Lawrence Block and the "Biter Bit" Plot

Copyright 2018 by Gary L. Pullman

Lawrence Block, who started his career as an author by writing erotic pulp fiction novels under such pen names as Jill Emerson, Paul Kavanagh, Sheldon Lord, Andrew Shaw, Don Holliday, Lesley Evans, Lee Duncan, Anne Campbell Clark, and Ben Christopher, wrote, on average, one of these “sex novels,” as they're known in the trade, per month. He's also written many short stories, typically completing one in a single evening or, sometimes, over a weekend, for which reason he calls one collection of his short stories and “novelettes” One Night Stands and Lost Weekends. The anthology contains 25 “one night stands” and three “lost weekends.” Most of them are thrillers, but the book also includes a science fiction story, “Nor Iron Bars a Cage.”

The majority of the stories in this collection are of the so-called “biter bit” variety, which involve a form of poetic justice in which the tables are turned on the antagonist or, sometimes, since Block's fiction is often populated with anti-heroes, the protagonist. The formula is discernible fairly early on, but the stories remain suspenseful because readers wonder how Lawrence will bring about the ironic reversal which ends a particular tale. To say that he's innovative in effecting his resolutions is an understatement. 

Here are a few examples:

“The Bad Night”: Robbers and would-be killers, Benny and Zeke, are subdued and bound by their intended victim, an aging war veteran named Dan.

“The Badger Game”: Dick Baron, a con man, misreads a lonely woman's invitation to have sex with her as a con game, assuming that her husband will arrive to rob him, but Sally English is sincere; when her husband discovers them together, Baron knocks him unconscious before having sex with Sally. Later, Baron is shocked when her husband, having beaten Sally until she'd told him Baron's name, which the husband then used in a bribe paid to the hotel's desk clerk in exchange for Baron's room number, knocks at the con man's door. Forcing his way into Baron's room at gunpoint, the husband shoots and kills him. 

“Bargain in Blood”: At Rita's insistence, Benny Dix, a callow youth, murders her boyfriend, Moe, to win her heart, only to learn, too late, that Rita is aroused by murder, and she stabs Benny to death with the same knife he'd used to kill Moe.

“Bride of Violence”: After saving his girlfriend Rita from a rapist, Jim rapes her himself, despite his knowledge that she was preserving her virginity for their wedding night.

“The Burning Fury”: A woman promises to make a lumberjack “happy,” but, after they leave the bar in which they meet to go to his place, she discovers, too late, that there's only one way to make him happy: he's a sadist.

“The Dope”: A mentally challenged man is astonished that Charlie remains friends with him, even though Charlie served a one-year sentence for the crimes they committed (robbery and manslaughter), while he himself serves a 10-year sentence.

“A Fire at Night”: An arsonist regrets the death of Joe Darkin, a firefighter who'd risked his life seeking to rescue Mrs. Pelton, an obese woman, from the tenement that the arsonist—and the late firefighter's fellow fireman—set earlier that night.

“Frozen Stiff”: Brad Malden, a terminally ill man, decides to commit suicide by shutting himself inside the freezer at his butcher's shop. When his wife Vicki shows up in the company of another man named Jay, Malden realizes they're having an affair. To deny Vicki the double indemnity his life insurance includes for accidental death, Malden rigs a side of lamb with a meat cleaver so that, when he gives the lamb's carcass a swing, the cleaver cuts his throat, making it look as though he were murdered, confident that Vicki's fingerprints, which are “all over the cold-bin door,” will incriminate her.

“Hate Goes Courting”: John murders his older brother Brad after the latter's endless taunts escalate and Brad rapes John's fiance, Margie.

“I Don't Fool Around”: To avenge the murder of criminal Johnny Blue, a veteran cop shoots and kills the murderer, Frank Calder, making it look as though the shooting had been in self-defense. The cop hopes his junior partner, Fischer, who's bothered by the legally unjustified killing, will ask for a new partner.

“Just Window Shopping”: A woman, catching a voyeur peeping at her, invites him into her house, at gunpoint, to have sex with her. When she won't take no for an answer, he shoots her, killing her with her gun, which she'd set aside as she'd pressed herself upon him. Police try to beat a confession out of him, but he refuses to confess to a rape he did not commit.

“Lie Back and Enjoy It”: After an armed woman is raped by the motorist who'd picked her up hitchhiking, she shoots and kills him with a revolver she carries in her purse, telling him that, until he'd raped her, she'd intended only to steal his car and to leave him stranded with “a little money to get home on.” 

“Look Death in the Eye”: A beautiful woman is picked up in a bar by one of the three men she notices are interested in her. At his apartment, she stabs him to death, cuts out his “bright eyes,” and takes them home to keep in a box with others she's collected in the same way.

“Man with a Passion”: Jacob Falch, a blackmailer, is on vacation after having extorted money from a mayor whose wife Falch photographed in various “compromising positions.” Now, Falch encounters Saralee Marshall, a young woman hoping to escape her small-town life by becoming a model. She agrees to pose nude for him in his motel room, where Falch plies her with liquor and has sex with her, only to discover, later, that her boyfriend, Tom Larson, who was hidden in the closet, has photographed them. Informing Falch that Saralee is only seventeen, Larson tells Falch that paying him to suppress the photographs “is going to cost . . . plenty.”

“Murder Is My Business”: A woman invites a hit man to her apartment after hiring him to kill her husband, and they have sex. Afterward, a man hires the hit man to kill someone at a particular address. Now, the hit man has two people to kill on the same night. He kills both of his clients: the man is the husband who's hired the hit man to kill his wife; the woman is the wife who's hired the hit man to kill her husband.

“Nor Iron Bars a Cage”: Two Althean guards discuss their planet's first prison: a 130-foot-tall tower with a cell at its top and sides that slope in, preventing anyone from escaping by climbing down it. Food is delivered by a pneumatic tube, and the prisoner tosses discarded items from the cell's balcony. The guards leave the key to the prisoner's shackles in his cell and wait until he throws them to the ground. Then, the prisoner flaps his wings and flies away, escaping. 

“One Night of Death”: A condemned man's son ties his ex-girlfriend, Betty, to Dan Bookspan, the son of his father's dishonest business partner, for whose murder his own father is being executed at midnight in San Quentin's gas chamber. Then, the condemned man's son turns on the gas jets in his victims' apartment at the same time that his father is being executed in California. In doing so, he obtains revenge on Dan for his having stolen Betty after his own father had killed the elder Bookspan.

“Package Deal”: John Harper, a local banker, hires Castle, a “professional killer,” to murder four small-time criminals who have taken over the seedy activities of Arlington, Ohio. Castle kills all his targets, and then notifies a man in Chicago, who responds, “We'll be down tomorrow.” The implication is that the Chicago party is a mobster. Either Castle has double-crossed Harper, notifying the Chicago gangster that the local competition has been eliminated and that Arlington is now ripe, as it were, for the picking or he has actually been working for the Chicago mobster, rather than for Harper. In either case, a double cross has occurred, a device that gets considerable play in Lawrence's short stories and novels.

“Professional Killer”: Professional killer Harry Varden receives a telephone call from a woman who, without knowing his name, hires him to kill her husband, saying he's boring and she's met another, more exciting man. By killing her husband, she will receive his life insurance and be able to marry her lover. When Harry collects the slip of paper from his post office box, along with his client's payment in full, in cash, he is angry as he learns the name of his target. He calls Pete, another hit man, hiring him to kill his own client, his wife, who has unknowingly hired Harry, her own husband, to kill himself.

“Pseudo Identity”: After renting an apartment in which to spend the nights he works late as a copywriter, bored and boring Howard Jordan gradually assumes an alter ego, that of Roy Baker, a hip, fun-loving guy who is popular with the in-crowd. When he sees his wife, Carolyn, with another man, he poses as her boyfriend, and sets her up, telling her to come to his apartment, where, dressed as Ray Baker, he kills her. In doing so, he realizes, he has also destroyed the life of his alter ego, as he can never again be Ray Baker without risking arrest and trial for Carolyn's murder. His is stuck with Jordan's lackluster, responsible identity and life.

“Ride a White Horse”: Andy Hart's daily routine is disrupted when his favorite bar is forced to close for two weeks for having sold alcohol to a minor. After he eats at the diner he typically frequents, he tries another bar in the neighborhood, the White Horse, where a 24-year-old blonde invites him home with her, and they become a couple, living together as if they were married, buts she doesn't talk about her past, and Andy isn't sure how she can pay her bills without working. The woman, Sara Malone, asks him to pick up a package for her at the local library. He does so, picking up additional packages at the library and elsewhere. He unwraps one and discovers it contains a white powder, which Sara identifies as heroin. Andy quits his job and works full-time for Sara, a pusher, and becomes addicted to heroin, losing interest in Sara. He wants to expand their operation, and, when Sara is hesitant, he stabs her to death.

“A Shroud for the Damned”: An aged mother knits shrouds. When her son becomes a thief to feed them and begins to associate with criminals, she stabs him to death after he dons the shroud. She is confident that the shroud won't only keep him warm on cold nights, but that it will also “keep the evil spirits from him.”

“Sweet Little Racket”: After losing his business, a liquor store, to a chain of stores, an unemployed entrepreneur decides to demand protection money from wealthy businessmen, threatening to kill their children if they don't pay him $50 per week. When he attempts to extort a fifth victim, Alfred Sanders, Sanders tape-records him threatening to harm his son, Jerry. When Jerry is killed by someone who drives a car similar to that of the extortionist, the criminal realizes that Sanders's tape recording will send him to prison.

“The Way to Power”: A corrupt police chief takes one of his cop's advice when the cop, Joe, suggests they frame Lucci, a freelancing bookie, for the murder of a tramp. Joe volunteers to kill the tramp. Instead, he has Lucci come to the chief's house, shoots the chief, then shoots Lucci, and tells the investigating officer Lucci shot the chief for “cracking down on him” and Joe killed Lucci. Joe wonders whether the chief's widow is still awake, commenting to the reader, “I felt powerful as hell.”

Shared or Recurring Element	Stories Featuring Shared or Recurring Element
Robbers	“The Bad Night,” “The Dope”
Con men, blackmailers, and extortionists	“The Badger Game,” “Man with a Passion,” “Sweet Little Racket”
Rapists	“Bride of Violence,” “Hate Goes Courting,” “Lie Back and Enjoy It”
Hit men and other killers	“The Dope,” “A Fire at Night,” “Hate Goes Courting,” “I Don't Fool Around,” “Just Window Shopping,” “”Lie Back and Enjoy It,” “Look Death in the Eye,” “Murder Is My Business,” “One Night of Death,” “Package Deal,”Professional Killer,” “Pseudo Identity” “Ride a White Horse.” “A Shroud for the Damned,” “Sweet Little Racket,” “The Way to Power”
Sadists	“The Blinding Fury,” “Bargain in Blood,” “Look Death in the Eye”
Sex perverts	“Bargain in Blood,” “The Burning Fury,” “Just Window Shopping”
Female character named Rita	“Bargain in Blood,” “Bride of Violence”
Double crosses	“Package Deal,” “Sweet Little Racket,” “The Way to Power”
Fornication, lust, paraphernalia, rape, or seduction	“The Badger Game” (adultery), “Bargain in Blood” (sexual sadism), “Bride of Violence” (rape), “Frozen Stiff” (adultery), “Hate Goes Courting” (sex), “Just Window Shopping” (voyeurism), “Lie Back and Enjoy It” (rape), “Man with a Passion” (statutory rape), “Murder Is My Business” (adultery), “Ride a White Horse” (fornication)

As the table above indicates, in addition to the common “biter bit” plots, these stories share certain types of characters (robbers, con men, rapists, hit men and other killers, sadists, sexual perverts, and lonely men and women); in one case, two stories both feature a woman named Rita. Although some characters are naive, most are wise to the ways of the world, sometimes behaving in a cynical, even cruel, fashion. For example, sex is easily available and, generally, tawdry. The protagonist of “Murder Is My Business” callously murders the same woman with whom, earlier, he'd had sex, and the main character in “Bride of Violence” rapes his own fiancee after having saved her from another rapist.

In having written several, sometimes many, short stories which contain the same elements, Block developed themes and characters that he would later use in series of novels. His hit men become the precursors of his series about “professional killer” Keller, the anti-hero-protagonist of Hit Man, Hit List, Hit Parade, Hit and Run, Hit Me, and Keller's Fedora. Block's style captures the gritty underworld of the big cities in which his stories often take place, and his plots exhibit his familiarity with the vices and crimes committed by those who live in such cities. However, his tales are not limited to big cities; the action in “Lie Back and Enjoy It” seems to take place in the middle of nowhere, while the action in “Man with a Passion,” like that of “A Bad Night,” occurs in or outside small towns.


Structurally, many of Block's stories tend to follow Aristotle's narrative divisions of plot into three parts: beginning, middle, and end:

“Lie Back and Enjoy It”

Beginning: A driver picks up a young woman who's hitchhiking.

Middle: The driver rapes the hitchhiker.

End: The hitchhiker steals the driver's car and kills him.

“Look Death in the Eye”

Beginning: A beautiful woman in a bar waits for one of three admirers to make a pass at her.

Middle: One (“Mr. Bright Eyes”) picks her up.

End: In his apartment, the woman kills him, cuts out his eyes, and leaves with them, adding them to her collection at home.

“Just Window Shopping”

Beginning: A voyeur watches a woman in a shower.

Middle: The woman confronts the voyeur with a gun, inviting him into her home.



End: When the woman, demanding sex, refuses to take no for an answer, the voyeur kills her.

Although Block himself has admitted he's not at his best in creating titles for his stories, those in One Night Stands and Lost Weekends are effective. They're not only eye-catching, but they also tend, in many cases, to hint at, or even to summarize, their stories' plots, especially once it's recognized that he often employs the “biter bit” formula:

“The Burning Fury” suggests the lumberjack's motive for savagely beating a woman he's never met before.

“The Dope” suggests why the mentally challenged robber and killer is easily controlled by his partner in crime and why he continues to regard his “buddy” as a friend, despite the other man's harsh treatment and manipulation of him.

“Frozen Stiff” alludes to a dead body (a “stiff”) and the manner of death (“frozen”), suggesting that the "stiff" froze to death.

“Just Window Shopping” suggests that the voyeur is not interested in “buying” (i. e., in having sex); he's just looking, or “window shopping,” a critical insight into why he refuses the woman's demand for sex and why, despite being beaten by the police, he refuses to confess to rape, a crime he did not (and, indeed, might not have been able to) commit, for it appears that he is probably psychologically impotent.

The idiom used as the title of “Lie Back and Enjoy It” supposedly originates with the Chinese philosopher Confucius, who allegedly said, “If rape is inevitable, lie back and enjoy it.” Certainly a callous and sexist bit of advice, to say the least, the expression introduces the crux of Block's story, which concerns a hitchhiking woman who is raped by a supposedly good Samaritan, the motorist who stops to give her a ride. The phrase also indicates the rapist's indifference to his victim's well-being; when she uses the same idiom, as she is about to shoot and kill the man who has raped her, the irony of her words underscores the poetic (street) justice she's about to deliver. This narrative's title shows how much information and meaning can be implied by the well-chosen name of a story.

By studying these stories, anyone who aspires to writing thrillers, especially of the noir type, can learn the craft.

Horror Fiction: The Appeal of the Need to Aggress

Copyright 2018 by Gary L. Pullman

According to communications professor Jib Fowles, we all have the need to aggress, or to be aggressive. He attributes this need to the pent-up frustrations and tensions of everyday life. Typically, people repress the impulse to act aggressively, as society frowns upon eruptions of violence. We are taught to use our words, rather than our fists (or knives or guns). For advertisers, appeals to the need to aggress can backfire, Fowles warns, causing potential consumers to “turn against what is being sold.” Therefore, advertisements often substitute gestures (a raised middle finger, sarcastic “gibes,” or the insistence of getting “the last word in”).

Horror movie directors don't need to be quite as sensitive to alienating their audiences, although even they are not granted total license. In the United Kingdom (UK) and elsewhere, Cannibal Holocaust was banned for its extreme violence. The UK and other countries have also banned The Human Centipede, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Cemator, Peeping Tom (aka Le Voyeur), Friday the 13^th, Dead and Buried, The House on the Edge of the Park, The Devils, Just Before Dawn, Antichrist, Nekromantic, I Spit on Your Grave, Saw VI, Hell of the Living Dead, The Return of the Living Dead, Halloween, Land of the Dead, and Evil Dead. Although some of these films were banned for legal reasons (e. g., obscenity), religious (e. g., blasphemy), or political reasons (e. g., unflattering depictions of a particular regime), most were banned because of the extreme violence of their contents. In particular, the slasher film is often cited by feminists and others as misogynistic, sexist, and chauvinistic, since the victims are mostly, if not exclusively, women and the serial killer is almost always a male who kills his prey using a knife or other “phallic” weapon.

On the other side of the coin, critics who defend even extreme violence in cinema and other forms of fiction, such as novels, contend that such displays or descriptions of violence provide an emotional outlet for the impulse to injure or kill, helping people to vent these antisocial and dangerous emotions. Aristotle is one of the earliest critics to argue a similar point in his Poetics's theory that drama promotes catharsis.

Reading horror novels or watching horror movies has been shown to cause physiological responses, such as an increase in respiration and heartbeat, muscle tension, elevated cortisol levels (cortisol is the 'stress hormone”), increased eye movement, a “spike: in adrenaline levels, and a release of dopamine. Most likely, these responses are associated with the fight-or-flight impulse. If we believe that we can eliminate a perceived threat, we will fight; otherwise, we will take flight. Our physiological responses to fear energize and otherwise equip us to take either action.

In a psychological and aesthetic context, some believe that these physiological responses may be a reason that readers and audiences enjoy being frightened. At the same time, theorists believe, readers and audiences are secure in the knowledge that the events unfolding on the page or the screen are purely imaginary, so there is no existential threat to them.

In any case, it seems clear that the appeal of horror fiction lies, in part to its appeal to the need to aggress that everyone feels but, fortunately, few act upon and fewer still to the degree shown in the most violent horror films or described in the pages of the most ferocious horror novels.

Challenging (and Following) Literary Conventions

Copyright 2018 by Gary L. Pullman

Today, many people believe that the conventions of literature are as old as literature itself. Such is not the case. H. G. Wells experimented with many approaches to telling short stories and lamented the standardization of the form that began to develop during the later part of his career, believing that experimentation kept short stories innovative and intriguing.

Even earlier, Edgar Allan Poe also struggled with some of the prejudices of his day concerning what was acceptable in writing fiction. As Kevin J. Hayes, the editor of The Annotated Poe, points out, in a note on the text of Poe's “debut tale,” “Metzengerstein”:

[Poe] added the subtitle [“A Tale in Imitation of the German”] to forestall complaints about his gothicism or, as the gothic style was also known, “Germanism.” In his preface to Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, Poe offers a defense of his Germanism: 'If in many of my publications terror has been the thesis,' he observes, 'I maintain that terror is not of Germany, but of the soul' (I, 6).

Although, as Hayes notes, “Eastern European settings are characteristic of much gothic fiction,” American authors pressed for the use of American settings. The West, in particular, was considered fertile ground for American stories. Possibly, they encouraged American settings in an effort to establish a literature that was distinctly American, a feat that is often attributed to Mark Twain. On this point, Poe took issue as well. Although he agreed, Hayes says, that “American authors should strive for originality,” he also believed that “they must be free to use whatever settings they wish” and thought, further, that “imaginary landscapes have greater potential than actual ones,” setting many of his own tales in fantastic realms.

In literature, as in all things, conventions are necessary; they impose standards and, therefore, bring order to a discipline or an enterprise, making predictions possible. In reading horror stories, readers expect certain elements to be present and for particular incidents to occur. Often, such stories follow a formula familiar to readers of the genre, and authors depart from this formula at their own peril. However, as Poe and other writers have pointed out, conventions can also be too restrictive, thwarting innovation and creativity. Occasionally, as in the cases of Wells, Poe, surrealist writers, and authors, such as William S. Burroughs, conventions are set aside or violated, and new approaches to creative writing emerge.

However, for the most part, the marketplace is the final arbiter of what is published, and publishers want what their customers, readers, want: conventional, if not formulaic, stories that are largely predictable (but allow enough plot twists to maintain interest). It would be absurd to suggest that Poe was not innovative or creative. Not only did he invent the modern horror story and the detective story, but he was also an early practitioner of science fiction and adventure. His writing also identifies several personality disorders, including bipolar disorder, that were unidentified in his day.

At the same time, however, as Hayes observes, Poe made changes to his stories for no other reason than to make them more marketable:

Poe made few changes to “Berenice” when he included the story in Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque, but when he revised it in 1845 for the Broadway Journal, he softened the tale considerably. Poe scholars tend to assume that every time Poe revised a story he did so for aesthetic reasons. With “Berenice,” his reasons were pragmatic.

 

There is a “golden mean,” Aristotle suggested in his Eudemian Ethics, between two extremes, and it is this meeting place, the philosopher suggested, that minds should aspire to reach. Poe's fiction suggests that he is content to compromise at times, on some points, but not always. As a writer, he has his principles.

Chillers and Thrillers: The Fiction of Fear

copyright 2007 by Gary L. Pullman

I once read somewhere that, although there are many ways to inflict death, there is, ultimately, only one cause of death--cessation of oxygen to the brain.

Something is similar with regard to the ultimate object of fear. Many persons, places, and things instill fear, but they all do it the same way--by threatening us with loss. The loss with which we're threatened is related to a significant possession, to something that we value highly: life, limb, mind, health, a loved one, and life itself are some possibilities.

It's been argued that we fear the unknown. I think that, yes, we do fear the unknown, but only because it may be associated with a possible threat to us or to something or someone else we value.

What is death? Simply annihilation? Or, as Hamlet suggests, is death but a prelude to something much worse, to possible damnation and an eternity of pain and suffering in which we're cut off from both God and humanity? That's loss, too--loss of companionship, friendship, communion, fellowship, and love. Against such huge losses, annihilation looks pretty cozy.

Horror fiction--the fiction of fear--wouldn't have much to offer us, though, if all it did was make us afraid of death and/or hell. It does do more, though, quite a bit more, as it turns out, which is why it's important in its own way.

First, if Stephen King (by way of Aristotle) is right, horror fiction provides a means both of exercising and of exorcising our inner demons. It allows us to become the monster for a time in order to rid ourselves of the nasty feelings and impulses we occasionally entertain. Horror fiction is cathartic. It allows us to vent the very feelings that, otherwise, bottled up inside, might make us become the monster permanently and drive us, as such, to murder and mayhem.

Horror fiction provides us with a way of exercising and of exorcising our inner demons, but it also reminds us that life is short, and it suggests to us that we should be grateful to be alive, that we should appreciate what we have, and that we should take nothing for granted--not life, limb, mind, health, loved ones, or anything else. Horror fiction is a literary memento mori, or reminder of death. In the shadow of death, we appreciate and enjoy the fullness of life.

No one ever wrote a horror story about a man who stubbed his toe or a woman who broke a nail. Horror fiction's themes are bigger; they're more important. They're as vast and profound as the most critically important and most highly valued of all things. Horror fiction, by threatening us with the loss of that which is really important, shows us what truly matters. As such, it's a guide, implicitly, to the good life.

Horror fiction also shows us, sometimes, at least, that no matter how bad things are, we can survive our losses. We can regroup, individually or collectively, subjectively or objectively, and we can continue to fight the good fight.

Chillers and thrillers are important for all these reasons and at least one other. They're entertaining to read or watch; they're fun!

Sources Cited:

Aristotle, Poetics.

King, Stephen, "Why We Crave Horror Movies," originally published in Playboy, 1982.

Ironic Endings

Copyright 2010 by Gary L. Pullman

In “Spectral Forms,” a chapter of The Gothic Vision: Three Centuries of Horror, Terror, and Fear, Dani Cavallaro presents an observation with which, one might expect, most readers would agree: “Many people would probably be disinclined to confront disembodied voices and floating shapes, let alone share a dwelling with them.” However, having established this seemingly self-evident premise, she introduces “some potentially amusing exceptions, not only in fiction but also in real life,” one of which is recounted in Karen Farrington’s The History of the Supernatural and involves a homeowner who, disappointed that his recently purchased house has not lived up to its reputation, so to speak, of being haunted, sues the seller for what amounts to fraud (79).

Cavallaro’s example provides the basis for introducing a spin or a twist to one’s tale, which, although simple, is, or can be, effective, depending upon one’s treatment of it: suggest that one’s narrative will be resolved in one direction, but end the story in the opposite way. Such an approach depends upon the use of situational irony that is effected through the human mind’s seemingly natural tendency to think in, and, indeed, to create, polarities. The one to which Farrington, through Cavallaro, alludes involves that of the undesirable (the rule, as it were, which applies to interacting with “disembodied voices and floating shapes”) and the desirable (the “exception” to this rule, represented by the disappointed homeowner’s hope of encountering a ghost in the supposedly haunted house he’s recently purchased).

To apply this formula to other narratives, which may or may not involve ghosts or rumors of ghosts, a writer need only to construct a pair of opposites, drive his or her narrative toward one of the two possibilities for resolution, so that, unexpectedly, the story ends in the opposite manner to that which the author has led the reader to expect the tale will conclude. Alfred Hitchcock does this in Psycho. Encouraging viewers to assume that Norman Bates' mother has committed murder, the resolution of the plot shares the secret that it is the protagonist himself, who, impersonating his deceased mother, kills his victims. The movie The Others, directed by Alejandro Amenábar and starring Nicole Kidman as Grace Newman, is an example of this technique at work as well. The film suggests that Grace and her children are haunted by a family of ghosts when, in fact, as it turns out, it is she and her children who are the ghosts who haunt the house’s human tenants. Likewise, in The Sixth Sense, directed by M. Night Shyamalan and starring Bruce Willis as Dr. Malcolm Crowe, a child psychologist, who helps Cole Sear, a disturbed boy with dark secrets and claims to see ghosts, one of these phantoms, as it turns out, is Crowe himself, who has returned from the dead, after having been murdered by another patient, named Vincent, to assist Cole and to find closure for his own previous existence.

Shyamalan is a notoriously uneven director with more failures than successes to his credit, and his unsuccessful ventures, Lady in the Water and The Happening in particular, show how an inept handling of situational irony results in the introduction of a plot twist that leaves an audience disappointed and annoyed rather than satisfied.

Rather than constituting an integral part of the overall plot, many of the director’s endings appear tacked on, as it were, solely to deliver the supposed surprise for which he and his films have become known. The surprise endings are forced to fit, having become the trademark for his films.

To the contrary, Psycho, The Others, and, yes, even The Sixth Sense represent effective ways to employ situational irony to create a surprise ending; in each case, the endings issue from the characters of the protagonists: Norman Bates’ transvestism is a manifestation of his dead mother’s unbreakable hold upon his ego; Grace Newman’s guilt in murdering her own children caused her to kill herself and to spend what appears to be purgatory for her sins; Malcolm Crowe comes back from the dead the business of the living which has led to his own untimely demise and his failed marriage.

The twist ending to The Happening (a toxin secreted by plants who are mad as hell and are not going to take it anymore from environmentally insensitive people who pollute the planet are causing people to go insane and kill themselves) has no bearing upon the personal crisis of the protagonist (whose problem appears to be that his wife had lunch with a male coworker). Thousands of years ago, in Poetics, Aristotle wrote of the necessity for the end of a narrative to be integral to everything that precedes it rather than being a dues ex machina that unrealistically and illogically concludes the tale. This is a lesson lost on the likes of Shyamalan, apparently, but, when a plot twist is executed with finesse, it can introduce a surprise ending that both jolts and satisfies. The films of Alfred Hitchcock, Alejandro Amenábar, and, indeed, Shayamalan (at one time, for a film or two) are proof of this.

Alternate Endings: When One Conclusion Is As Good As Another

Copyright 2010 by Gary L. Pullman

Aristotle condemned the irrelevant, tacked-on endings with which the playwrights of his day sometimes concluded their dramas (Poetics), and, Edgar Allan Poe contended that the end of a story should be implicit in and follow from the narrative’s beginning (“The Philosophy of Composition”), although not in an obvious way. Apparently, some filmmakers disagree, for, recently, alternate endings seem to have become all the rage.

According to the fine folk of Wikipedia (whoever they may be), “alternate ending is a term used (usually in movies) to describe the ending of a story that was planned or debated but ultimately unused in favor of the actual ending. Generally, alternate endings are considered to have no bearing on the canonical narrative” (“Alternate Ending”). (By “canonical,” the anonymous authors presumably mean the film as it was actually released.)

The online encyclopedia article offers a list of twenty eight alternate endings, including those of 1408, Army of Darkness, and I Know What You Did Last Summer.

In 1408, “Mike Enslin dies in the fire he causes. At his burial, his wife is approached by the hotel manager, offering his personal belongings. She refuses [to accept them], and he lets her know that her husband did not die in vain. Back in his vehicle[,] he listens to the tape recorder, and screams in fear as he sees Enslin’s burned[,] deformed body in his back seat for only a moment. The film closes with an apparition of Mike Enslin still in 1408, muttering to himself, and finally exiting the room, hearing his daughters [sic] voice” (“1408 [film]”).

In Army of Darkness, “after Ash drinks the potion that would make him sleep long enough to wake up in his own time, he accidentally drinks too much and wakes up in the future. In the new time[,] it's a post-apocalyptic wasteland of a world and he screams ‘I slept too long!’” (“Army of Darkness”).

In I Know What You Did Last Summer, “Julie receives an invite [sic] to a pool party and read[s] an email that reads ‘I still know” ("I Know What You Did Last Summer [film]").

Those who have seen these films are likely to agree that their actual endings are more satisfying and integral to their stories than these alternate possibilities.

1408 ends with Enslin recovering “in a New York hospital, Lily at his bedside. He swears that he saw Katie, but Lily refuses to believe him. After his recovery[,] Enslin moves back in with Lily, beginning work on a new novel about his stay in 1408. While sorting through a box of items from his night in 1408[,] that [sic] Lily wants to discard, Enslin comes across his Mini Cassette recorder. After some difficulty[,] he manages to get the tape to play; it begins with Enslin's dictation of 1408’s appearance, but cuts in with audio from his interaction with the apparition of his daughter. [In shock,] Lily, who is standing by him[,] listening to the audio, drops a box she was holding. . . . The scene ends with Enslin staring at Lily's face” (Wikipedia, “1408 [film]”).

Army of Darkness concludes “with Ash back at the S-Mart store, telling a co-worker all about his adventure back in time, and how he could have been king. After this, a deadite starts wreaking havoc on the store (it is implied that he again raised the dead by saying the wrong words needed to travel through time), and Ash slays the creature. The film ends with Ash. . . saying, ‘Sure I could have been King, but in my own way, I am a king.’ He then says out loud, while kissing a female customer, ‘Hail to the King, baby!’” (Wikipedia, “Army of Darkness”).

In I Know What You Did Last Summer, Julie “receives a letter resembling the one she had got[ten] from Ben, but it. . . contains [only] a pool party invitation. Julie returns to the bathroom, which has filled with steam. On the shower door, ‘I STILL KNOW’ is written. Ben jumps through the shower door, attacking her” (Wikipedia, “I Know What You Did Last Summer [film]”).

The Wikipedia articles concerning the alternate endings of two of these movies explain why they were dropped and the movies’ existing endings were substituted. The reactions of test audiences at screenings of the movies before their public release did not favor the original (that is, the “alternate”) endings or studio executives ordered that a different ending be filmed:

“Director Mikael Håfström has stated that the ending for 1408 was reshot [sic] because test audiences felt that the original ending was too much of a ‘downer’”, [sic] and “when test audiences didn’t approve of [Sam] Raimi's original ending [to Army of Darkness], he cut the film down to the international cut that now exists on DVD. When it was again rejected by Universal, Raimi was forced to edit it again to the U.S. [sic] theatrical version.” (No explanation as to why the original ending to I Know What You Did Last Summer is provided by the authors of its Wikipedia article.)

In short stories and novels, which are usually produced by a lone author or, occasionally, a pair of collaborators, no advance audience reacts to the narratives’ endings before the stories or novels are published. The emphasis is upon the artwork, not the public’s reaction to it. In other words, the artists determine how and why their work should end the way that it does, and Aristotle and Poe, among others, provide the guidance that most such writers follow in ending their stories: the conclusion must both be logical and organic, as it were, flowing from the narrative’s structure, from the very beginning, and not tacked on for convenience’s sake or, these critics probably would have contended, their audience’s, readers’, or producers’ approval. Whose take is wiser, those of Aristotle and Poe or the Hollywood film industry’s? The filmmakers or their audiences? Or is the very question itself a false dilemma? Could the filmmakers be right in some cases and the test audiences’ reactions be correct in others? It’s impossible to say for certain, but devising several possible alternate endings may be useful as a tool for sustaining situational irony until the very end of a story, although, in the end, a writer should be more concerned with his or her art than with pleasing the reader (or the audience).

Parenthetical Explanation

Copyright 2010 by Gary L. Pullman

In a previous post, I discussed The Others as an example of a well-made movie whose twist (some might add, “twisted”) ending depends upon situational irony, which occurs when a situation sets up an expectation as to its resolution that is met in some other way than the audience has been led to believe--a bait-and-switch tactic of sorts, one might say. This film sets up not one, but three, possible explanations for the bizarre events that occur in an island mansion: the house is haunted, the protagonist is losing her mind, her servants are conspiring against her, perhaps to wrest her home away from her and her children. However, although it fulfills all of these expectations, the film resolves them in an unanticipated manner: Grace is insane, but she is also a ghost who is in purgatory as a result of having smothered her children, facts of which her servants hope to make her aware when they judge the time to be right.

Stories are not usually told in a straightforward fashion. Instead, the chronology of events typically is shuffled, so to speak, reordered so as to best capitalize on the drama inherent in and among them. Many stories, for example, begin in media res, or “in the middle of things,” relying upon flashbacks to fill in the details of the plot as the story progresses. A story that develops several alternative--or apparently alternative--storylines, the better to mislead the reader is even more difficult to plot than stories that don’t depend upon situational irony for their effect. Bizarre incidents are exciting, but they’re not ultimately satisfying unless they are explained or, at least, explicable. No one likes a tacked-on ending, or deus ex machina, and a story that fails to explain itself is equally unsatisfying.

It is easy, when a writer is telling a complicated story, such as The Others, or an unusually long story, such as most Stephen King novels, to overlook an explanation of this incident or that, frustrating the reader and decreasing the verisimilitude of one’s narrative. That’s where the technique of what I call parenthetical exposition can pay big dividends during the plotting process. The idea’s as simple as it is effective: as you write a synopsis of tour story’s planned action, include, at appropriate points, parenthetical explanations of why a particular bizarre and mysterious incident or set of circumstances occurs. Reserve the parentheses for this purpose.

Although you probably won’t want to explain the cause of the incidents or circumstances at the time that you describe them, as you write the story, you will have devised the reasons, motives, or foundations of the incidents or circumstances ahead of time and you will not, as a result, leave your readers hanging (and annoyed) as a result. At the appropriate moment, usually somewhere after the middle of the story, you can reveal the cause of these incidents or circumstances as appropriate opportunities to do so present themselves. The protagonist, for example, may discover the origin or the nature of the monstrous antagonist or the secrets related to the haunting of a house or other location; the protagonist may discuss with other characters a chain of events, thereby gaining insight as to the cause of these events; an external event or circumstance may enlighten the character as to the true nature of the threat he or she faces. In any case, you will have explained the reason, motive, or cause of each situation or incident when you plotted the story, explaining it in parentheses following your description of the phenomenon.

Teleology and Horror

Copyright 2008 by Gary L. Pullman

The evolution of hair, of eyes, of noses, of mouths, of sex and the sexes--these are fascinating topics, and they point, each one, to sometimes disturbing, sometimes revolting, but always fascinating, moments in which something original arose out of nature or creation, usually in response to a need. But in anticipation of a need to come?

Impossible, one might suppose--but what if evolution isn’t blind; what if it’s an instrument of an all-knowing, all-seeing God? In other words, what if evolution is teleological? (The very word “teleology,” of course, itself breeds horror among atheistic evolutionists, in whose number Charles Darwin did not, by the way, count himself any more than did the Catholic theologian and evolutionist Pierre Teilhard de Chardin.)

Teleology, in relation to evolution, suggests that organisms develop along lines that are purposeful and goal-directed. Teleologists argue that, rather than being determined by its environment and the stimuli that it provides, the organism and its organs are determined by its (and their) purpose. For example, people have physical senses because they need to see, hear, touch, taste, and smell; they don’t sense things because they have senses.


The view of metaphysical naturalism that atheistic evolutionists hold and the view of ontogenesis that teleologists hold have moral implications concerning minerals, plants, animals, and humans. The former assumes that organisms are what they are and that they are neither good nor evil nor better nor worse than one another. The latter view is often the basis for the concept of lesser and greater organisms which each have a correspondingly lower or higher place in the cosmic chain of being. To personalize these views, one might say that Lucretius and Aldous Huxley hold the former view and that Aristotle and Pierre Teilhard de Chardin hold the latter view.

Nothing in the body is made in order that we may use it. What happens to exist is the cause of its use. -- Lucretius. (In other words, function follows form)

Nature adapts the organ to the function, and not the function to the organ. -- Aristotle. (In other words, form follows function.)

These contrasting views of evolution frequently fuel speculative fiction, especially the science fiction branch of it, but they have also occasionally driven horror fiction, especially if one holds, as it seems easy enough to do, that human beings are natural organisms that have evolved to a point that is sufficient for them to begin, through such means as agricultural hybridization, eugenics, genetic engineering, and cloning, to direct evolution, for even adherents of metaphysical naturalism must find it difficult to deny any possibility of purposeful and goal-directed activity to human behavior in its entirety. We have become the gods that nature, perhaps blindly, or that God, with forethought, intended, us to become, and we are now capable, to whatever limited and clumsy degree, of determining the direction and the purpose of nature, as many a horror story involving the experimental procedures of mad scientists have indicated.

If Harry Harrison’s Deathworld trilogy is an example of the function-follows-form theory of evolution (the whole planet and everything in it has evolved to survive at the expense of all other plants and animals), the Terminator film series (especially the original) is an example of the form-follows-function theory of evolution (cyborgs have been created to seek and kill a specific individual and anyone or anything else that gets it its way, and they even build themselves). Both result in scary worlds in which one is apt to end up dead. Which method of execution seems scarier may come down to two questions:

1. Would you rather be killed by a natural, organic monstrosity that responds to the stimulus of your presence by killing you or by a technological monstrosity that kills you because it’s programmed to do so?
2. Is there an intelligence operating the universe (that is, nature) behind the scenes, so to speak and, if so, is this intelligence gracious or cruel, loving or malevolent?

Nature Red in Tooth and Claw

copyright 2008 by Gary L. Pullman

Little Red Riding Hood: “Grandma! What big teeth you have!” Wolf: “The better to eat you with, my dear!”

Herbert Spencer, not Charles Darwin, originated the phrase “the survival of the fittest,” making evolution a sort of game in which the winner is the organism or the species of organisms (depending upon one’s view concerning whether the ultimate survivor will be an individual or a species) that eliminates all competitors. The poet Alfred Lord Tennyson coined the phrase “nature red in tooth and claw.” From Spencer’s point of view (and Tennyson’s), it’s a jungle out there. It’s a wonder that it wasn’t one of them, rather than Harry Harrison, who wrote the sci fi Deathworld trilogy, in which a planet’s wildlife develops with no other purpose than to kill or to be killed. Spencer’s (and Tennyson’s) view of evolution is a convenient basis for horror (and science fiction) stories, regardless of whether, from scientific and philosophical points of view, it’s true. However, the views of another early evolutionist are, perhaps, even more useful to horror and science fiction writers.

The puma: scary!

For most scientists, evolution is a case of function follows form. In other words, we have ears; therefore, we hear. By the way, their theory answers, once and for all, it would seem, the philosophical koan which asks whether a tree, falling in a forest in which no one is present, makes a sound. No. (There are no ears to hear.)

But what if Aristotle, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, and Jean-Baptiste Lemarck are right? What if evolution is really a case of form following function and we developed ears purposely so that we could hear? In a word, what if evolution is teleological rather than accidental?

 

Lemarck, once very popular among his peers, has since, like Lucifer, fallen from favor among the host of Darwinian evolutionists and has been cast into their version of hell (extinction). However, his views are interesting and pertinent to horror writers who are always searching for relatively plausible (all right, not absolutely unbelievable) ways to explain the monsters with which they populate the pages and film footage of their stories. And they seem, in some quarters, poised to return. Therefore, in the interests of the theory and practice of horror fiction, we’ll explore Lemarck’s theory--in summary fashion, of course. Then, we’ll consider a few possible applications of his theory to horror and science fiction.

 

He believed, and taught others to believe (but with possibly little lasting effect) that an organism can pass acquired characteristics on to their offspring. The characteristics thus transmitted from parent to offspring are necessary or helpful in promoting the species’ (and the individuals’) survival. The classic example of his theory is the giraffe’s neck. Needing to graze the leaves of trees, the animal continually stretched its neck until, eventually, the neck elongated and was genetically transmitted to its offspring.

 

Two principles govern Lemarckian thought: use it or lose it (unused characteristics are tossed while useful ones are acquired and retained) and family heirlooms, in the form of ancestors’ traits, are passed down through the generations. His view explains not only giraffes, followers claim, but athletes and thinkers and beautiful people, among others, for athletes have the physical prowess their athletic ancestors developed, thinkers the well-developed brains of their forebears, and beautiful people the aesthetically pleasing features their near and distant relatives share (or shared) with them. It’s not so good, perhaps, in explaining the continued existence of ninety-eight-pound weaklings, idiots, and the physically repugnant except to say that they are on their way out; their days are numbered. However, a little innovative thinking can, perhaps, discover a need for such otherwise undesirable traits and, thereby, save them from the damnation of eternal extinction.

 

According to later proponents of Lemarck’s views, unused organs and other structures likewise perish over time, becoming weaker and weaker until, eventually, they vanish. One might cite the appendix and the coccyx, or tailbone, as examples of vanishing organs, and some would include, among other body parts, the little fingers and toes. The surviving characteristics are then passed on to the kids. Environmental changes introduce new needs, and, as a result, the organism’s behavior changes, leading to the eventual acquisition of altered organs and characteristics which are then passed on to junior.

Tyranosaur: scarier!

 

Harvard University’s William McDougall and Ivan Pavlov were both Lemarckian scientists. On the bases of their research, they believed that acquired characteristics--rats’ learned ability to navigate mazes and similar skills--were passed on to the offspring of the animals that originally acquired them. Other scientists, including Ted Steele, Eva Jablonka and Marion J. Lamb, and John Cairns, have also observed behaviors at the cellular and microscopic levels that they attribute to a Lemarckian sort of genetics.

 

What are the implications of Lemarkian evolution theory for horror (and sci fi) writers? We can think of a few, and you can probably think of a slew.

Serial killers shouldn’t have children, for one thing, because the facility for killing other people that they’ve acquired from long and frequent practice is an acquired trait that they could pass on to their children. We don’t need a Ted Bundy, Jr. or a little John Wayne Gacy. One was plenty.

 

Ugliness might be helpful in some situations. It may not be handy in getting a date on Saturday night, but it could be useful in frightening away potential threats, which is why we wear Halloween masks and costumes and why mothers-in-law and other animals exhibit what scientists call “threat displays,” erecting their hair, expanding their muscles and chests, opening their mouths, and rearing onto their hind legs. The ugliest among us might still be with us because their ugliness is useful to their survival and to that of their children. Maybe they can’t compete in other ways, through intelligence, good looks, or by being a sycophant. They use their ugliness, so they don’t lose it. If so, might that not explain monsters? Few creatures are uglier than a gorgon, the extraterrestrials of Predator and Alien, or the monsters in H. P. Lovecraft’s fiction.

 

We should be careful concerning what we’re doing to our environment, because, if we change it enough or in the wrong way, the planet could become a breeding ground for new and improved, but not necessarily pleasant, behaviors which, in turn, could result in the development of dreadful organs and characteristics that are passed from mommy and daddy mutant to baby mutant. In such a modified environment, a nocturnal individual or group of individuals, finding daytime activity risky or just not worth the effort, might enter a catatonic state until nightfall and, faced with the need to acquire blood quickly and readily as a source of nutrients, it might develop fangs and come out at dark to suck the blood of Paris Hilton and other late-night partygoers. Viola! Thanks to Lemarckian evolutionary theory, vampires would no longer be merely fictitious beings (except, perhaps, for the undead and immortality issues).

 

Since advertising is based upon supplying needs, real or perceived, we might wonder what generations of commercials concerning perfume, beer, fashion, and the like are making of us and our children and who, besides business leaders, might be behind such campaigns and why. Are ads changing our cognitive environment? Are they identifying or creating needs that are not only lucrative, but also antisocial and harmful to society in general? 

 

There’s a wealth of conspiracy theory-driven fiction here, it seems, with an array of possible culprits and motives. In a world in which form and function both follow need, anything is possible, especially if we include perceived as well as actual needs, and nature, already red in tooth and claw, might become red in maw as well.

Explanations For Evil

copyright 2008 by Gary L. Pullman

Iniquity is a mystery.

Despite penis envy, the Oedipus complex, phallic women, and Rorschach inkblots, we really don’t know what makes people do evil.

A lot of theories have been advanced over the years: ignorance, sin, indifference, emotional instability or mental illness resulting from childhood trauma or abuse, genetic abnormalities, birth defects, and even the devil. Although these theories have shed some light on the mystery of iniquity, wickedness remains inscrutable.

Nevertheless, authors of horror stories, whether the stories appear in print or on film, must offer at least a plausible explanation for the evil that occurs in their narratives. We live in a cause-and-effect universe, after all (or so, at least, we want to believe). Therefore, there must be a cause of--an explanation for--all events, situations, and behaviors, including--and maybe especially--those that don’t make a whole lot of sense.

The explanations don’t have to hold water. Not well, anyway. They do have to fall this side of “impossible” on the plausibility continuum, though. They have to be believable if not provable, credible if not verifiable, acceptable if not certifiable. Since horror stories begin with bizarre incidents or situations that, at some point in the narrative (usually just before the turning point), must be explained in some way, the explanations are important, and audiences expect to read or hear something that doesn’t insult their intelligence.

Sure, they know that, should they examine the explanation carefully, it’s likely to explain away more than to explain, but, as long as it doesn’t sound too far-fetched at the moment it’s trotted out, they’ll be willing to give it the benefit of the doubt. It’s only when the explanation is vague and shifty and half-hearted (as in the otherwise-superb novels of Bentley Little) or inane (as in Night Shyamalan’s latest film, The Happening, that audiences will wonder why they ever plunked down their hard-earned money to read or see something so idiotic.

So the explanations may be just this side of ridiculous, as long as they’re there and don’t actually insult the audience’s intelligence, but they must also fit the bizarre situations or series of incidents that are supposedly their effects. There must be some discernable logic--or even emotional relationship--among the cause and its effects. There must be a sense, on the part of the readers or moviegoers, that the cause “fits” the effects, either logically or emotionally (or, ideally, both).

If the author can set up one explanation that seems both plausible and rationally or emotionally satisfying, only to replace it with a second, better (or, at least, not worse) explanation that accounts for everything, so mush the better. Dean Koontz does this in The Taking. The bizarre series of events that is initially suspected to result from an advance party of invading aliens’ attempts to reverse-terraform the earth so that its atmosphere and environment are friendly to the attacking species turns out to be the result of an attack upon the planet by none other than Satan and his demons--and, yes, Koontz manages to bring this rather incredible plot twist off.

The-devil-made-me-do-it is a popular explanation for the evil deeds of characters in horror stories, of course, and has been since the books of Genesis and Job. The devil stirs up trouble in William Peter Blatty’s The Exorcist, Stephen King’s Desperation and The Regulators, and such movies as The Exorcism of Emily Rose, Rosemary’s Baby, and The Omen. Aliens are other popular sources of the madness and mayhem in horror movies, as Alien and its sequels and many other horror movies, from Invaders from Mars, The Blob, and The Thing From Another World to Independence Day, and The War of the Worlds indicates. Vampires, witches, mummies, ghosts, werewolves, and zombies are other popular explanations for the occurrence of the horrific incidents and situations of horror stories.

Horror maestro Stephen King

One way to consider a lot of the explanations horror fiction has put forth for the evils that this genre of fiction depicts (and sometimes celebrates) is to consider some of the major novels of Stephen King (stories with identical causes are excluded, as are those for which no more than a mere mention is given on King’s website:

What makes one explanation for the bizarre incidents and situations in a horror story acceptable to an audience while another explanation for such happenings is not? Here are a few possibilities:

• Magical Thinking. No, we don’t live in a pre-scientific age during which magical thinking is part and parcel of one’s worldview, but, were we to be honest, we’d have to admit that, even in the twenty-first century, after having put a man on the moon, we still believe in magic, at least on a gut level. How else do we explain such notions as penis envy, the Oedipus complex, phallic women, and Rorschach inkblots? How else do we understand the way television signal transmissions and receptions operate or gravity or thermodynamics? The scientists among us may be able to answer some of the questions we have concerning the universe and our place in it, but they also admit that many of their statements are analogical or metaphorical, rather than literal, meaning that, beyond a certain level, they have no idea what they’re talking about. As Sir William Frazier points out in The Golden Bough, there are basically two types of magic: sympathetic, or imitative, magic and the magic of correspondence. Both rely upon magical thinking--the belief that non-scientific relationships among phenomena can be of such a nature that one somehow (mysteriously) affects or controls another. Sympathetic magic rests upon the premise that one can obtain the results that he or she imitates. Want to cause someone to suffer a heart attack? Stick a pin into voodoo doll’s chest. Correspondence rests upon the premise that one can influence what occurs to one person, place, or thing by manipulating another person, place, or thing to which the former is somehow related. Astrology (“as above, so below”) is a perfect example: the positions of heavenly bodies affect and determine one’s fate. According to The Skeptic’s Dictionary, sympathetic magic is probably behind such beliefs as those pertaining to “most forms of divination. . . voodoo. . . psychometry. . . psychic detectives. . . graphologists. . . karma. . . synchronicity. . . homeopathy” and, of course, magic itself. This list indicates that, pre-scientific age or not, ours is still one in which there are a great many believers in magic and the thinking that underlies it.
• Recognition. Emotion, rather than logic, can be sufficient grounds for many of us to accept an explanation as appropriate and satisfying. To be emotionally acceptable to us, the explanation for the horror story’s uncanny events must suggest that the truth that the main character learns about him- or herself and/or the world, including others, is a natural, even inevitable, consequence of his or her experience. In other words, given what has happened to him or her, the protagonist has no other alternative but to draw the conclusions that he or she draws concerning the cause of these events--and the cause will have to do with his or her own behavior. Carrie’s explanation for the bizarre incidents that take place in the novel (and the movie based upon the novel) is acceptable to its readers (and viewers) because Stephen King ties the incidents to the existential and psychological states of the protagonist whose telekinesis, in service to her damaged emotions, self-image, and thinking, causes the murder and mayhem that she unleashes upon her tormentors, almost as an afterthought, once she realizes that, despite appearances to the contrary, nothing has changed, and she is still the target of other people’s prejudices and hatred.
• Tradition, or Familiarity. Once a type of monster gains acceptance from the general public, usually as a result of its traditional use, its reference as the cause of the story’s eerie events is accepted for the sake of the narrative, even if (as is likely) it is rejected on the rational level. In other words, readers and viewers are willing to suspend their disbelief. This tendency on the part of readers and moviegoers to accept traditional monsters as the causes of bizarre incidents is the basis for the use of demons, ghosts, mummies, vampires, werewolves, and the like as causal agents in horror stories. Familiarity may breed contempt, but it can also generate a grudging acceptance of causality which, otherwise, would be summarily dismissed. “Oh, it’s a werewolf. Okay, then.”
• Analogy. To be persuasive as a cause of the horror story’s horrific events, an explanation must be detailed. There must be a series of correspondences between the alleged cause and the alleged effects. In other words, one must be able to infer, on the basis of the similarities between two things that these same two things are alike in yet other ways (“A” is like “B.” “B” has property “C.” Therefore, “A” has property “C.”) Analogies are notoriously unreliable and often fallacious, but that doesn’t stop them from being persuasive to many, and, in fiction, what counts is their persuasiveness as causes. Writers of fiction are not especially concerned at all points (or maybe at any point) as to whether statements are true; they’re concerned with entertaining their audience, and, to this end, with whether their audience will “buy” a particular explanation of their action’s incidents and situations, bizarre and uncanny or otherwise.
• Integrality. The explanation, whatever it is, must not be haphazard. It must not be tacked on, seemingly at the last minute, simply to explain (or to explain away) the story’s eerie occurrences. Instead, the explanation must be essential. Without the explanation, the series of odd incidents and situations would make no sense (not that they need to make a whole lot of sense, necessarily, even with the explanation in place). For the explanation to be acceptable or plausible, the writer must give hints early and often as to the nature of the cause behind the effects. In The Taking, Dean Koontz, early on, plants the idea that the bizarre actions in his novel may be the effect of Satan’s return to earth, and this possibility is repeated in the thoughts of the protagonist concerning her sorrow for past moral offenses she’s committed and her hope for forgiveness and reconciliation and by the narrative’s end, in which she becomes a new Eve, carrying within her womb the first of humanity’s new humanity. At the same time, however, the possibility that the novel’s bizarre events are the effects of reverse-terraforming by an advance party of invading aliens purposely detracts from this, the actual, cause. By contrast, in The Resort, Bentley Little merely mentions an older resort near the one in which his story’s action take place and implies, without ever saying exactly how, that the former resort is somehow associated with the contemporary one. There are no specific correspondences, no detailed links, between the two (the older one of which, in fact, has burned down). There is only the suggestion, without a supporting context supplied by a pertinent back story or other means of exposition. The result is the deux ex machina that Aristotle so much abhorred and rejects in his Poetics as emotionally and dramatically unconvincing.
  

Dean Koontz and Trixie

A horror story stands or falls, to a large extent, by its explanation for the evil, bizarre events and situations that occur during much of the story. The explanation may not pass scientific muster, but it must at least pass the emotional and dramatic smell tests of the audience if it is to be satisfying and, therefore, successful. In the final analysis, the inexplicable must be explained, if only in theory.