Monday Movie Tubi Double Feature

Meet The Band

The Howl Of Vinyl: A Sawtooth McAllister story" By Laurence Adams

In the dimly lit corners of East Boston, where the cobblestone streets whispered secrets of the past, lived Sawtooth McAllister—an occult detective with a reputation as jagged as his name. With a scrappy leather jacket, a tattered fedora, and a penchant for rock and roll, Sawtooth was no ordinary gumshoe. He was a working-class sleuth who dabbled in the dark arts, navigating the underbelly of the city where shadows danced and the supernatural lurked.

Posters of legendary bands adorned the walls of Sawtooths office, alongside artifacts of the occult—crucifixes, tarot cards, and a dusty old grimoire that had seen better days. It was here that he spent countless hours piecing together the mysteries that haunted the city.

One rainy evening, as the thunder rumbled like a distant guitar solo, a frantic knock echoed through his office. The door creaked open to reveal a striking woman, drenched and breathless. Her name was Lila, a local musician with deep-set green eyes that shimmered like emeralds under the flickering light. She was a member of a rock band called “Silver Wolves,” known for their haunting melodies and electric performances.

“Sawtooth, you have to help me!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling. “My bandmates have been acting… strange. They disappear during the full moon, and when they return, it’s like they’re not themselves.”

Sawtooth’s interest piqued. Werewolves were not just tales spun from the fabric of folklore; they were very real in the dark alleys of East Boston. “Tell me everything,” he urged, leaning forward in his chair.

Lila recounted how the band had recently discovered an ancient vinyl record buried in a thrift shop. The record, titled “Lupine Lament,” was said to have been cursed, capable of awakening the lycanthropic curse embedded within the blood of its listeners. Since playing it at their last gig, her bandmates had changed, their laughter replaced by howls under the moonlight.

Realizing he was dealing with an extraordinary case, Sawtooth grabbed his leather satchel, tucked the grimoire under his arm, and followed Lila to the band’s rehearsal space—a dilapidated warehouse adorned with graffiti and the remnants of past concerts. As they entered, the air buzzed with a strange energy, heavy with the scent of sweat and wood varnish.

Sawtooth set up a makeshift altar in the center of the room. Candles flickered, casting shadows that danced like specters on the walls. He opened the grimoire and began to chant an incantation to sense the presence of the curse. The moment he spoke the last word, a howl pierced the night, echoing through the warehouse like a cry from the abyss.

Suddenly, the band members burst in, their eyes gleaming with an otherworldly light. They were transformed—muscles rippling, faces contorted, caught between man and beast. The air crackled with tension as they approached, drawn by the scent of the incantation.

“Stay back!” Sawtooth shouted, brandishing a silver crucifix. “You’re not yourself!”

Lila stepped forward, her voice steady. “You’ve got to fight it! Remember who you are!” She reached for the cursed vinyl, ready to destroy it. The band hesitated, caught in a liminal space between transformation and humanity.

Lila smashed the record against the ground, shattering the curse that had ensnared them. The room erupted in a blinding light, and the band members collapsed, gasping, as the wolf within them receded.

As the dust settled, the musicians lay sprawled on the floor, human once more. Sawtooth breathed a sigh of relief, his heart racing. Lila knelt beside her bandmates, tears of joy streaming down her face. “Thank you, Sawtooth. You saved them.”

With a grin, Sawtooth adjusted his fedora. “Just another night in East Boston. Now, how about a celebration? I think we could all use some good rock and roll.”

And so, the night unfolded with music echoing through the warehouse, a blend of electric riffs and heartfelt ballads. Sawtooth McAllister, the occult detective, danced among the shadows, knowing that in a world where dark academia met the raw energy of rock and roll, the fight against the supernatural was never truly over.

"What Should Not Exist: A Sawtooth MacAllister Story" by Laurence Adams

Sawtooth MacAllister was not a name you’d find on the lips of Boston’s elite, nor would you see it in the glossy pages of the city's grand magazines. Born into the gritty streets of the working-class Eastie,, Sawtooth had carved out a life that, to most, seemed as incongruous as a diamond in coal. With his tousled hair, perpetually disheveled suits, and a face marked by years of sleepless nights, he was the occult detective of choice for those who dwelled in the shadows of Boston's academic and esoteric circles.

Sawtooth’s office was an old, creaking building on Beacon Hill,  a cramped space above a vintage record shop, "Vinyl Haven," where the scent of old leather and the sound of classic rock filled the air, and where the atmosphere was heavy with the smell of old books and ancient parchment. It was a place where the mundane met the arcane, and where dusty tomes held secrets that would make the bravest scholar pale. He had inherited this office from his father, a man who had dabbled in mysticism but left the business of it to Sawtooth, along with a small library of grimoires and journals.

One fog-choked evening, as the gas lamps cast their eerie glow on the cobblestone streets, Sawtooth sat hunched over a desk cluttered with strange artifacts. A knock echoed through the office, and in walked Victoria Thorne, a professor from Harvard’s hidden and exclusive Department of Occult Studies. Her dark, flowing gown and the air of academic gravitas made it clear she belonged to a world Sawtooth could navigate but never quite belonged to.

“Mr. MacAllister,” she began, her voice as crisp as autumn air, “I require your assistance. We’ve encountered something… unsettling.”

Sawtooth gestured for her to take a seat, his keen eyes never leaving her. “Unsettling, you say? I’m all ears.”

Victoria’s eyes darted nervously around the room before she spoke. “A manuscript has surfaced—one that shouldn’t exist. It’s a text purportedly written by an alchemist who vanished centuries ago. We believe it contains a ritual to summon a being of unimaginable power. Several students have gone missing, and those who remain are in a state of hysteria.”

Sawtooth’s brow furrowed. “And you need me to find this manuscript before things get worse?”

Victoria nodded. “Precisely. The manuscript was last seen in the possession of a former student, a man named Arthur Blackwood. He was expelled years ago for dabbling in forbidden magic. He might have been behind the disappearances.”

With a nod, Sawtooth began his preparations. He studied the occult symbols and ancient languages, consulting his collection of arcane books and using his own brand of mystical insight to unravel the mystery. His investigation took him through Harvard’s forgotten libraries, dimly lit back alleys, and hidden alcoves where the very air seemed to hum with dark energies.

As he delved deeper, Sawtooth discovered a hidden chamber beneath the campus, one that was inscribed with runes and symbols from a bygone era. It was here that he found Arthur Blackwood, performing a ritual in an attempt to harness the power he had uncovered. Sawtooth’s intervention was timely. He disrupted the ritual with a counter-spell he’d learned from an old tome and managed to apprehend Blackwood.

With the manuscript secured and the ritual halted, the missing students were found in a trance-like state, their minds freed from the enchantment. Victoria Thorne thanked Sawtooth, her relief palpable.

As Sawtooth left the university’s grand walls, he reflected on the world he navigated—a realm where dark academia and the occult intersected with the mundane struggles of his working-class roots. The city of Boston, with all its secrets and shadows, remained a tapestry of light and dark, woven together by the threads of his investigations.

Tune In Tuesday: Deadly Love

Young Annie and biker boyfriend Buddy are hopelessly in love and planning to run away from her cruel and overbearing father, who keeps an eye on her every move. Their plans are cut tragically short, however, when the family’s unhinged caretaker Clint shoots Buddy dead as he arrives on the property under the cover of night. Years later, Annie, now an old reclusive, continues to pine after her lost love, even practicing magic rituals in an attempt to bring him back. Eventually, one day after suffering ridicule and harassment from some local teens, she decides to end her own life. Coming to the farm in the wake of her aunt’s passing, Annie’s niece Hillie soon learns from reading her diary that Annie actually believed she’d been able to resurrect Buddy. Sure enough, when some of the youths responsible for driving her aunt to take her own life show up looking to cause trouble, a mysterious figure in biker gear appears and begins picking them off one by one. Has Buddy risen from the dead to avenge his dearly departed? 

(Available as part of Vinegar Syndromes Homegrown Horrors Volume 3.)

An up until recently insanely obscure slasher, this one plays all the right notes both in regional late 20th century American filmmaking and the slashe movie givens that were set in stone by the time this was released.  A surprisingly enjoyable watch. The director went on to make the somewhat less obscure slasher Moonstalker.

Zag, that was a Haiku

Zag In The Woods Of Worcester 

Erudite, Fathomless, bearer of insight

Cinematic eyes wide awake

Tune In Tuesday: The Dead One

A jealous woman (Monica Davis) uses voodoo to summon a zombie that will kill her brother's (John MacKay) new wife (Linda Ormond).

A forgotten Zombie flick, pre Romero, when the term was still tied to it's voodoo roots. The color filmstock is garish in the best way. Pretty too look at, but quite dull as a movie. Worth a watch for its historical significance if nothing else.