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I like my Japanese horror. I like getting the bejeesus scared out of me by some master of total creepiness with a budget in two figures. I even, in a weird sort of way, like the inevitable aftermath of a good horror film: lying wide-eyed and quivering in bed, quilt pulled up to my chin, scanning the darkness for signs of ghosty activity. It’s surprising I’ve got any bejeesus left, in fact.

Shikoku, however, is no threat to anybody’s … (read more)