Part of the Crown International Pictures library, Terrified is one of those movies where 30-something teenyboppers carry a flashlight and ask “What was that?” In other words, I dug it, even though there’s not much to it.

Rumors abound of a ski-masked maniac haunting a nearby ghost town and committing various felonies and misdemeanors. He’s also known to make people lose their minds, turning them “into a slobbering oyster.” And yet the script gives characters wonky reasons to go check the place out, especially at night. A college student (Rod Lauren, Black Zoo) is writing a midterm on fear .. and gets some firsthand learning! A hostess (Tracy Olsen, Journey to the Center of Time) just wants to talk to caretaker Crazy Bill … and finds him impaled to death on spikes!

In his final directorial gig, Lew Landers (1935’s The Raven) wrings all the mileage possible from the ghost town setting. With rotted floors and flooded rooms, its wooden buildings function as traps for our madman’s unlimited use. His all-black balaclava presages several slashers, from 1978’s The Toolbox Murders to 2009’s The Collector, but don’t go looking for gore.

Terrified’s lack of names in the cast (the biggest, Denver Pyle, comes fifth-billed as the sheriff) should work to its advantage, but the killer’s identity is simple to surmise. —Rod Lott

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Although made in New Zealand, The Tank is set on the coast of Oregon, U.S. of A. There stands a dilapidated house Ben has inherited from his late mother. Since he never knew it existed, Ben (Matt Whalen, Hugh Hefner in TV’s American Playboy) drives up with his wife (Luciane Buchanan, TV’s The Night Agent) and their daughter (Zara Nausbaum) to see the property.

Accessible by movable tile in the yard is a dark, spacious well with nipple-deep water. And, as they come to find, an oily, amphibious, turd-shaped creature with a vaginal mouth baring teeth like stubby needles. As played by circus performer Regina Hegemann in a suit, this thing keeps The Tank from sinking and viewers on their toes; CGI simply would immediately neuter the suspense that writer/director Scott Walker (The Frozen Ground) skillfully builds.

The monster’s attacks are forceful and furtive, sometimes stemming from a crouch like a spider, waiting to pounce. Scenes where characters slosh through the titular tank prove especially effective, as if Jaws were in an enclosed space. Er, let’s make that Jaws 2, lest you read that as a top-to-bottom endorsement. Walker hasn’t built The Tank to perform like a lightning-bolt blockbuster; it’s a slow burn that runs hot when it needs to. Remember, patience is a virtue. —Rod Lott

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If you think the title of The Mummy and the Curse of the Jackals is clumsy, wait until you see the movie. No, really — as the crosswalks for the blind warn aloud every few seconds, wait!

The final film (at least that weren’t X-rated) for Western director Oliver Drake, the tacky Jackals finds archaeologist Dave (Anthony Eisley, The Doll Squad) obsessed with the well-preserved corpse of an Egyptian princess (belly dancer Marliza Pons) with a breastplate apparently made of Cinnabons. Dave asks his pal, Bob (Robert Alan Browne, Psycho III), to lock him inside for the night: “What could possibly happen?” Dave says. “This is Nevada, good ol’ USA.”

Yeah, even though a full moon is out (I see a bad movie rising), it’s not like he’s gonna catch the curse of the jackals.

Dave catches the curse of the jackals. This means his hands turn into paws that appear inflated to 45 psi and he dons the werewolf head from the same year’s sexploitation oddity, Dracula (the Dirty Old Man), which shares writer/producer William Edwards. On his first outing, Jackal Dave slays a couple of cops who scream out of sync.

On the plus side, the princess resurrects! Although her face looks like an unfinished clay sculpture, Human Dave is entranced and informs her of double-date plans: “You better change. Bob and Donna want to have dinner with us,” he says, before teaching her about bras. Meeting Bob and Donna (TV actress Maurine Dawson) at a steakhouse, he introduces the pharaoh’s daughter using the nom de plume of Connie: “She’s not from here. She comes from … back east.”

Meanwhile, a pop-eyed mummy (Saul Goldsmith) in grubby bandages awakens, strangles a stripper, busts through a paper-thin wall, interrupts the steakhouse’s stage show, kidnaps Connie and limps down the Vegas strip without a film permit as onlookers laugh. You’ll relate.

With John Carradine cameoing as a professor and painfully inert flashbacks to 4,800 years prior, The Mummy and the Curse of the Jackals is a howl and a half. That’s in spite of — or because of — slapdash editing and snuff-film lighting that look paid for by a bucket of coins swiped from Marge from Boise at the penny slots. —Rod Lott

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