Archive for Supernatural

Story Fragment: THE SACRED SCARECROW (2)

Posted in Halloween, Original Writing with tags , , , , , , , , on October 19, 2017 by smuckyproductions

A second fragment from THE SACRED SCARECROW, detailing a town’s devolution into paranoia when a newcomer threatens their history. A bit of autumnal eeriness as we enter the second half of October. 

Frank Hoffer had drifted into a peaceful sleep when a shrill bleat dragged him from bed. His daughter’s voice echoed from the other side of the house. Still half-numb, he stumbled from the room and down the hall, followed close behind by Sally. When they burst through her door they found her pressed against the window, stabbing a finger at the ground. “I saw it down there,” she panted. “It’s so ugly.”

Frank pulled her from the glass and looked at the lawn where she pointed. It was empty, aside from the moonlight on the dead leaves. “You saw what, sweetie?” Sally said, and cradled her daughter a bit too tightly until she squirmed away. She gripped her more firmly and cooed, “Calm down, mommy’s here; what did you see?”

“It was watching me,” the girl said.

Sally managed to persuade her child back to sleep, though she and Frank could not do the same for themselves. They perched on opposite sides of the bed, Sally facing the door and Frank the shuttered window; and, like several of their neighbors, stayed this way until morning. When Frank had managed to prepare himself for work, he paused to search the lawn beneath his daughter’s window for footprints, or pieces of straw. His daughter had been dreaming, he reasoned; or the stalker had covered its tracks.

That afternoon, the diner vibrated with murmurs, so Frank and Ed didn’t need to whisper. They sat close to the window, where they could hear the witch woman Hawkins. They mumbled pleasantries and gave disjointed answers, Ed spinning his coffee cup, Frank tearing his napkin into fragments; but the prophecies drained their attention until they had gone silent. When the waitress took their order with quivering hands, Ed laid his hands on the table and said, “You know, the strangest thing happened. Our boy said he heard someone walking around our house last night.”

He started to laugh, but he saw how Frank’s lips pressed together in a spasm to cut off his instinctual response. “Funny’s right,” he croaked. “Our girl said the same damn thing. Said something was watching her.”

They ate what they could of their meals – the lettuce tasted leathery, the meat dry, too hot in their stomachs – and when they spoke, they went on about the renovations at the farmer’s house, how much longer they would go on, how far they would extend. Would he go out into the field after all? It was a hell of a lot of work, it seemed to them. Maybe he would leave it be.

“Hey,” Ed called when they left the diner, over the witch woman’s straining voice; “you don’t remember… what was the day, in the story, where it was all supposed to happen?”

“It was different every time,” Frank said. “You know how they go. But the good ones always said it was Halloween.”

Ed stared down at his mangled food. He said, “That’s what I thought.” He checked his planner to confirm – it was October 14th. Not, he noted, that it mattered.

For the first SACRED SCARECROW fragment, CLICK HERE

Advertisements

Fragment from SERPENT SOULS: Smile

Posted in Halloween, Original Writing with tags , , , , , , , on October 3, 2017 by smuckyproductions

Screen Shot 2017-10-03 at 10.51.01 AMIn honor of a Halloween season surrounded by the evils of capitalist pigs, here is a fragment from an older novel. SERPENT SOULS follows a naive young man who gets a job at his beloved brother’s exclusive country club, but he must fight for his life when its violent curse begins haunting him. It’s a supernatural mystery, violent satire, and nightmare of cosmic cruelty born from the American dream. This is a prophetic dream that the main character experiences before his first day of work.

A hallway – dark and thin. No sound but the quiet hum, electric or otherwise. Small line of light in the distance. Sneaking under a door. To find its source is the only option.

A door, impossibly tall, with no threshold. The handle is dented. It turns and the door creaks open – the apartment. Light is fluorescent, flickers on a constant rhythm. Corpses of a hundred bugs litter the casings. More victims flutter around the glow. Unknowing. Approaching.

A second door across from this one. The only thing illuminated; the rest of the apartment is shadowed. Something sighs and the door swings open. Vicious darkness. A small figure limps forward. A child, familiar but dirt-covered face, blue eyes that glisten and threaten to fall out, they are so wide. Viscous tears dribble down his face and leave clean lines in the dirt. The tuxedo around his body overpowers him. The slashed sleeves ooze lining and the shirt crackles with a brown stain. Only the bow tie still holds its color, vivid red.

The child opens his mouth. Wet gash in the dark. The words splash from his tongue.

“Don’t. Don’t. Don’t go there. Please, don’t go there…”

His plea falls to tatters, sobbing. He stiffens. Another figure, twice his size, emerges from the miasma. The new figure wears a tailored tuxedo, perfect condition, red bow tie gleaming. A wide salesman smile covers his chin, long teeth flash. The dark conceals the upper portion of his face. Hint of wicked eyes hiding in shadow. The smile is enough to give him familiarity, fresher than the child’s. But a familiar fear as well.

Two figures, miniature and full model. The large one places a hand on the small’s shoulder. Hulking gold rings shimmer, bleed with colors from fire-laden jewels, shoot prisms toward the invisible ceiling. The other hand unseen. Rustling in his jacket pocket. A hard, metallic sound, widening the smile, and the hand slips out, holding an intricate silver knife. Rubies wink from the handle. The knife rests against the child’s head and waits there. Curve of the blade smiles with its owner.

“Don’t don’t don’t,” the child blubbers. “Oh don’t don’t’ don’t…”

The large figure chuckles. “Don’t mind him.” Voice like a winter breeze. “He is not himself today. We apologize for any inconvenience.”

With a swipe of his golden hand, the child stops blubbering. Knife finds its mark and peels open the child’s throat. Skin yawns, thick spurt of blood over the carpet. The child tries to close the wound, begging in liquid grunts. It spreads wide as the killer’s smile. Veins empty. He falls to his knees. The head leans, nearly tears off. The killer stops it, holds it in place, plunges a hand into the stump. Digs for a moment until he finds his prize – the surfacing hand shines, glows, in spite of the blood. And something new as well, glimmering powerful things. The killer laughs in triumph. A wealth of gold coins in his hand, chime and clink as he displays them. More ooze from the stump as the child at last crumples to the ground. Dull thump, clink of metal.

The killer holds out his treasure as if offering to share. Temptation rises. He knows this and smiles until his cheeks split, revealing darkness beneath. The knife, still glinting, still hungry. It grins too. And swings forward as the killer says, calm and tender, “Smile.”

Autumn Fragment: CROSSROADS

Posted in Halloween, Original Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , on September 21, 2017 by smuckyproductions

Autumn comes upon us tomorrow – here is a piece of a story called CROSSROADS, about a group of bored kids who occupy themselves with a dangerous, demonic game. It’s the time of year when we hear whispers in the air, bone-dry leaves tapping out code that something waits for us beyond the sky.

IMG_5748

Andy didn’t tell us all the rules at once – probably came up with them on the fly. He never wrote them down, and we never forgot them. “It only comes at dusk,” he said. “It needs those shadows to make itself real. Where it comes from, everything is shadow, beyond shadow. In the daytime or the moonlight, it’s just air. It can watch but it can’t do anything. So we have to bring it things right at sunset – so it can grab them up.” But also, “We can’t look right at it. In its real body – it’s too gnarly. Our brains would – BAM!” Fishface jumped at that one, and Andy cackled at him. Jenny hit his arm to make him stop – that laugh was ugly.

This went on for a few weeks, until the rules started to sound the same, and we were wondering what kind of game this was after all. We didn’t do anything different – still snuck into the movies, stole cigarettes, kicked trash around the newly-filled river – except we stopped going to the barn. No one brought it up, either, so we didn’t miss it. But we were still bored. Jenny started demanding answers. What was the point of the game? How did we play? Andy told us in pieces, but after a while we got the basics: we had to steal an offering, and take it out to the barn at sunset, and leave it there. If the offering was good, we’d get to live. But if it was bad, the thing in the dark would take us to its crypt and keep us there forever. Andy repeated this last part all the time. He never smiled when he said it. “Okay, sure, offerings – but when do we take them? Whenever we feel like it?” Jenny snapped one day. Andy glowered at her when she said it. “Don’t joke,” he said. “It’ll tell us when. We’ll know.”

When he said this, the game got interesting again. We all waited. Sometimes we didn’t talk at all, in case we missed the call. The wind – turning cold, brittle – might carry a slithery voice any day. Our teachers stopped yelling at us to pay attention, because we were listening, just not to them. Nighttime became something holy for us. In our bedrooms we stayed awake and tilted our ears at the empty windows. Of course, nothing happened, nothing came to us; though Jenny and Fishface sometimes talked about funny dreams, where they walked into the barn and fell down into a hole, but the hole was really a mouth that was about to clamp shut. Sometimes they woke up and their sheets were pulled off their bodies, they said. Andy chuckled, “That’s part of the game.”

It was toward the middle of September, when the leaves just started changing, that Andy told us the game had started. We were a little jealous – how come he got to hear the call and we didn’t? “Because it’s my game, turd faces,” he said.

Last time we’d seen the barn, it had been all lightning and rain, big blasts of thunder like drum beats. It set the right mood. This time it was a nice evening, a little cool, no stormclouds waiting on the skyline. A school night, too, to make it worse. The weather didn’t matter, Andy assured us – when it called, it meant business, gloom or sunshine. The problem was the offering, of course. Jenny suggested jewels from her mother’s vanity drawer. Fishface thought of hamburgers – “It’s hungry, anyway, you said.”

“None of that,” Andy snapped. “It told me what it wants.”

Forbidden Tomes: THE ACCURSED

Posted in Forbidden Tomes, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 1, 2016 by smuckyproductions

Happy March, ghouls – we’re beginning to get a taste of spring in the air. It’s a time of reawakening, good weather, and fertility. Unless you’re in a Joyce Carol Oates book. In one of her only outwardly supernatural works, Oates weaves a disturbing portrait of historical Princeton as it falls under the power of demons. Things get weird in the sepulchral spring of THE ACCURSED.

15818440

It’s 1905 and we’re in Princeton. While some actual figures appear in the background, like Woodrow Wilson and Upton Sinclair (who were at Princeton then), the main story depicts the Slade family as the daughter – set to be married – is targeted by a vampiric demon. When the demon takes young Slade as his unwilling wife, the surrounding characters (accurate and fictional alike) fall into madness, betrayal, and violence. It really sucks when demons walk into history; they tend to ruin things.

0317-Cover-articleLarge

Having read a few other works by Oates, I expected this one to be like those – psychological, grim, and very disturbing. While it is all of those things, this novel sports a wonderful, crooked sense of humor as well. Like Shirley Jackson’s work, there is social satire to spare here, stemming from these real people’s responses to demonic activity. And though it may be funny, it also tends to get nasty. Oates has created a synthesis of the macabre, the grotesque, the political, and the tragic. It’s pure literary fun to watch Mark Twain, Jack London and Sinclair interact in a world where demons roam.

002040-joyce-carol-oates

Being a part of Oates’s Gothic series (which includes “Bellefleur” and “The Mysteries of Winterthurn”), this novel is written in high language and spares no detail. It moves slowly, which for some is a turn-off. But for those who are willing to wait for the Gothic nightmares to begin, the payoff is all the better for what is established before. The imagery and manifestations are suitably bizarre – possessed babies, toad-demons in a bog-castle, snakes ejecting from men’s throats – and, even better, visually represent the neuroses of the characters. Oates is brutal with the psychological dissection of her creations, and this is no exception.

The-Accursed

In spite of its slow pace and its ultimate focus on satire over horror, “The Accursed” is a wicked ghost story – more so because the supernatural elements explore the human characters. The period setting and springtime aura give the uncanny occurrences an air of elegance, almost loveliness. Oates’s universe is pleasant… until it’s not. The madness and horror that seep (or explode) through the historical trappings is of the highest order. It’s a hellish tale, poking through the fallacy of human belief and their sureness in themselves, finding corpses instead.

For an old-fashioned but gruesome epic of phantoms and broken minds, Oates has given us a gift. She is a craftsman of the highest order, as long as one has the patience. So take the vow and enter this work of nightmares – but know that those vows are binding.

Forbidden Tomes: BELOVED by TONI MORRISON

Posted in Forbidden Tomes, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 10, 2015 by smuckyproductions

 

America’s past is full of horrors. Red stains that we have tried to expunge. But while scrubbing away the colors may dull them, it only embeds them deeper into the fibers, where they fester. It is rare to find a book or a film that honestly and completely explores these stains; and it’s no surprise that one of the greatest examples comes from Toni Morrison, in her powerhouse novel BELOVED.

BelovedNovel

Set in the years just after the Civil War, this novel acts as two things: a historical thriller and a ghost story. It occupies two times, weaving the narrative of a woman who escaped slavery, and the aftermath of her family some years later. They live in a house haunted by the ghost of the woman’s baby. When a man whom the woman knew before she escaped comes to visit her, along with a mysterious young girl who may not be human, the woman is forced to confront the horrific past that she may not be able to reconcile.

230

Morrison is an undersung genius in the art of the metaphorical Gothic. Her novels are populated by strange, but deeply human, characters – people like Milkman and Pilate in “Song of Solomon,” Sethe and her haunted family in this story. These slightly surreal elements are intriguing from an entertainment perspective, but by the time the reader has become interested, Morrison has already unleashed the full blow of her disguise. Her fantastical elements always stand for something else. She never undercuts them by retracting from their reality, though – in the world of the story, they exist, but they also represent something in our physical world.

The ghosts in this novel, amongst things both literal and nebulous, stand for past trauma. Sethe and her living daughter, along with the supporting characters, are haunted by the horror that their mind cannot escape: the nightmares of slavery. Morrison doesn’t spoon-feed these metaphors to the reader, though. She embeds them in the terror, making the reader feel every wrong done until they can’t deny it. Her vivid details serve a more horrifying purpose because, to many people, they were reality.

girls-no-10---beloved

This is a deeply important novel. Morrison’s ghosts are those of our own history – and they are not at rest. ‘Beloved’ is far from a traditional scary story, but it embodies the truth of horror so completely, and digs up terrifying graves that were never really buried. The aura of doom that pervades the characters’ lives is a doom that exists. For that reason, it is impossible to look away, or to forget. This book’s truths are more haunting than any phantom.

Short Story: ON THE WIND

Posted in Original Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 9, 2015 by smuckyproductions

Here is a story for the beginning of winter, and the strange, liminal phenomenon of snowstorms at night.

ON THE WIND

IMG_9173

The streets emptied themselves when the snow fell in earnest. Lamps pooled cold light on abandoned drifts, frozen seas of ice, an alien landscape laid over one too familiar. Houses revealed their warmth through glowing windows and shuttered walls. Inside, people pretended to listen to the wind, ignoring how it begged. Trees bowed to the wind, earth withdrew to escape its blast. It owned the world on these nights. And across its domain it carried voices.

On the sunlit days that clamored with the cries of the living, these voices would be lost. They waited until the snow fell in thick palls and masked their whispers. Then they disembarked from close hollows and reunited with the world that was once theirs. Anyone who wandered into the storm might hear their cries, brushing against frozen ears, but no one ever believed what they heard. In that way the voices were merciful. They wanted one thing, and it did not concern the living.

In a flurry of ice and wind the voices collided. It was almost like touching. Their forgotten molecules flew against each other and joined. Through the dark rushing air they could feel their words.

My love.

I longed for you. I almost couldn’t –

Hush. We are here. We are here.

Trees moaned, branches sagged, the moon hid behind grey clouds. The wind became their breath and their flesh. For a moment, so brief in the span of their eternity, they could press against and into each other. It was a kind of intimacy that they had never known while still alive. They tried to cry and howl, instead whispering their ecstasy over the snow, which stirred and trembled at the sound.

It was never long enough. The wind returned and ripped them apart before they could ever finish. Daylight began to seep into the kingdom of ice, banishing all who muttered there. They whistled in torment as the gusts carried their particles back into the dark emptiness, where they would wait for another storm; and as they went their voices whipped the snow, dangling from blind rooftops and sleeping trees, into glistening icicles.

Forbidden Tomes: THE STORIES OF ALGERNON BLACKWOOD

Posted in Forbidden Tomes with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 5, 2015 by smuckyproductions

 

Nature, and the wilderness, has always been discussed and mused over in literature. So few authors, however, have been able to capture its true persona: something massive and terrifying that we cannot understand. Few artists have better captured the awe and horror of the wilderness than Algernon Blackwood.

Algernon Blackwood

One of the great influencers of H.P. Lovecraft, Blackwood got his start writing articles for adventurer and outdoors magazines – hunting, rafting, cross-country travelling, and various other subjects. His legacy lies in his fiction, though, which is centered around the same concepts. Blackwood himself was an adventurous man, often writing from experience. The stories he conjured are enough to convince us that we should avoid his tracks at all costs.

Algernon_Blackwood

His most famous tales – “The Willows,” “Ancient Sorceries” and my personal favorite, “The Wendigo” – place their protagonists, always level-headed and intelligent people, in the midst of the wilderness. There they encounter a force beyond their reckoning that brushes them for a moment, leaving them shaken and in deathly danger. Whether it’s riverside reeds that act as a barrier between our world and that of immense gods, or a wintry specter who rides on the wind and takes human souls, the force is always beautiful in a way, but also terrifying. In some cases, it is seductive, and traps its human prisoners before destroying them.

The_wendigo-2

Blackwood is remarkable in his ability to describe a setting – the Montana forests, the banks of the Danube, or even a normal townhouse – in a vivid way, then filling it with hallucinatory events that make the reader question reality. He is possibly one of the first practitioners of psychological horror. It’s all the more effective for his attention to the real places and people of his stories. Surrealism is easy to dismiss, but when it roots itself in a recognizable world, it becomes equally as real.

SAVE0570

While my favorite of his stories deal with wilderness, he also wrote incredible stories of haunted houses and occult dabblings – surreal, chilling evocations of the supernatural. Blackwood himself practiced the occult, belonging to the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, and these beliefs are reflected in these stories. Their themes of reincarnation (“The Insanity of Jones”) or experiments with beings from beyond the veil (“An Episode in a Lodging House”) are powerful, and have clear influence on authors like H.P. Lovecraft who cemented that type of horror.

For fiction that is at once beautiful and frightening, awe-inspiring and repulsive, Blackwood cannot be trumped. He creates works of sublime fear in a way that few others have attempted. As the winter wind moans outside, his stories will remind us of our place in the world, and the vast things that move beyond.