Everyday Horrors: Gargoyles

copyright 2008 by Gary L. Pullman

Designed as rainspouts, gargoyles are grotesque, often demonic, figures. Their name derives from a French word, gargouille, meaning “gullet,” an onomatopoeia word derived in mimicry of the gargling sound that water makes in the throat. Frequently, rain washed through the figures’ throats and is poured away from the sides of the buildings--usually, cathedrals--upon which they are mounted. There are also chimeras, which are the same as gargoyles except that they fulfill a purely decorative purpose and do not carry rainwater. Architectural and religious features since ancient times, gargoyles were used in Egypt, Greece, and Rome, although most people associate gargoyles with medieval cathedrals. Notre Dame is a famous example. In the United States, the Washington National Cathedral, in the nation’s capitol, is festooned with the grotesque figures, one of which is a likeness of Darth Vader. Princeton’s and several other Ivy League universities’ buildings also include gargoyles as part of their architecture.

Historians vary in their interpretation as to the meaning of these odd figures. Some believe that they were intended to ward off evil, whereas others think that they may have been intended to remind the faithful of the fate of the unrepentant sinner. After all, they were never carved inside the church. They were always perched outside, under eaves or ledges, exiled, as it were, from the fellowship of the faithful, much as Cain’s descendent, Grendel, was exiled from the fellowship of Danish warriors. The gargoyle was an outcast, a pariah. As such, gargoyles could have symbolized damned souls, pressed into labor by God, despite their wickedness, and made to serve the church in their ignominious role as waterspouts.

According to an article concerning “The Gargoyles of Princeton University,” still another theory as to the meaning of gargoyles considered them to be the representations of evil spirits that had been overthrown by the Christian church. They were said to have frozen in stone as they fled from the church. Princeton’s gargoyles, this article explains, symbolize a variety of ideas. One, a blindfolded reader holding an open book in his hands, represents “opening the eyes of those who seek understanding and casting aside the obstructions of prejudice.” However, the article’s author adds, tongue in cheek, “symbolism aside, this figure evokes sympathy from anyone who has ever picked up a book and not understood a word of it.” Another gargoyle, a monkey with a camera, is said to represent “academic endeavor”: he is “playing with technology beyond his understanding,” but the use of which he may learn. Other gargoyles and chimeras on the university’s campus also have an educational spirit, so to speak, and include a flute player, a chained dragon, a football runner, Benjamin Franklin, a dinosaur head, a monkey clown, a literate ape, a man with an open mouth, a goblin with a shell, the head of a football player, the head of a soldier, and a couple taking a joy ride in their automobile.

Like many of the Princeton gargoyles, those who inhabit the exterior surfaces of the Washington Cathedral tend to be humorous rather than somber in spirit. Many represent technological marvels, such as the computer, the astronaut, and robots. Others are depictions of stylized animals, usually of the domesticated rather than the wild variety, or objects from popular culture. One of the more popular of these figures is the one that represents the Star Wars villain, Darth Vader, who was chosen in a nationwide contest, in 1980, in which schoolchildren competed to select designs for the church’s west towers. (Other winners were a raccoon, a girl with pigtails and braces, and a big-tooth man with an umbrella.) The National Cathedral provides a self-guided tour for those who are interested in spotting their gargoyles; one is advised to bring binoculars. The buildings in many cities beside Washington, D. C., also feature gargoyles. The grotesque figures can be seen peering down from ledges, arches, eaves, and other exterior building locations in New York, Boston, Chicago, and elsewhere.

Many of the gargoyles that decorate (?) the Cathedral of Notre Dame are animals. Others are human faces or heads. It may be that the gargoyles of Notre Dame and other Christian cathedrals were also tools of religious conversion. As “Historical Base for Gargoyles” points out, Pope Gregory encouraged St. Augustine, the Bishop of Hippo, in Africa, to establish the Catholic faith among the local pagan people by substituting Christian for pagan images and icons, allowing the converts to adjust to their newfound faith slowly as they transferred their devotion to their own religious objects and convictions to those of the church: “"Destroy the idol. Purify the temples with holy water. Set relics there, and let them become temples of the true God. So the people will have no need to change their place of concourse, and, where of old they were wont to sacrifice cattle to demons, thither let them continue to resort on the day of the saint to where the Church is dedicated, and slay their beasts, no longer as a sacrifice but for social meal in honor of Him whom they now worship.” In addition, the images and statues, including the gargoyles, were the visual means of communicating theological truths to the illiterate laity. Times have changed, however, and even the fiercest of these grotesque creatures no longer frightens. In fact, the Notre Dame gargoyles are now available as coloring book images!

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

The Appeal of the Esoteric

Copyright 2008 by Gray L. Pullman

Your fingers weave quick minarets,
Speaking secret alphabets

--Doors, “Ship of Fools”

Everyone likes secrets. We all want to know them, harbor them, divulge them. Secrets make us powerful. They put us, and not others, “in the know.” They generate curiosity, envy, fear, and a host of other, not always subtle or decent, emotions. They also make us holy, in the literal sense of the word, which is “set apart.” Secrets set us apart from others. Secrets make us stand out. They make us special, in our own minds if not in the minds of others. This is the appeal of the esoteric--or part of it.

But in horror fiction, the esoteric takes on another dimension as well. In horror fiction, the esoteric is dangerous. It threatens. It could harm or even kill. It is, therefore, in some sense, evil. The esoteric is blasphemous or heretical or treasonous, and it--and its devotees--must be put down, must be put to the stake, if necessary; they must be crushed that we may stand; they must be slain that we may live. The esoteric separates those who know, the initiates and the masters or adepts, from those who want to know, the uninitiated, the ignorant, the unenlightened.

The esoteric has been with us always. In Judaism, the Cabbalists claimed secret knowledge. They alone, they said, understood the true, the mystical, the actual meanings of the Hebrew scriptures. In Christianity, mystics and others also claimed to know what others of the faith did not know. The Gnostics crippled, and nearly killed, the early church by insisting that only they knew the secrets of the Gospels and, therefore, how to be saved from death and damnation. Even Jesus, in the Gospels, says that the knowledge of some scriptures are hidden and may be revealed only to those he elects to know and understand them. Some have ears, but they may not hear, and some have eyes but they may not see.

Throughout the Middle Ages, secret societies organized around esoteric doctrines and texts; many, perhaps in altered forms, are with us still: the Rosicrucians, the Freemasons, the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. Although many may laugh at the absurdity of such secret orders, others are curious about them, or envy their members, or are afraid of them. They fear their secret alphabets, their hidden texts, their clandestine meetings, their strange symbols and rites and rituals. In many cases, outsiders, peering in, see Satan in their midst and conclude that these cults are composed of devil worshipers.

When one examines many of the esoteric texts of secret societies, one finds not so much doctrines to fear as teachings that amuse. It is difficult to read many of these sects’ secret writings without smiling or even laughing out loud. For example, “The Esoteric Philosophy Homepage” offers its visitors a perplexing welter of strange ideas, half-baked notions, and assorted trivia, perhaps with a few lotions and potions thrown into the pot--or cauldron--for good measure, offering tips on such seemingly profound matters as:

• “Esotericism: Energy in the Universe” (something conventional physicists will want to read, no doubt)
• “The Nature of Consciousness” (answers to age-old questions about which psychologists admit continued confusion)
• “Education in the New Age” (for staid professors, perhaps, who still labor under the influences of Benjamin Bloom, John Dewey, and their ilk)
• “Esoteric Healing” (for physicians who’ve yet to heal themselves)
• “Esoteric Laws” (for lawyers to argue about)
• “The Process of Evolution” (for neo-Darwinists)
• “The Nature of Illusion” (for the David Copperfields among us)
• “Reincarnation, Karma, and Past Lives” (written, perhaps, by Shirley McLaine)
• “The Christ and the Buddha” (for two-thirds or so of the planet’s faithful)--

and dozens of more articles concerning claptrap and nonsense. The site truly offers something for everyone--and that, it seems, is another appeal of the esoteric. It’s all things to all people. As the Freemasons say, one’s faith doesn’t really matter among lodge members; anyone of any religious background, or none, may be a member of the Craft. The esoteric is something like the child (or puppet) in the Pinocchio song:

When you wish upon a star,
Makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires
Will come to you

If your heart is in your dream
No request is too extreme
When you wish upon a star
As dreamers do

Fate is kind
She brings to those who love
The sweet fulfillment of
Their secret longing

Like a bolt out of the blue
Fate steps in and sees you through
When you wish upon a star
Your dreams come true

However, such fulfillment is available only to the members of the cult, the sect, the inner circle, the secret society. To others--namely, the world at large--the opposite conditions apply: ignorance, disappointment, failure, despair, death, and destruction.

As one might suspect, horror fiction makes good use of secret societies.

A hooded figure scurrying about dark, subterranean chambers among shifting shadows in pursuit of God-only-knows-what are frightening because, well, they’re nameless, they’re faceless, and theyre hip to God-only-knows-what dark secrets and may, who knows?, be hell-bent on taking over the world. Often, their haunts are the dungeons of medieval castles, catacombs, caverns by the sea, or mountaintop retreats, protected and remote, situated, at times, upon unhallowed ground whereupon even angels fear to tread.

In most cases, cults, sects, and secret societies don’t really threaten society (as far as we know, anyway) (although Germany has outlawed Scientology), but, occasionally, as in the cases of the Jim Jones mass suicide at Jonestown, Ghana, the FBI’s murder of the Branch Davidians in the massacre at Waco, Texas, and the Heaven’s Gate members’ mass suicide in San Diego, California, such secret orders do do harm, albeit mostly to themselves--to date, at least. They have proven that they can be dangerous, even deadly. By not being open about who they are, what they believe, and what they are about, secret societies perpetuate the mystique that makes them feel special and unique, a self-appointed elect.

As long as the devotees of such organizations skulk about among rats and bats and cats, or whatever it is that they do skulk about among (the imagination is one’s only limit when one considers secret societies and their doings), they will appeal to outsiders and to horror fiction, which, more often than not, is concerned with the plight or the perspective, or both, of the outsider. Their mystery is their appeal, and their secrecy makes them mysterious. They have a secret, and they won’t tell. We want to know what they know, to know their secrets. It’s as simple, and complex, as that.

The Horror of the Wax Museum

copyright 2008 by Gary L. Pullman

What’s horrible about wax? When it takes the form of a human being, it, like other statues, whether of marble, plastic, or some other material, becomes a stand-in for a body--but it is still. It is stationary. It does not move. It neither smiles nor frowns, laughs nor cries. It utters not a word. It doesn’t so much as breathe.

Were its lungs to move, at least, one might suppose the figure represented by the wax or clay or stone or plastic were merely paralyzed. Without breath, however, there seems no question but that it must be dead. Therefore, we must surmise that the wax figure, like other statues, suggests the dead rather than the living. A wax museum is a mausoleum, a house of death.

However, the figures, we also feel, may be only pretending to be dead. They may breathe when our attention is focused elsewhere. Their hearts may beat in secret. They may grimace, or even gibber, when we are, for the moment, absent, or otherwise occupied. They might even be revenants, returned from the dead, disguising themselves as mere effigies of the quick. Even if they do not move, they may be alive. They may be watching our every move. They may be thinking. They may be communicating with one another by some secret, silent means. They may mean us harm, and, when the moment is right, they may strike, hurting or even destroying us, before we’ve realized what’s afoot.

Wax figures of human form are mirror images of ourselves, but they are silent and still. They seem to mock us with their waxen visages. There’s something unreal about them; at the same time, there is something all too real about them. They are not quite right. They invite our study and our thought. They bid us to consider them, and, in meditating upon their smooth features and their too-bright eyes, to consider ourselves, too, for, in studying them, we study ourselves.

Who was this Winston Churchill, this Joan of Arc, this Abraham Lincoln? Are the stories we’ve heard of them true? Could this man have led England through the blood, sweat, toil, and tears of its World War II years? Did this slip of a girl really defeat the armies both of England and of Burgundy? Was she truly burned alive at the stake before being hailed as a saint? Surely not? How could such cruelty have been possible against a mere girl? Did this tall and gangly man in top hat and tails hold together a nation rent by a terrible civil war which pit brother against brother and North against South, and was a simple bullet in the head enough to bring his craggy, noble features to the ruin of the grave? Looking at their wax effigies, it all seems unlikely. It seems impossible. If the true-life counterparts of these figures could do such amazing feats, perhaps we, who are yet made of flesh and blood, might do likewise, we hope.

But there are horrible figures in wax museums, too, some real, others imaginary, and they also ask us to think of them and of ourselves, reflected off and projected from them. Consider this one, Adolph Hitler. Did this absurd little man with the odd mustache really kill six million Jews and nearly defeat the combined military might of the world? It seems preposterous. Or what about that one, Ted Bundy? Could such a handsome, clean-cut young man really have killed nearly thirty women, one as young as fifteen, without remorse, taking pleasure, in fact, in such monstrous deeds? Perhaps, if so, then such creatures as the vampire, the witch, the werewolf, and the mummy, also depicted in wax and set up in their niches and alcoves, upon pedestals, might also creep in the night or even stalk the corridors and chambers of this very house of wax!

Shadows may precede their footfalls, so we should keep careful watch.

We fear the wax museum for much the same reason that we fear the funhouse, wherein we can see little in the dark until a burst of flame reveals a leering face or a snarling mouth full of fangs. When such sights as these, or a headless corpse, a skeleton, or a dagger in a bleeding heart, are revealed to us, amid the flaring fire or the flashing lightning, we are shocked and frightened, but only because, in our imaginations, we have envisioned monsters much more terrible, much more horrible, much more dreadful. We have, in short, scared ourselves. Half to death, perhaps.

That’s why the house of wax--or, for that matter, a haunted house, a subterranean cave, a remote resort, an abandoned church, a deep forest, a scientific laboratory, or the attics or basements or closets of our childhood homes--frightens us half out of our wits. We create the monsters. We are they.