Shot on Betacam video, this grade-Z slasher movie (1982) has a greasy, pallid look that harmonizes perfectly with its own inherent crappiness. An opening title in cheapo dot-matrix lettering lays out the bloody history of an accursed SoCal home, which is inherited by a swinging new age therapist and telekinetic master (writer-director John Wintergate) and becomes a boardinghouse for his harem of scantily clad babes (including Wintergate’s wife, Kalassu). Gruesome deaths follow, though the viewer is warned in advance (sometimes) by an insert of a black-gloved hand splaying its fingers. The movie makes for a nice technical curio with its analog imagery, clunky synth score, and primitive video-bleed effects, though a scene shot through a shower stall, in which a woman’s breasts are pressed into the pebbled glass, proves there’s no substitute for classic filmmaking techniques.