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Saturday, February 2, 2008

Everyday Horrors: The Electric Chair

copyright 2008 by Gary L. Pullman

Thomas Edison, who gave us the incandescent light bulb, the phonograph, the motion-picture projector, and a host of other technological goodies, also gave us the electric chair--or did he?

According to “Electric Chair Wars,” Edison is credited, incorrectly, with inventing the electric chair. The dubious honor of having invented this execution device actually goes to a dentist, Alfred P. Southwick, who witnessed an intoxicated man get electrocuted during a visit to a power plant in Buffalo, New York.

Like many other serial killers, Southwick practiced on animals before trying his hand with people, convincing the city’s animal welfare organization that killing stray animals with electricity was more humane than drowning them. This attempt at persuasion having proved successful, the dentist and a legislator convinced the governor of the Empire State that electrocuting humans was a more humane way of destroying them than hanging.

The state had a new way of executing criminals, but it was yet to be decided whether alternating current (AC), championed by George Westinghouse, was deadlier that direct current (DC), endorsed by Thomas Edison. Southwick’s chair used the former, the brainstorm of Westinghouse employee Nicola Tesla. In 1890, the death sentence of William Kemmler offered the two rival inventors the opportunity to put their respective currents where their mouths were.

A showman of sorts, Edison staged the executions of domestic animals to convince the public that DC was a superior means of killing people (or domestic animals, at least) than AC. When Topsy, a circus elephant, objected to having been fed a lit cigarette and killed the drunkard who fed her this snack, she was labeled a “rogue elephant” and scheduled to be executed by hanging by her neck until she was dead, probably of strangulation. Edison saw his chance to offer what Ed Sullivan might have called “a really good show”: he would use AC to kill Topsy. Outfitted with copper-lined sandals and hooked to electrodes, she was given a lethal dose of the current and died a quick death, earning a belated memorial in 2003, in New York’s Coney Island Museum.

Edison was successful in getting the state’s Medico-Legal Society to urge the use of AC in New York’s electric chair. However, financed by Westinghouse, Kemmler’s attorney protested that the use of electricity to kill his client would be unconstitutional, representing, as it would, “cruel and unusual punishment.” Kemmler lost his appeal, and he was electrocuted, the chair employing AC. According to witnesses, a second jolt was required to kill the condemned man, and fire issued from his mouth.

According to “Both Sides of the Wall,” after receiving seventeen seconds’ worth of juice, “Kemmler's slumped body started to moan and wheeze,” prompting the attending physician to call for the second jolt, on the grounds that “This man is not dead!” Wanting to make sure they killed him this time around, the executioners let the current flow for 70 seconds (some claim 240 seconds), while smoke rose from his head and “the room was filled with the stench of human flesh.” In full, Kemmler spent eight minutes in the chair. In 1963, the use of the chair as a means of executing criminals was discontinued.

Legal challenges to the use of the electric chair have continued, intermittently, with a state judge ruling, on August 2, 1999, that “Old Sparky,” as the Sunshine State has nicknamed their chair, is not unconstitutional. There was some question as to whether it constituted cruel and unusual punishment after the “bloody execution of a 344-pound inmate,” Allan Lee (“Tiny”) Davis in July 1999, according to CNN. As the CNN article points out, citing the following instances, Allen’s case was “not the first time the mechanics of the chair raised questions”:

  • In 1997, flames shot from the head of death row inmate Pedro Medina during his execution.
  • In 1990, smoke poured from the hood of inmate Jessie Tafero as he was put to death.
According to the state’s website on the topic--yes, there really is one-- the executioner “is a private citizen who is paid $150 per execution.” The chair has three legs, rather than four, and was fashioned out of oak by prison inmates. Florida’s website offers trivia fun concerning its electrocutions, including these factoids:

  • Frank Johnson was the first inmate executed in Florida's electric chair on October 7, 1924.
  • On March 30, 1998, Judias "Judy" Buenoano became the first woman to die in Florida's electric chair.
  • 12.19 years is the average length of stay on Death Row prior to execution.
  • William Cruse, Jr. is the oldest death-row inmate in Florida, having been born in 1927, and Jerome Hunter, born in 1986, is the youngest.
  • The oldest inmate to be executed, to date, is Charlie Grifford, who was 72 at the time.

The chair’s most infamous client was Ted Bundy, who was zapped on January 24, 1989.

The Sunshine State’s website also offers visitors a virtual tour of the state’s prisons, during which one may “visit a Death Row cell.”

Electric chairs appear in several horror movies and novels, including Stephen King’s novel The Green Mile and the movie, of the same title, based on it, in which a wrongly convicted healer meets a particularly nasty demise; The Gingerbread Man, in which a gingerbread man, possessed by the soul of an electrocuted killer, seeks revenge against the girl who fried him; Alive, in which an electric chair survivor is invited to participate in sadistic experiments that pit him against another prisoner and an extraterrestrial of sorts; The Horror Show, in which an electric chair survivor seeks revenge against the cop who arrested him; Shocker, in which an electrocuted killer returns from the dead, able to take charge of the force that killed him; and a host of others.

“Everyday Horrors: The Electric Chair” is part of a series of “everyday horrors” that will be featured in Chillers and Thrillers: The Fiction of Fear. These “everyday horrors” continue, in many cases, to appear in horror fiction, literary, cinematographic, and otherwise.

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Paranormal vs. Supernatural: What’s the Diff?

Copyright 2009 by Gary L. Pullman

Sometimes, in demonstrating how to brainstorm about an essay topic, selecting horror movies, I ask students to name the titles of as many such movies as spring to mind (seldom a difficult feat for them, as the genre remains quite popular among young adults). Then, I ask them to identify the monster, or threat--the antagonist, to use the proper terminology--that appears in each of the films they have named. Again, this is usually a quick and easy task. Finally, I ask them to group the films’ adversaries into one of three possible categories: natural, paranormal, or supernatural. This is where the fun begins.

It’s a simple enough matter, usually, to identify the threats which fall under the “natural” label, especially after I supply my students with the scientific definition of “nature”: everything that exists as either matter or energy (which are, of course, the same thing, in different forms--in other words, the universe itself. The supernatural is anything which falls outside, or is beyond, the universe: God, angels, demons, and the like, if they exist. Mad scientists, mutant cannibals (and just plain cannibals), serial killers, and such are examples of natural threats. So far, so simple.

What about borderline creatures, though? Are vampires, werewolves, and zombies, for example, natural or supernatural? And what about Freddy Krueger? In fact, what does the word “paranormal” mean, anyway? If the universe is nature and anything outside or beyond the universe is supernatural, where does the paranormal fit into the scheme of things?

According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, the word “paranormal,” formed of the prefix “para,” meaning alongside, and “normal,” meaning “conforming to common standards, usual,” was coined in 1920. The American Heritage Dictionary defines “paranormal” to mean “beyond the range of normal experience or scientific explanation.” In other words, the paranormal is not supernatural--it is not outside or beyond the universe; it is natural, but, at the present, at least, inexplicable, which is to say that science cannot yet explain its nature. The same dictionary offers, as examples of paranormal phenomena, telepathy and “a medium’s paranormal powers.”

Wikipedia offers a few other examples of such phenomena or of paranormal sciences, including the percentages of the American population which, according to a Gallup poll, believes in each phenomenon, shown here in parentheses: psychic or spiritual healing (54), extrasensory perception (ESP) (50), ghosts (42), demons (41), extraterrestrials (33), clairvoyance and prophecy (32), communication with the dead (28), astrology (28), witchcraft (26), reincarnation (25), and channeling (15); 36 percent believe in telepathy.

As can be seen from this list, which includes demons, ghosts, and witches along with psychics and extraterrestrials, there is a confusion as to which phenomena and which individuals belong to the paranormal and which belong to the supernatural categories. This confusion, I believe, results from the scientism of our age, which makes it fashionable for people who fancy themselves intelligent and educated to dismiss whatever cannot be explained scientifically or, if such phenomena cannot be entirely rejected, to classify them as as-yet inexplicable natural phenomena. That way, the existence of a supernatural realm need not be admitted or even entertained. Scientists tend to be materialists, believing that the real consists only of the twofold unity of matter and energy, not dualists who believe that there is both the material (matter and energy) and the spiritual, or supernatural. If so, everything that was once regarded as having been supernatural will be regarded (if it cannot be dismissed) as paranormal and, maybe, if and when it is explained by science, as natural. Indeed, Sigmund Freud sought to explain even God as but a natural--and in Freud’s opinion, an obsolete--phenomenon.

Meanwhile, among skeptics, there is an ongoing campaign to eliminate the paranormal by explaining them as products of ignorance, misunderstanding, or deceit. Ridicule is also a tactic that skeptics sometimes employ in this campaign. For example, The Skeptics’ Dictionary contends that the perception of some “events” as being of a paranormal nature may be attributed to “ignorance or magical thinking.” The dictionary is equally suspicious of each individual phenomenon or “paranormal science” as well. Concerning psychics’ alleged ability to discern future events, for example, The Skeptic’s Dictionary quotes Jay Leno (“How come you never see a headline like 'Psychic Wins Lottery'?”), following with a number of similar observations:

Psychics don't rely on psychics to warn them of impending disasters. Psychics don't predict their own deaths or diseases. They go to the dentist like the rest of us. They're as surprised and disturbed as the rest of us when they have to call a plumber or an electrician to fix some defect at home. Their planes are delayed without their being able to anticipate the delays. If they want to know something about Abraham Lincoln, they go to the library; they don't try to talk to Abe's spirit. In short, psychics live by the known laws of nature except when they are playing the psychic game with people.
In An Encyclopedia of Claims, Frauds, and Hoaxes of the Occult and Supernatural, James Randi, a magician who exercises a skeptical attitude toward all things alleged to be paranormal or supernatural, takes issue with the notion of such phenomena as well, often employing the same arguments and rhetorical strategies as The Skeptic’s Dictionary.

In short, the difference between the paranormal and the supernatural lies in whether one is a materialist, believing in only the existence of matter and energy, or a dualist, believing in the existence of both matter and energy and spirit. If one maintains a belief in the reality of the spiritual, he or she will classify such entities as angels, demons, ghosts, gods, vampires, and other threats of a spiritual nature as supernatural, rather than paranormal, phenomena. He or she may also include witches (because, although they are human, they are empowered by the devil, who is himself a supernatural entity) and other natural threats that are energized, so to speak, by a power that transcends nature and is, as such, outside or beyond the universe. Otherwise, one is likely to reject the supernatural as a category altogether, identifying every inexplicable phenomenon as paranormal, whether it is dark matter or a teenage werewolf. Indeed, some scientists dedicate at least part of their time to debunking allegedly paranormal phenomena, explaining what natural conditions or processes may explain them, as the author of The Serpent and the Rainbow explains the creation of zombies by voodoo priests.

Based upon my recent reading of Tzvetan Todorov's The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to the Fantastic, I add the following addendum to this essay.

According to Todorov:

The fantastic. . . lasts only as long as a certain hesitation [in deciding] whether or not what they [the reader and the protagonist] perceive derives from "reality" as it exists in the common opinion. . . . If he [the reader] decides that the laws of reality remain intact and permit an explanation of the phenomena described, we can say that the work belongs to the another genre [than the fantastic]: the uncanny. If, on the contrary, he decides that new laws of nature must be entertained to account for the phenomena, we enter the genre of the marvelous (The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre, 41).
Todorov further differentiates these two categories by characterizing the uncanny as “the supernatural explained” and the marvelous as “the supernatural accepted” (41-42).

Interestingly, the prejudice against even the possibility of the supernatural’s existence which is implicit in the designation of natural versus paranormal phenomena, which excludes any consideration of the supernatural, suggests that there are no marvelous phenomena; instead, there can be only the uncanny. Consequently, for those who subscribe to this view, the fantastic itself no longer exists in this scheme, for the fantastic depends, as Todorov points out, upon the tension of indecision concerning to which category an incident belongs, the natural or the supernatural. The paranormal is understood, by those who posit it, in lieu of the supernatural, as the natural as yet unexplained.

And now, back to a fate worse than death: grading students’ papers.

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My Cup of Blood

Anyone who becomes an aficionado of anything tends, eventually, to develop criteria for elements or features of the person, place, or thing of whom or which he or she has become enamored. Horror fiction--admittedly not everyone’s cuppa blood--is no different (okay, maybe it’s a little different): it, too, appeals to different fans, each for reasons of his or her own. Of course, in general, book reviews, the flyleaves of novels, and movie trailers suggest what many, maybe even most, readers of a particular type of fiction enjoy, but, right here, right now, I’m talking more specifically--one might say, even more eccentrically. In other words, I’m talking what I happen to like, without assuming (assuming makes an “ass” of “u” and “me”) that you also like the same. It’s entirely possible that you will; on the other hand, it’s entirely likely that you won’t.

Anyway, this is what I happen to like in horror fiction:

Small-town settings in which I get to know the townspeople, both the good, the bad, and the ugly. For this reason alone, I’m a sucker for most of Stephen King’s novels. Most of them, from 'Salem's Lot to Under the Dome, are set in small towns that are peopled by the good, the bad, and the ugly. Part of the appeal here, granted, is the sense of community that such settings entail.

Isolated settings, such as caves, desert wastelands, islands, mountaintops, space, swamps, where characters are cut off from civilization and culture and must survive and thrive or die on their own, without assistance, by their wits and other personal resources. Many are the examples of such novels and screenplays, but Alien, The Shining, The Descent, Desperation, and The Island of Dr. Moreau, are some of the ones that come readily to mind.

Total institutions as settings. Camps, hospitals, military installations, nursing homes, prisons, resorts, spaceships, and other worlds unto themselves are examples of such settings, and Sleepaway Camp, Coma, The Green Mile, and Aliens are some of the novels or films that take place in such settings.

Anecdotal scenes--in other words, short scenes that showcase a character--usually, an unusual, even eccentric, character. Both Dean Koontz and the dynamic duo, Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, excel at this, so I keep reading their series (although Koontz’s canine companions frequently--indeed, almost always--annoy, as does his relentless optimism).

Atmosphere, mood, and tone. Here, King is king, but so is Bentley Little. In the use of description to terrorize and horrify, both are masters of the craft.

A bit of erotica (okay, okay, sex--are you satisfied?), often of the unusual variety. Sex sells, and, yes, sex whets my reader’s appetite. Bentley Little is the go-to guy for this spicy ingredient, although Koontz has done a bit of seasoning with this spice, too, in such novels as Lightning and Demon Seed (and, some say, Hung).

Believable characters. Stephen King, Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, and Dan Simmons are great at creating characters that stick to readers’ ribs.

Innovation. Bram Stoker demonstrates it, especially in his short story “Dracula’s Guest,” as does H. P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allan Poe, Shirley Jackson, and a host of other, mostly classical, horror novelists and short story writers. For an example, check out my post on Stoker’s story, which is a real stoker, to be sure. Stephen King shows innovation, too, in ‘Salem’s Lot, The Shining, It, and other novels. One might even argue that Dean Koontz’s something-for-everyone, cross-genre writing is innovative; he seems to have been one of the first, if not the first, to pen such tales.

Technique. Check out Frank Peretti’s use of maps and his allusions to the senses in Monster; my post on this very topic is worth a look, if I do say so myself, which, of course, I do. Opening chapters that accomplish a multitude of narrative purposes (not usually all at once, but successively) are attractive, too, and Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child are as good as anyone, and better than many, at this art.

A connective universe--a mythos, if you will, such as both H. P. Lovecraft and Stephen King, and, to a lesser extent, Dean Koontz, Bentley Little, and even Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child have created through the use of recurring settings, characters, themes, and other elements of fiction.

A lack of pretentiousness. Dean Koontz has it, as do Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, Bentley Little, and (to some extent, although he has become condescending and self-indulgent of late, Stephen King); unfortunately, both Dan Simmons and Robert McCammon have become too self-important in their later works, Simmons almost to the point of becoming unreadable. Come on, people, you’re writing about monsters--you should be humble.

Longevity. Writers who have been around for a while usually get better, Stephen King, Dan Simmons, and Robert McCammon excepted.

Pacing. Neither too fast nor too slow. Dean Koontz is good, maybe the best, here, of contemporary horror writers.

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