t.) Was Huston desperate or just drunk? Either way, the misbegotten, near-worthless Phobia embodies one character’s line of disdainful dialogue: “This whole thing smells to high heaven!” Yep. —Rod Lott

Get it at Amazon.