Knowing Your Endgame

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman

Flash fiction works well for horror. We have the word from both Edgar Allan Poe, who said that a reader should be able to read a horror story in “a single sitting”—and he was talking short stories, not flash fiction as such. Although he was vague (what constitutes “a single sitting”?), we can, perhaps, get some direction from famed director Alfred Hitchcock, who brought both Psycho (1960) and The Birds (1963) to the big screen. He declared, “The length of a film should be directly related to the endurance of the human bladder.”

Of course, his definition is also somewhat obscure: the “endurance of the human bladder” is apt to differ, sometimes considerably, among individuals. However, adults average 120 to 240 minutes between visits to the restroom to urinate. Assuming that Hitchcock applied his own criterion to the films he directed, a horror film, at least, should be between 109 minutes (Psycho) and 119 minutes (The Birds), which are well within the guidelines that he himself established.

Definitions of the permissible word length of “flash fiction” stories differ, with some suggesting that such stories should be no more than 600 to 1,000 words, while others argue that flash fiction stories could be as long as 2,000 words. Flash fiction author Michael Williams, author of Tales with a Twist, tries to stay at or below 1,000 words, but, occasionally, he admits, one of his stories reaches 1,200 words:

“I think setting my goal as 1,000 words, maximum, helps me focus. It gives me something to shoot for, but I wouldn't sacrifice a good story just to stay within an artificially imposed limit; if I have to go beyond, 1,000 words, I have to go beyond 1,000 words. For me, though, that's the exception. Most stories I write can be done well—probably better—in 1,000 words or fewer.”

Research finds that most people read at a rate of between 200 and 250 words per minute, so a flash fiction story, for most readers, would certainly meet both Poe's and Hitchcock's definitions:

A flash fiction story isn't characterized only by its brevity, however. “Flash fiction stories—I usually refer to them as flashes—usually end with a twist,” Williams says. “That's part of the their appeal, part of their fun. It's also a large part of their popularity.”

There are various ways to “twist a tale.”

One is to start with an outrageous, or even seemingly impossible, incident or situation. That's part one, the beginning, of the story. It hooks the reader. Then, follow with a logical result of this initial incident or situation. That's the middle of the story. The end of the story, part three, delivers the twist.

One way to generate the twist itself is to play with the six questions related to any form of communication: Who?, What?, When?, Where? How? and Why? Make a list, as complete as possible, of possible answers to each of these questions as they relate to your story's premise.”

Here's an example:

Beginning: A snowman melts, revealing a corpse.

Middle: Police respond.

End (twist): . . . .

To come up with the twist, start the list of answers to the seven questions that apply to any form of communication, including fiction:

1. WHO? WHO is the dead person? If he or she was murdered, WHO is the murder? WHO might be a character in the story? The body, of course and the murderer (if there was a murder). The police officers. A neighbor. The mail carrier. A repair person. A bus or a taxi driver or passenger. A spouse. A child, minor or adult. A delivery person. A maintenance person. A utility worker. A meter reader. A sanitation employee.
2. WHAT? What happened to the dead person? Murder? Suicide? A prank gone wrong? An ill-advised advertisement? An attention-seeking act gone astray?
3. WHEN? A two-day interval, on day one of which the person is encased in snow and, on day two of which, he or she is found as the snowman begins to melt.
4. WHERE? The front yard of a suburban home.
5. HOW? The person encased in snow freezes to death over night.
6. WHY? (This is usually the point at which the twist suggests itself, although any of the six questions could prompt an answer that includes the story's twist): A prop master who remains employed by his uncle, a movie director, despite the prop master's Alzheimer's, forgets that he has packed snow over an actor's body, and repeatedly does so, rather than freeing the actor from the “snowman” after the shot is complete, causing the unintended victim to die of exposure overnight.

 

Notice that the twist, in this example, is the result of the WHY? question, but the identity of the killer does not appear among the answers to the WHO? question. This just goes to show that, in actual practice, the questions themselves may not produce the “answer” that provides the twist, but, without having gone through this process, it's unlikely that the idea would have occur at all. Answering the questions starts the ball rolling, the mind thinking, and the imagination visualizing.

Now, we can complete the framework, or skeleton, of the story's plot:

Beginning: A snowman melts, revealing a corpse.

Middle: Police respond.

End (twist): A prop master, having developed Alzheimer's, forgets that he has packed snow over an actor's body and repeatedly does so, rather than freeing the actor from the “snowman” after the shot is complete, causing the unintended victim to die of exposure overnight.

Note: As in any story, before writing it, you need to research any technical aspects of the plot to make sure they are accurate. For example, would a person freeze to death if encased in snow overnight or would he or she suffocate? How long would such a death, whether of hypothermia or suffocation, take? Maybe overnight isn't long enough. Research and revise, as necessary. If the technical reality doesn't allow the ending you've conceived, think of one that will stand the test of the facts.

Article Word Length: 1,014

Estimated Reading Time: 4.05 to 5.07 minutes

The Z Plot

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman

Although it would be ludicrous to suggest that a story could follow a “Z” plot, the concept is, nevertheless, a good reminder that thrillers and chillers should move from one action scene to another at a fairly fast pace.

What is a “Z” plot? It's an imaginary sequence of action that is on the fact that, in English, readers read from left to right and from top to bottom. In other words, their eyes, in reading, trace the figure of a “Z.” Sometimes the stem (the diagonal line connecting the upper and the lower arms of the “S”) is shorter; other times, longer, than typical, depending on the length of the paragraph the combined sentences of which make up the stem of the letter. For example, a short paragraph produces a short stem; a long paragraph, a long stem:

Think of the paragraph as representing a scene. Each point at the beginning or the end of the arm of the “Z” represents a point of possible change. Perhaps the first point would be to establish the setting, while the second point would be to introduce the protagonist. At the third point, maybe you would contrast two supporting characters. The fourth point might be that at which you relocate the main character. These four points, regardless of the length of the scene (represented, in the “Z” plot by a paragraph), would make up the entire scene. However, the next scene, with its four points, would provide opportunities for additional, perhaps different (depending on the scene's purpose), plot changes, such as changing the pace of the story (with a longer or a shorter scene), using dialogue between tow or more characters to inform the reader of necessary background material, having circumstances or an incident impede the protagonist, and arranging for the antagonist to confront the protagonist (or vice versa). The next scenes would, likewise, present opportunities, at each of their four points, to change the plot again, again, again, and again.

Besides the actions indicated above, writers can use these points of the “Z” plot to heighten suspense, bolster the protagonist (or the antagonist) with reinforcements or assistants, capture a character, have a character escape, pursue a character, bring about a character's return home or to an earlier point of departure, characterize a character, have a character learn something important, or change a character's attitude, beliefs, feelings, perspective, or values.

Although the structure of your story's your plot, in reality, is unlikely to resemble a “Z,” helping to think of the progress of the action in such a manner could help you to remember to change the course of action frequently not only throughout the story as a whole, but also during each and every one of its scenes. As a result, it's unlikely your readers will become bored; in fact, they should be as excited as hell!

The Means to an End, or Catch and Release

 Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman

In plotting horror fiction, as in other genres, it helps to think of the phrase “a means to an end.”

The “means” are the means that the writer employs to encourage the reader to continue to read the story.

The “end” is the theme, or the “meaning,” of the story of film, the point of the narrative or the drama, what it is all “about.”

Here is a simple illustration: an attractive young woman in a bikini is the “means”; the reason for her being a part of a story about a serial killer who preys upon attractive young women in bikinis is the “end.”

We can think of the means as a series of hooks. The writer hooks the reader, but releases him or her; hooks the reader again, and releases him or her a second time; hooks the reader yet again, and releases him or her a third time; and so on, until, at last, the writer releases the reader for good, at the end of the story.

Too often, writers think of not a series of hooks, but of a single hook: the hook that lands the reader, that succeeds in getting him or her to read the rest of the story. However, the idea that even a short story has but a single hook does not work, and it does not work for a novella or a novel, either. (It also doesn't apply to a feature-length film—and what we say here, in this post, about written stories also applies in general to filmed ones; simply substitute “screenwriter” for “writer,” “film” or “movie” for “story” or “novel,” and “audience,” “spectator,” or “viewer” for “reader.”)

We might also note that every hook leaves behind a question which is answered either sooner or later. The hooks (usually actions) generate questions; the questions generate suspense. Once the suspense is satisfied—temporarily—the next hook is set.

Let's take, as an example, H. G. Wells's short story “The Red Room.” Here are the hooks:

Hook 1: Castle caretakers warn a young man who has recently arrived not to spend the night in the Red Room, which, they say, is haunted.

Question: Will the young man be dissuaded?

Hook 2: The warning is repeated.

Question: Will the young man be dissuaded?

Hook 3: The warning is repeated again.

Question: Will the young man be dissuaded?

Hook 4: The young man proceeds upstairs to the Red Room.

Question: Will the young man continue to the room or change his mind and depart from the castle?

Hook 5: The young man locks himself inside the room.

Question: Will he stay in the room?

Hook 6: Having secured himself inside the room, the young man inspects the chamber for any signs of secret entrances or hiding places.

Question: Will the young man find any secret entrances or hiding places.?

Hook 7: A candle goes out.

Question: Why?

Hook 8: The young man suspects a draft, but he cannot find a source of an air current.

Question: What caused the draft that blew out the candle—or was it a draft that extinguished the flame?

Hooks 9-12*: One by one, additional candles are apparently snuffed.

Question: What caused the drafts that blew out these additional candles—or were they drafts that extinguished the flame?

Hook 13: The fire in the fireplace is abruptly extinguished.

Question: What caused the fire to go out? (Here, the reader may draw a tentative conclusion: a draft of air certainly could not have extinguished the fire!)

Hook 14: The young man panics, running through the room, and is knocked out.

Question: Did ghosts attack him?

Hook 15: The castle's caretakers ask him whether the room is haunted, as rumored?

Question: What will the young man answer: is the room haunted?

End: The room is haunted—by the young man's own imagination, which ran away with him.

*The numbers are invented, as the exact number escape me at present.

While the incidents of a plot must be linked by cause and effect, they should also be related through actions, or hooks, that cause questions, generating suspense, until, at the end, all is explained.

But must stories be explained? Isn't ambiguity best, in some cases? That's a question for a future post.

Playing with Words

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman

Cozy mystery titles are BIG on wordplay. Paula Darnell's DIY Diva Series is a case in point. The first book of the series, Death By Association, takes place in a guard-gated community governed by a homeowners association.

 The next volume in the series, Death ByDesign, features protagonist Laurel McMillan's Perfect Pillows class—and a not-quite perfect murder.

 

The third novel in the series, Death By Proxy features mistaken identity. Her forthcoming series, A Fine Art Mystery, explores an art cooperative in Arizona; the books' titles are also based on, or reflective of, plays on words. The first is Artistic License to Kill.

Using wordplay can also be an effective way of triggering ideas for plot horror ideas for novels.

Hostel Takeover, for example, suggests a setting and a motive for horror. Settings, of course, often, in turn, suggests characters. A hostel would be the temporary home of young travelers (typically ages 16 to 34).

By researching hostels, additional plot ideas can be obtained. For example, in some such establishments, sleeping quarters are segregated by sex; in others, bedrooms are open to guests of both sex. Some hostels offer more amenities than others, and hostels, in general, offer benefits, but also have disadvantages, when compared to hotels or motels. Many are independent, but some are units in a chain or are affiliates of larger organizations (Zostel and Hosteling International, for example).

 Before writing a horror novel based on a hostel as a setting, it's a good idea to check out movies or other novels that have used hostels as their settings, such as Hostel and Hostel: Part II. There's no need to tread familiar ground.

The second part of the title, Takeover, is important, too; in fact, it may well be the key that distinguishes your own story from other horror stories that feature hostels as their settings. The idea of a hostel (and of a hostile) takeover suggests the acquisition of a hostel, against the will of the current owner, by a bidder or through a proxy fight.

In a horror story, of course, the owner is apt to resist the takeover by more than legal means, and much of the horror could stem from his or her resistance. It's not difficult to imagine possible twists: maybe the owner loses the takeover and kills off the hostel's guests to create such a bad impression of the place that its future is doomed.

Perhaps the focus is on the owner's efforts to fend off the takeover by any means necessary, including murdering the management, stockholders, or bidder. Another possibility is to adopt the bidder's point of view and concentrate on other means of takeover than financial expedients after the initial offer is refused. From either point of view, the scenes practically write themselves: collapsing bunk beds, exploding ovens, blood showers, bizarre “guests,” murderous interlopers, ghosts of the dead . . . .

The takeover could, indeed, be hostile, with guests and employees meeting grisly fates and prospective guests being killed even before they arrive at the establishment. A combination of approaches is also a possibility.

Quite a lot can be suggested by simply wordplay.

Hungry Again: A Review of Sult, a Short Horror Film

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman

Sult (2018), a Norwegian short erotic horror film runs about seven minutes and thirty-six minutes (not counting the credits that roll as the end of the action). In English, the movie's title is Hunger. A brunette hairstylist, Vera (Sarah-Stephanie Skjoldevik) has an appetite for an aloof blonde, Suzanne (Marianne Lindbeck), but Vera's love, if not her passion, is unrequited. However, Suzanne does seem attracted to brunettes: the woman with whom she cheats on Vera is also a dark-haired beauty.

The film starts in the present. It's Friday, and Vera joins Suzanne in a booth in a bar. Suzanne wears the necklace that Vera gives her (in a flashback scene not yet shown). Suzanne does not look overjoyed to see Vera; in fact, Suzanne appears barely able to tolerate the brunette. Vera drinks a glass of wine on the rim of which is a split cherry. Then, Vera strokes Suzanne's cheek, throat, and chin, as Suzanne appears to put up with Vera's attentions, rather than to enjoy them. However, when Vera kisses Suzanne, the women exchange a series of additional kisses, during which Suzanne, becoming aroused, slips the tip of her tongue into Vera's mouth. Reaching behind her own back, Vera removes a pair of scissors from her waistband. Biting Suzanne's tongue, Vera snips the tip of it off with her scissors, and Suzanne falls back, against the seat in the booth, a bloody mess, in pain, disbelief, and horror.

During a flashback, Vera is at home. It's Tuesday, and she prepares for her date with Suzanne. Later, they play billiards, and Suzanne wins. Afterward, Vera gives Suzanne a necklace—the same one the blonde wears in the bar in the film's opening scene. However, Vera seems indifferent about the gift—she even rolls her eyes as Vera fastens it about her neck—and, indeed, Suzanne seems to care nothing for Vera's love for her. The next day, Vera visits Suzanne's modest apartment, where the brunette sees Suzanne kissing and caressing another woman, who is also a brunette. On Thursday, while styling a client's hair, Vera cuts her finger, which seems to suggest the revenge she takes upon Suzanne.

Back in the present, watching Suzanne bleed and shudder, Vera, now shows the same indifference toward Suzanne's pain and horror as Suzanne had earlier shown concerning Vera's gift. After retrieving the necklace she'd given Suzanne, Vera takes the tip of Suzanne's tongue from Suzanne's bloody hand, inserts the severed piece of the appendage into her own mouth, chews, and swallows, before abandoning Suzanne, who continues to bleed and shudder in the booth.

Sult is a revenge film, but there is a bit more to the interpersonal dynamics between Vera and Suzanne than simply courtship. When she meets Suzanne in the bar, Vera wears a black leather outfit that suggests a penchant on her part for BDSM. In a stereotype dating from pulp fiction lesbian erotica, Vera's hair color and dress characterize her as a dominant, or top, while Suzanne's contrasting blonde locks identify her as a submissive, or bottom. Throughout the film Vera displays her dominance over Suzanne. She makes Suzanne wait for her to arrive at the bar. Vera always initiates the action between them. Vera gazes upon Suzanne as though the blonde is a prized possession, rather than a person. Vera bestows a gift upon Suzanne, which identifies the blonde as the recipient of Vera's generosity.

Suzanne maintains a relationship with Vera, but it is a superficial one. She tolerates Vera, but she does not love her. She waits for her. She endures Vera's kisses and caresses, but she never initiates the intimacy between them, and she does not appear to treasure the gift of the necklace. She accepts it the same was that she tolerates Vera, with aloofness, with coolness, with indifference. She even expresses her disdain by rolling her eyes as Vera fastens the clasp of the necklace about her lover's neck. There is the suggestion, in Vera's large, luxurious apartment, in her clothing, in her gift, and in her bearing, of a woman who has money, but she is a controlled, as well as a controlling, mistress: she wears tight, restrictive clothing—the leather outfit and the corset into which she laces herself quite tightly as she prepares for her date with Suzanne.

It is because of Vera's money, rather than for Vera herself, perhaps, that Suzanne unenthusiastically tolerates Vera and her romantic inclinations. It is clear, though, that Suzanne does not love Vera, despite the occasional passion that Vera's lovemaking ignites in Suzanne.

Certainly, Vera is not Suzanne's only paramour. Suzanne embraces, kisses, and caresses the woman in her own apartment, and, although Vera later watches Suzanne grope and be groped by another woman—a brunette, like Vera herself—and pleasures herself, it is clear that Vera does not like sharing Suzanne with someone else.

Suzanne's intimate interaction with the other woman also suggests that Suzanne is not exclusively submissive, for, in these interactions, Suzanne not only takes the lead, but she treats her lover in a manner similar to the one in which Vera treats Suzanne herself: Suzanne, in these interactions, is the dominant person. With Vera, she reverses this role, albeit reluctantly. Suzanne, like Vera, appears to be a naturally dominant person. If such is the case, she may well resent submitting to Vera, which could explain Suzanne's reluctance and indifference to her playing the role of the submissive participant in her relationship with Vera.

It is when Vera accidentally cuts herself while styling another woman's hair—and a blonde woman, like Suzanne, at that—that Vera conceives her plan to cut off the tip of Suzanne's tongue. She will punish Suzanne's infidelity. She will hurt Suzanne, as Vera has just hurt herself. Indeed, the same pair of scissors with which she accidentally cut her own finger become the instrument with which she severs Suzanne's tongue.

The tongue is an instrument of taste. It is an instrument of communication, helping to form words. The lips resemble the labia, and, in lesbian lovemaking, the lips are often a primary instrument in providing pleasure for one's lover—in Suzanne's case, Vera. However, Suzanne has betrayed Vera with her lips and her tongue, kissing other women, women with whom Suzanne takes the lead, acting as the initiator, conducting herself in an aggressive, dominant manner.

By cutting off the tip of Suzanne's tongue, Vera mutilates her, degrading Suzanne's beauty while eliminating or severely reducing Suzanne's ability to provide erotic pleasure to other lovers. In a sense, by this act, Vera claims Suzanne as her own. However, she does so only to abandon her, to leave her moaning in horror and pain, shuddering and bloody. Henceforth, if she survives, Suzanne will be less beautiful and less able to attract and please other women.

The “hunger” that Vera feels for Suzanne is sexual, but it is also psychological. Vera wants Suzanne both physically and emotionally. Vera wants to dominate Suzanne, body and soul, When Suzanne refuses to give Vera what she wants most—her autonomy, her freedom, her will, her very existence—Vera takes it. Courtship becomes assault, physical, sexual, and emotional.

 

In certain societies, consuming part of a vanquished enemy's body—usually, the heart—indicates that the consumer has ingested the foe's courage, literally taking it into himself, so that the enemy's attribute becomes an attribute of the vanquishing hero himself. By eating the tip of Suzanne's tongue, Vera symbolically takes into herself Suzanne's own beauty and passion; Suzanne's characteristics become Vera's own. It is the final act of dominance, of control, of possession.

The question is, Does the cannibalistic act satisfy Vera's hunger? Can such a hunger ever be satisfied? Will Vera, at some time in the future, become hungry again?

"The Last Halloween":

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman

The synopsis for The Last Halloween (2014), a short horror film based on the comic book of the same title by Mark Thibodeau, got me: “As they go from house to house, four young trick-or-treaters collect strange treats that could signal the end of Halloween.”

What are the “strange treats”? Why are they given? What do they signify? Why might they “signal the end of Halloween”?

We are introduced to the four trick-or-treaters, a ghost (Jake Goodman), a witch (Zoe Fraser), the Grim Reaper (Drew Davis), and the devil (Brebdan Heard), as they visit the first of the three houses shown in the short.

A knock at the front door of the first house summons a woman in a pink knit cap (Angela Besharah). Without disengaging the chain-lock, she opens her door a crack, peering warily through the gap. “Wait here,” she orders, returning a moment later with the child's “treat”: a can of pet food. “You be careful out there,” the woman cautions her visitor. The ghost accepts the item without protest, and the group of children move on.

At this point, there is only a few hints that something is wrong: the woman's odd behavior, her strange “treat,” and the cheapness of the ghost's costume—a dirty sheet.

Other clues emerge as the film progresses. There are no streetlights. The next house the children visit, a dark, boarded-up ramshackle affair, looks abandoned. Why would the trick-or-treaters waste their time stopping at such a house? Perhaps they are about to play a “trick”?

Only two of the children, Sam the devil and Janet the witch, appear bold enough to knock at the door; both the ghost and the Grim Reaper wait on the sidewalk in front of the property. The face of the homeowner (Julian Richings), a man with pustules on his face, appears in a gap between planks covering the doorway. “Aren't you a little late to be out this young?” he asks, his inverted syntax another clue, as is the condition of his residence, that all is not well in the suburbs. “Especially with the—” he breaks off his thought, gesturing instead, and disappears inside his house, saying he will see what he can find.

Returning, he admits, “It's not much, I'm afraid,” and drops a plastic bat into the devil's plastic pail. Once again, the offering is accepted without complaint. The man tells Sam that he should “manage more than anyone,” since he is “the devil. Lucifer, Beelzebub, The Horned One.” He cackles as his visitors depart.

The adults whom the children visit seem increasingly disturbed. The woman appeared wary, if not paranoid, and her “treat,” a can of pet food, is bizarre, to say the least. However, she is dressed in ordinary attire, the lights are on in her house, and the house itself appears to be in good repair. She is concerned about the children's safety, bidding them to “be careful.”

The second adult has suffered physical harm, and he seems much less mentally stable than the woman. He lives in an abandoned, boarded-up house, without lights, and offers a plastic bat as a “treat.” His speech includes inverted syntax. He alludes to some mysterious incident, and seems to mistake Sam for the actual devil, calling him “Lucifer.” “Beelzebub,” and “The Horned One.”

However, something is off about the children as well. They are not disturbed by the bizarre “treats” they are given, and they are not afraid of visiting a dark, boarded-up, seemingly abandoned house. They accept the odd behavior of the adults as though neither the adults' odd conduct nor their strange gifts are all that unusual.

The third scene is the longest and most detailed. This time, the trick-or-treaters, passing a sign labeled “EVACUATION ZONE,” visit a house behind a tall wrought-iron fence. A bank of floodlights illuminates as their approach to the property activates a motion sensor.

On the wall above a fireplace, rifles are mounted. A fire burns in the fireplace. A made-up cot stands before the fireplace. A man observes images of the children that are delivered to his computer through a closed-circuit television camera. Outside, his own image appears on a monitor, as he tells the children to “go away.” One of the children, her image appearing on his own monitor, responds, “trick or treat.”

A young woman inside the house looks at a bassinet; it is empty except for a teddy bear. The man tells his visitors to leave, warning them that “bad things happen to trespassers.” The woman inside the house looks down, from a second-story, through a lattice of boards; outside, the trick-or-treaters see her watching them. Downstairs, the man, armed, now, with a rifle, calls to the woman, “Kate! Get down here!”

 
The children have not left; they continue to cry “trick or treat,” and the man continues to tell them to leave. Carrying a lantern and coughing into a handkerchief, the woman descends a flight of stairs; calling the man “Jack,” she says that maybe they should admit the children, as they could need help or might be hungry. Watching the monitor, he sees the children depart and tells the woman, Kate (Emily Alatalo), his wife, that they seem to be leaving. She coughs more, showing her husband the bruise on her neck.

Jack (Ron Basch) says they can't take any more chances, as it is not safe to “open the door to anyone anymore.” He argues, further, that the kids “could be infected” or “crazy,” pointing out that “they think it's Halloween.” Kate's reply, “I think it is Halloween,” suggests that it may be either Jake and the kids or Kate who is deluded. Kate, showing Jack the bruise on her neck, implies that nothing can protect them.

Jake checks the monitor; when he turns around, Kate is gone. The front door slams. The ghost trick-or-treater appears in the room, behind Jack. Arming himself with his rifle, which he had set aside, Jack demands to know what the ghost has done with his wife. When the child does not answer, Jack tells him to take food and leave, but the ghost says, “It's too late, Jaaaccckkk.”

Approaching the trick-or-treater, Jack pulls the sheet off the child, only to discover that, beneath it, is an actual ghost (Ali Adatia). The other children, now adults, appear, repeating, “It's too late, Jack.” The child in the devil costume becomes an actual devil (Adrian G. Griffiths), and the other two trick-or-treaters also transform into the figures represented by their respective costumes, those of the Grim Reaper (Alastair Forbes) and the witch (Kristina Uranowski).

As they surround him, the front door opens, and Jack sees Kate, kneeling on the porch. After a moment, she vanishes, Surrounding him, the monsters move in on him, and the Grim Reaper embraces him. “Happy Halloween,” it says.

The children leave the house, in their original costumes, as fires burn in the windows. After one of the fires in an upstairs window explodes, the camera pans up, showing that other houses, for miles around, are also on fire, as are high-rise buildings in the city beyond.

This short does a good job of introducing bizarre elements that become explicable over a period of time, as details accumulate which, when combined, provide a context for interpreting the whole situation of which the individual elements are each but a part. In other words, the introductions of these details are like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle (the film as a whole) that the audience (following the lead of director Marc Roussel) put together, incident by incident, until the whole picture is discernible and intelligible as a unified and coherent whole.

This initially piecemeal delivery of specific, isolated details also heightens the horrific tone of the film, its mystery, and its suspense. Each incident is disquieting in itself: the wary woman, the madman, and the housebound survivalist are each, in their own ways, disturbing.

As we move from house to house, the domiciles become worse and worse, as do the inhabitants. What appears abnormal (canned pet food for a Halloween “treat,” inverted syntax and facial injuries, a dead or abducted baby, and a young wife wasting away of some disease while her husband and protector slowly loses contact with reality) seems, in the world of the film, to be normal, while that which is normal (trick-or-treating, wearing traditional Halloween costumes, visiting neighborhood houses on Halloween) appears, increasingly, to be abnormal.

The world is upside-down and inside-out, and it's every man, woman, and child for him- or herself. At first, we have no idea what has happened to the suburbanites the children visit. Then, a clue: the “EVACUATION ZONE” sign. There has been an evacuation. Apparently, for whatever reason, the residents who remain in the suburbs have been left behind. Now, they are facing the consequences: paranoia, madness, self-isolation, distrust of others, sickness, and death.

The parallels to the coronoavirus pandemic are striking, although unintended. (The film was released in 2014; the pandemic began in 2020). Neighbors isolate themselves from everyone else, staying in their homes. They are wary, even paranoid. One couple takes extreme measures, hoarding food and taking refuge in their home. 

Not everyone survives: the bassinet is empty, as are many of the houses in the neighborhood. Food seems to be in short supply: the kids' “treats” include canned pet food and a plastic bat. The crisis is not local; it affects other communities, including at least one nearby city, and there has been an organized evacuation of the affected areas. These similarities, of course, make the short even eerier and more disturbing, even if they have no direct relationship to the coronaviruss pandemic.

Just as the coronavirus has brought out the worst in some people—those who hoard essential supplies, engage in price gouging, spit on produce, ignore government directives for minimizing health risks, boast of their luxurious accommodations, and complain about minor inconveniences—the catastrophe that has befallen the communities in The Last Halloween brings out the worst in some of the movie's cast of characters. Jack refuses to open his door to the trick-or-treaters, refuses to help them, refuses to share his horde of food with them, is prepared to kill them. 

The children themselves are transformed into monsters. They are unforgiving toward Jack. They have laid waste to the neighborhood and, the end of the film suggests, to others communities as well. Under the right—or the wrong—circumstances, anyone, the movie implies, could be a Jack, a ghost, a Grim Reaper, a witch, or a devil.

On a positive note, however, it is possible, also, to be generous, even if wary: the woman who gives the ghost a can of her pet food offers something from her larder that she could have eaten herself. The type of the item—pet food—suggests the desperation in which she finds herself: she is so hungry and so low on food supplies that she is willing to eat pet food. Despite such extremity, she is, nevertheless, willing to share what she can. Her act of self-sacrifice, although bizarre, is also heroic. She represents the opposite extreme of Jack, the alternative to his self-centeredness, which excludes any others, except his wife, whom, ironically, he is unable to save.

Shhh: The Making of Monsters (and Short Horror Films)

Copyright 2020 by Gary L. Pullman

The equivalent of flash fiction (or, in some cases, short stories), short films have simple, linear plots; minimal characters, and a single conflict. However, the use of symbolism and metaphor can enrich the possible interpretations of many of these exercises in independent filmmaking.

Shhh (2012) stars Sean Michael Kyer as asthmatic, stuttering Guillermo, a young boy beset by a monster, and Ilze Burger, as his teenage sister Helleana. Guillermo draws pictures of monsters, earning Helleana's scorn.

She regards her younger brother as a “freak” and goes out of her way to be snide, insulting Guillermo about his drawings, his apparent incontinence, his stuttering, and whatever else crosses her mind. Lately, he's been cutting off his own hair, a lock or two at a time, and concealing the results under a knit cap.

Although the children share the same wash room, only Guillermo sees the monster. Of hideous appearance, the monster is creepy, but its behavior is rather lame, as the conduct of monsters goes: the goblin-like creature with an extensible, tubular proboscis, eats hair, which explains why Guillermo has been cutting off his own tresses.

Once he faces the monster, feeding it hair from his sister's hairbrush, it disappears, and Guillermo is able to set aside his inhaler, leaving it, with his sister's brush, in the wash room. In bed, he holds his finger to his lips and says “shhh!”

At the end of the picture, half of a drawing that Helleana had torn in half, which shows the monster in attack mode, has been taped to a picture of Helleana who looks terrified as the attacking monster approaches her. In the original drawing, the monster had been attacking Guillermo. By facing down the monster and leaving his sister's hairbrush in the wash room after promising the monster that he could provide more hair for it to eat, Guillermo seems to have substituted Helleana for himself as the monster's prey.

The filmmakers offer several clues concerning the true nature of the monster that confronts Guillermo, most of which relate to the boy's behavior. However, the movie begins with a series of dark drawings, by Guillermo, many of which are devoted to the monster.

The first two pictures depict subjects Guillermo and his relationship with his family:

• He lies supine on the floor, apparently content, sketching Saturn, the sun, and a star. As this picture is displayed, the narrator informs the audience, “This is the tale of an extraordinary child . . . ”

• The next picture shows Dad, Helleana, and Guillermo. Dad tips a bottle to his lips, and Helleana strikes Guillermo repeatedly on the head with a round object. Dad and Helleana look slightly monstrous, while Guillermo looks miserable. The narrator's commentary continues: “ . . . raised in such a way that you would have thought he never smiled . . .”

Several of the next drawings concern the monster:

• Guillermo tells Helleana about a monster in the bathroom. The narrator states, “. . . for every night he fought a lurking fear.”
• As he stands before the toilet, a monster parts the shower curtain, lunging toward the boy. The narrator, something of a poet, it appears, adds, “His passage to the bathroom, [sic] locked away a creature would appear.
• Guillermo loses control of his bladder, a sight that Helleana finds hilarious; she laughs as she points to him, standing in a puddle of his own urine.
• He dared not even wonder [at] the horrors that await,” the narrator advises the audience. The monster leans over Guillermo, its mouth gaping. “The children who defied his terms, he could only imagine their fate.”

The next two drawings focus on Guillermo himself:

• Guillermo holds a hand to his forehead. “And what you wonder were the terms asked of our dear boy.”
• As Guillermo takes a pair of scissors to his head, the narrator answers his own question: “Clumps of hair from off his head, the creature could enjoy.”

The final picture is text: “Shhh . . .” as the movie begins.

During the movie's action, we learn these facts about Guillermo:

• He is neglected (left alone) much of the time.
• He is artistic and imaginative.
• He cuts his hair to feed the monster.
• His sister is emotionally and abusive toward him.
• He stutters.
• He is incontinent.
• He is asthmatic and relies on an inhaler.
• He finds the monster both frightening and disgusting.
• Earlier, when he called to his father to rescue him from Helleana, she put her finger to her lips and commanded, “Shhh!” At the end of the movie, he does the same thing.

To understand the monster, we must understand what Guillermo's behaviors represent.

Consulting psychological theory, we discover that pulling (or, we assume, cutting) and trichophagia, or the compulsive eating of hair (we are also assuming that the monster represents a psychological condition of some sort; as such, it is an inner state, a dimension of the self) is a way of relieving stress, anxiety and loneliness.

 
Although stuttering can have physiological and genetic causes, it can also be caused by “stress in the family,” “problems communicating with others,” and “low self-esteem.”

Urinary incontinence can also be caused by physiological issues, but emotional stress that impairs the fight-or-flight response precipitated by the neurotransmitters serotonin and norepinephrine can also cause urinary incontinence.

Although asthma is a physical condition, “research has also shown that the body’s response to stress triggers the immune system and causes the release of certain hormones,” thereby leading “to inflammation within the airways of the lungs, triggering an asthma attack.” His ability to discard his inhaler after overcoming the monster seems to underscore the idea that his asthma attacks are attributable to the severe stress he experiences on a regular basis.

It appears that the alcohol and general unavailability of his father and his sisters' emotional and physical abuse of him accounts, in large measure, for Guillermo's heightened stress. These traumas, which affect a young child, are obviously severe, giving rise not to one expression but to a number of severe symptoms: trichophagia, stuttering, urinary incontinence, and asthma. Possibly, he also has low-self esteem as a result of being neglected and abused.

There seems to be another cause of Guillermo's heightened stress. In none of the pictures he draws does his mother appear. She is neither seen nor heard in the movie, and no one speaks of or otherwise refers to her. The disappearance of the mother, possibly as a result of her demise, could explain not only Guillermo's stress but also the alcoholism of his father and the abusive behavior of his sister. Each in his or her own destructive manner, the surviving family members appear to be attempting, largely unsuccessfully, to cope with the grief and loss of the adult female member of the family.

 The monster appears, then, to be a personification of the stress, low self-esteem, loneliness, and fear that Guillermo experiences as a result of his father's emotional abandonment of him, his father's alcoholism, his sister's emotional and physical abuse of him, and, quite possibly, his mother's “abandonment” of him through her death and the grief he feels for her passing and his loss of her, the presumed nurturer of the family.

The narrator tells the audience that Guillermo is “extraordinary.” What makes him so, the film suggests, is his artistic ability. The dark drawings he creates objectify his fears, allowing him to put into pictures what he may not be able to put into words. He can picture himself contented; he can picture his father's alcoholism and his sister's violence and cruelty; he can picture his helplessness, his humiliation, and his fear.

He can also picture an adversary, the monstrous form upon whom he projects the harsh treatment of his father and his sister; they, as much as his own low self-esteem, stress, fear, disgust, humiliation, loneliness, and grief, are the monster he sees in the bathroom, or the wash room, the place to which he goes to divest himself of waste and dirt, to relive himself and to cleanse himself.

His artistic ability allows him to project an enemy, to imagine an adversary. Having accomplished this feat, he can now devise a way to attack and conquer his foe and all that it stands for, all that it represents. By overcoming the monster, he rids himself of his low self-esteem, stress, fear, disgust, humiliation, loneliness, and grief. By gaining confidence in himself, he overcomes his sister's power over him and he does not need his father's love and protection. In vanquishing the monster, he becomes a hero. He does not need his inhaler. He does not need his scissors. He can enjoy, but he does not need, the refuge of his room.

He overcomes the part of the monster that is Helleana by imagining her as the monster's victim. In restoring the drawing she'd ripped in half, he replaced his own image with an image of her as the monster's prey. Henceforth, she is the one who must feel low self-esteem, stress, fear, disgust, humiliation, loneliness, and grief. He is no longer the scapegoat that she had made him. Without him in this role, she herself must bear the weight of her own problems, without him as her whipping boy.

Instead of picturing himself as the monster's prey, he escapes this fate by imagining his sister in the role of the monster's victim. She who was his tormentor becomes the tormented, the tortured victim of the monster that she helped to create. His father, meanwhile, is the victim of the monster he embraces, the bottle of whiskey that suppresses the low self-esteem, stress, fear, disgust, humiliation, loneliness, and grief that he feels, even as he feeds it not the hair of his head, but the essence of his soul.

Friedrich Nietzsche warns, “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.” This cautionary declaration also seems to inform the short film.

In the final analysis, there is more than a bit of the monster in Guillermo, too, for he is willing to sacrifice his own sister to the monster, even going so far as to deliberately leave her hairbrush in the bathroom before telling her just where to go to find it. Then, as he lies in bed and she, presumably having gone to get her brush, begins to scream, he holds a finger to his lips and says “shhh.” There is an emotional abyss as deep, apparently, as that of a sociopath, for he seems to feel no qualms about having sent his sister to the same fate as that which had been his own.

Whether his father and his sister helped to make him the monster he has become, the fact remains that he himself has had a part in the making of the monster, for he has contributed to its creation, both by his own actions and through the exercise of his imagination.

Shhh is not without flaws (what is?). The verse in which the narrator speaks is amateurish, at best, and it's often an unnecessary distraction. The drawings, although well executed, are a bit too didactic. The psychology, although suggested, rather than overtly stated, is alternately implausible and too broad. The horror is tepid.

Nevertheless, the short film, overall, is intriguing and offers a lot to discern, analyze, and appreciate.