 Horror/Scary: August 26, 2009 Issue [#3236] |
  Horror/Scary
This week: Edited by: W.D.Wilcox  
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Autopsy of a Horror Story
This is an important exercise. It will teach you the anatomy of horror.
Shall we begin?
First, using one of my own short stories as the cadaver, let us start with our first incision—that initial cut down the center of the body.
This first cut is crucial. It is the opening. It allows us to see into the story without giving away all the facts, yet opens the cavity and sets the mood to better reveal what lies within. It has to be a good straight line, deep enough to open and expose the flesh of our tale, while intriguing the reader enough to 'hook them' and pull them in through the severed tissue.
I call this body of horror…"Freak" ...
When she took off her makeup her true features emerged jagged, her mouth a scar—her eyes like open wounds. She glared into the mirror as if it were a portal where some madwoman stood peering out with a lunatic grin—like a person locked outside of her house but can still look in through the windows and pound on the door. “Where are you, Raheesha? Where have you gone?”
Now as you can see, this first cut introduces us to the main character. If done right, a mirror is a good prop to use when describing someone. We discover she is a woman, she has a name, and, that she is less than attractive. But what else? She describes herself as a ‘madwoman’ with a ‘lunatic grin’. This is essential to what happens next—to the raw meat of the story.
Something scuttled across her face and she casually reached for it with a claw of a hand and snatched the cockroach from her cheek as it attempted to crawl into her mouth. “Not yet, my dear…not yet.”
This paragraph, or organ, is used to increase the element of horror—to help make the blood pump a little faster. Besides, I simply hate cockroaches, and usually what freaks the writer out will also disturb the reader. But again clues are given as to her description and sanity. She has a ‘claw of a hand’ and there is, of all things, a bug crawling on her face that is trying to enter her mouth. Her mental state is exposed as she only ‘casually’ snatches at the bug, as if it were a common occurrence. And then she speaks to it, telling the filthy insect that it is not time yet.
Crushing the bug between her fingers, she turned from the mirror, and slowly melted back into her chair like a wax candle shaped into a semblance of lumpish human form. The rotting stench of her body filled the small carnival wagon that now served as her home.
Here we learn that she has no qualms about crushing a bug between her fingers. I believe some people might find that disgusting. We also create a very important element: ‘the sense of smell’. Her body melts into the chair. This suggests that she is weary of her plight. Also we learn that she lives in a small carnival wagon which dates the story. Small wagons were used long ago; carnival people now live in shiny new trailers.
Three years ago the doctors had diagnosed her with necrotizing fasciitis—‘flesh-eating’ disease. By all rights, she should have been dead within the first few months, but for some inexplicable reason she survived; her black skin deteriorating, the insurmountable pain never-ending. Even after all the countless skin grafts had failed and the insurance money had run out, she continued on—a sideshow attraction—a carnival freak.
We are now at the meat of the story, some important background information that is necessary in order to pull the horror off. She has a god-forsaken disease that doctors were unable to cure, but there is also some supernatural element involved…she survives and finds work. She dares to hope in a hopeless situation.
Pouring herself another brandy, she shrank back into herself with a deep sigh that was something akin to grief. She stared at all the brightly colored billboards and posters that lined the walls of her wagon like a fading movie star; each a different caricature of a grotesque woman walking through the jungle with arms outstretched, rats scurrying beneath her feet. She smiled as she read the caption, 'Raheesha: Zombie Girl from Darkest Africa'.
This simply sets the mood. I remember once long ago seeing some movie of a ‘fading movie star’. She kept posters in her room of all the ‘hits’ she had starred in over the years.
"Africa,” she scoffed, “I’ve never been to Africa in my life.”
This line introduces the hopelessness and irony of the story, but also hints at what is to come.
Outside, a storm approached, and she heard the trees and shrubs shiver as the rain whispered through the foliage. She stood stiffly, aching, parts of her rotting skin still clinging to the chair, and ambled toward the door. Throwing it open, she took in a deep breath of freshly washed air. The rain rattled upon the roof of the wagon and clicked against the windows. As the wind blew, the trees shook like the manes of lions and in her mind, she could almost hear them roaring, and see them gathering for the hunt.
Atmosphere, every horror story has got to have atmosphere and there is nothing better than an approaching storm. Her health is not good so I expose the fact that she is ‘stiff’, ‘aching’. The fact that parts of her rotting skin stick to the chair is just gross. You can use gross in a horror story if you do it tastefully. This paragraph has a key element: ‘the trees shook like the manes of lions’. So lions, roaring and gathering for the hunt, have been introduced, but only in her fragile mind.
As she watched, they crept forward, skulking beneath the undergrowth and moving toward her. She stepped back inside, her heart knocking as hard as a fist on a door. “I must be losing my mind,” she said, and sat down in front of the mirror again.
Her mind breaks—in a mere moment, with a mere thought. She can think of nothing else to do except go back to what she was doing before: staring into the mirror. Perhaps that desperate and mundane action will bring her back to reality. When people lose their minds they try to find their way back. Its only natural.
The door hung open, and she thought she could hear the sound of tribal drums somewhere in the distance—the scratching of claws against the small wooden steps that led into her wagon. Through the mirror, she saw the yellow eyes of the first lion as it entered.
This is the ending. Going back to the mirror, the only thing that was holding her in reality is futile. Even it has abandoned her. There is no hope here. Her life has been cursed and insanity ensues. She is literally consumed by her own mind as the lions enter the room.
I hope everyone was able to glean something from this autopsy. We are now ready to edit--to take out stuff and put other things in, or as I like to call it: embalming.
Until next time,
billwilcox
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Cadavers...
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Excerpt: Everyday I spot her in the park I follow her, and I draw her. I’m doing it today, I did it yesterday and maybe I’ll do it tomorrow. Sometimes I'd sketch her figure from a distance, other times I’d capture her posture as she was sitting on park bench. In the evenings I’d trace over her form, again and again, before using it as a stencil to produce a picture of her sitting on an arm chair in my living-room.
Excerpt: Many people have tried to console me. They claim to know how I feel. Only the broken-hearted can connect with the mental anguish and loss of desire that has overpowered me. You don’t want to walk a mile in my shoes. It’s not a pleasant stroll.
Excerpt: A paralyzing fear spread over Jack and numbed him to the floor. A face looked out from the open door. But it wasn't a monster face, all hideous with a dripping maw and hungry teeth. No. It was a boy. A boy like Jack. It looked all the world like Jack. A twin come up out of the cellar. That numb cold was settling like snow over Jack's heart now. There was no place in the world for two Jacks. As if it read his mind, that other Jack grinned pure evil and winked. Winked goodbye.
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Excerpt: Again he raced toward his protective stairs tripping and falling on his face and quickly regaining his equillibrium, and stumbled quickly down into the landing and into safety. Sitting on the stairwell briefly catching his breathe, hoping that the natives wouldn’t follow him into this space. “I don’t really understand what I could have done, to get into such a precarious situation.” Craig understanding, that this safe haven was simply a temporary sanctuary from the troubles of the world. Eventually he realized that he would have to venture out again and find other places, but for now he had to regain his strength and clarity. While gaining his brawn he had much to think about and consider. Mostly was how he got himself into such a harrowing situation and naturally his escape.
Excerpt: Still nothing was there. She had to quit reading horror stories. She needed another genre to start reading. This one was playing tricks on her mind. That was the only explanation she could come up with. Yet she hadn’t convinced herself of that answer. She was still certain, someone was in the house with her, and there was no escape, for they were in the front of the house, near her only exit.
Excerpt: Peter looked up to see the fog rolling in from the lake. It enveloped the shoreline like a curtain falling after a play. Peter felt blind. He heard Lucy’s scream cut short. He flailed, tying to stand, but his legs were concrete. The fog attacked him like a million tiny needles. His eyes swelled shut.
Excerpt: The snow moved. Jon peeked through the dirty window of the cabin watching it, considering its strange behavior with a tightening in his throat. He had seen it move before while gathering wood: large mounds of it, sliding a couple of feet at a time, and closing in like a pack of hungry wolves. It was slower then, almost indiscernible, but now that it knew he was trapped, it moved much quicker.
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What-say-you?
Starr* Rathburn 
Submitted Comment:
Hi Bill! How's life on the Darkside? Great newsletter, as always. 1951, the year the earth stood still, aliens landed, and W.D.Wilcox was born. There’s just gotta be a connection.
Yep, I agree--it's just gotta be! Happy belated birthday, my dark friend.
-Starr* R
Shannon 
Submitted Comment:
What a great newsletter, Bill! I thoroughly enjoyed the 1951 trivia. Who knew your birth was so monumental? 
StephBee 
Submitted Comment:
UFOs? Roswell? Bill, are you a product of an alien childhood? UFOs and aliens are always something scary to be talking about. I have two stories in my port you might like, "Grave of the Devil" and "The Secret Pyramind."
-Steph
nomlet 
Submitted Comment:
And ever since that day in 1951, the orbit of the Earth has been just the slightest bit more eccentric than it was. Thanks for that.
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