One cold October night they buried me in a California graveyard.

The cool and quiet that came with surrounding dirt could have passed for peace, had I not been breathing.

Clearly my neighbors were not. I had seen their gravestones moments earlier, before I was deposited below.

It was a part of a California dream that really happened.

I had moved to Los Angeles in 1979 to try my luck at movies. Contacts are everything there. Mary Luft's brother-in-law, Ed Barger, helped me land a job as a production assistant on a movie, the low-budget thriller, Demonoid.

For two months, I drove a motorhome that served as a dressing room for the stars of the movie, Samantha Eggar and Stuart Whitman. When I wasn't driving, I was helping other crew members do their jobs.

It was great, much more fun than my previous job, practicing law in Coconut Grove.

Everyday was Halloween as we filmed a series of murders pulled off by a creepy crawling hand.

At one point, Samantha's husband, Roy Baines, was possessed by ``the devil's hand.'' This bothered him so much he ran off to hide in a small desert shack. I helped build the shack and the next day Roy set it -- and himself -- on fire.

At this point in the movie, Roy had been replaced by a stunt man, a professional who gets $15,000 every time he sets himself on fire. The new Roy immolated himself with gusto, and even jumped out the shack's window before pretending to die.

According to the script, Roy was unrecognizable, burnt to a crisp. He was then buried in a pauper's grave in South L.A.

Any Hollywood producer can tell you that zombies make any movie better. Demonoid was no exception and the black, encrusted, ears-long-gone Roy was asked to live again.

Our film company rented an empty cemetery plot and we gathered for a night's work.

For some reason, the crew seemed especially excited to see me. They said the casting director had made a mistake. She had not hired a stunt man, a guy to play the crispy critter that crawls out of his grave.

``Will you do it?'' they asked, adding, ``We'll give you an extra $50!''

``Hell,'' I said, ``I'll do it for free!''

They gave me 50 bucks anyway as I headed for the makeup truck.

Robert Burns, who had been the art director of the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre, was grinning as I entered his lair. ``Yep,'' he said in his Texas twang, ``we're really gonna make you a goner tonight.''

Bob had already created a burn victim mask and he fitted it to my head. Next, he blackened my feet, hands, and painted oozing body fluids on them. The rest of me was covered by a cheap hospital gown, standard fare, I guess, for unidentified burn victims.

I saw myself in a mirror. Scary. Perfect for Michael Jackson's Thriller, still two years in the future.

As they led me to the gravesite, I posed for pictures. They were scary too.

Moments later, I was staring into a hole five feet deep. All around it were gravestones of the long departed.

The film's director told me that I would be getting a signal after I was buried alive. When I heard the signal, I was to crawl out of the grave and hobble away from the camera. I imagined Boris Karloff getting similar orders when they shot The Mummy.

A ladder made it easy to climb down into the grave.

Ed, the assistant director of photography, told me I probably would not be able to hear anyone once I was underground.

``I'll whack the ground three times with a shovel,'' he said. ``When you hear that just push away the dirt and crawl out.''

I told him, through my breathing hole -- a circle of fake teeth unhidden by lips-- that I would. Standing in the pit, I bent over and lowered my head. The crew carefully placed pieces of cardboard over me.

Then came the dirt. As they tossed shovelfuls light and sound soon disappeared.

It was hard to hold up the cardboard and the dirt above it but I wanted everything to go well. It was my Big Moment in Hollywood history.

I tried not to imagine what it would be like stuck underground forever in a graveyard. I knew I was surrounded by many other subterraneans in that very situation. As I tried to think happy thoughts I heard the thumps of Ed's shovel.

I eased my right hand up through the cardboard. Dirt rained down as I began to see the klieg lights again. Slowly I crawled to the surface as any good zombie would.

Like Mr. Karloff did 50 years earlier, I staggered off, away from the camera. I did my best to look grouchy, totally fearsome until someone yelled ``cut!''

It was amazing, my most memorable Halloween. A month later, I was asked to appear in the film's final scene as well. They chose me because there was no money left to hire a real actor.

If you've seen the B-movie, I am the bearded UPS driver who delivers The Hand That Will Not Die. Before I hand the package to the wispy Ms. Eggar, I tell her, ``S'cuse me ma'am. I've gotta package here for a Ms. Baines?''

Not counting screams, they are the movie's final words.

Happy Halloween from The Grave Guy.

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