I consider myself to be pretty horror-hardened. I can watch impalements, eye-gougings and eviscerations without batting an eyelash. I feel I have been adequately trained in the event of zombie uprisings, and I have learned the various tricks to take down werewolves, oversized killer sharks and endless Freddy Kruegers and Jasons. I’ve got 20 years of extreme horror viewing behind me. And yet, if I’m getting into my morning shower, for example, and a single centipede suddenly darts from the drain up the wall at lightning speed, I will scream like Marion Crane from PSYCHO.