What do you suppose can happen when five babes are stuck in a high-rise building, doing inventory for a lingerie company; when the building janitor is a psycho suspected of perpetrating the "Sorority House Massacre"; and the actual killer's "soul" is accidentally delivered to the same office; and "it" possesses one of the girls? Further, what if the girls, early on, first get dirty, and then soaked by the building sprinkler system? Of course — they shower off, and then prance around in the lingerie for the rest of the flick — or their lives, as the case may be. This isn't inspired silliness, but it's a whole helluva lot of fun. The demented janitor, Orville Ketchum, looks like Wilford Brimley after a week long bender after the oatmeal hadn't cleaned his pipes, and walks like Jim Holliday with a load in his pants. The babes all fill out the lingerie nicely, and are just good enough actresses to be bad. When the girls, fearing that the unkillable Orville (never explained, but never mind) is slashing them one by one, stumble onto a "gun shop" with enough ordinance to give Saddam Hussein a hard-on (something to be found on the tenth floor of many L.A. high-rises, I'm sure), yet another film genre gets sent up. Only one sour note, and it's a personal one. While the presence of Forrest J Ackerman (as the intended recipient of the "soul box") is clearly intended as hommage to the horror film-meister, it's saddening to see 4e this stiff, if you ever met that charming dynamo, as I did, in his younger days. Also, I could wish that all film­makers of any genre could try harder to put as much wit into the script and execution as they manage to cram into the credits. But, whatthehell, ya got boobs, babydolls, slashers, mad scientists, the undead, and lotsa guns, what more do ya want?