George A. Romero didn't invent the word "zombie," but he might as well have. Before he unleashed "Night of the Living Dead" upon an unsuspecting world in 1968, the word didn't instantly conjure up what it would mean from then on out: white terror, hungry corpses, gnawed-upon flesh. "Zombie" simply meant the undead, the deceased reanimated. Sometimes they were bad: Frankenstein's monster was a zombie. Sometimes they were not: The blank-faced, not-quite-dead wife of Val Lewton's "I Walked with a Zombie" (a stealth adaptation of "Jane Eyre," amazingly) was also a zombie. But within the first minutes of "Night of the Living Dead," when lurching corpses lunge upon two innocents and chow on one of them, the word was forever changed.