Wednesday, April 22, 2020

The Exterminator


Copyright 2010 by Gary L. Pullman

       The truck was parked in front Shirley Meyers’ house, and she didn’t like that, not one bit, especially since its driver, the unkempt man in the uniform labeled “Pest Control,” had gone into her neighbor’s house across the street.
       Shirley didn’t like the neighbor, either. For one thing, he was a renter, not an owner, and everyone knew that renters didn’t care anything about the property they rented. More often than not, they abused the condos or houses they leased, sometimes leaving hole sin the walls or letting the grass go uncut or flowers and shrubs untended for weeks at a time, or, like the present occupant of the house across the street, a Mr. Lincoln, blared their stereos night and day, when decent people who actually owned their own houses were trying to sleep or read or watch television undisturbed, having worked hard all their lives and contributed to society.
       It was commonly assumed, among Shirley and her fellow homeowners up and down the block, that Mr. Lincoln was mentally disturbed. Teresa Johnson, who lived behind the rental property, had actually heard the tenant bellow, “sounding like a bull,” according to her, in response to his mother (the woman who actually owned the house her son rented), who’d asked him to turn down his sound system and keep it down. The neighbors were complaining, she’d told him, and if he were to be evicted, he’d have nowhere else to go, except, perhaps, back to the hospital. It had been her reference to the “hospital,” Teresa was sure, that had set him to bellowing. Twice in the past six months, Mr. Lincoln had been carried out of his mother’s house, strapped to a gurney, by two men in white coats, slid into the back of an ambulance, and transported elsewhere—presumably to the “hospital” of which his mother had spoken.
       But he’d come back, to blare his music, pound on neighbors’ doors at all hours of the morning, growl and snarl at his mother, and, in general, make life unlivable in the master gated community of Golden Hill.
       Oh, they’d call the homeowners’ association, of course. All they’d done was to send the mobile security guard around to knock on Mr. Lincoln’s door and ask him, oh-so-politely to turn down his music (hip-hop, of course). They’d also sent his mother a couple of warning notices, but they never followed up on them.
       Teresa and several other homeowners, Shirley included, had called the police—numerous times—and officers had come, pounding on his door with their nightsticks, to no avail; Mr. Lincoln refused to open the door, even to the police, and they said that, under the circumstances, there was nothing more they could do, as the tenant was within his rights not to answer his door if he chose not to do so, unless the police had a warrant for his arrest or probable cause to believe that he’d committed a crime.
       “What about playing his music too loud?” Teresa had challenged one officer. “Isn’t that a crime?”
       “It may be,” the patrolman had answered, “depending on how many decibels it is.”
       “What about our rights?” Shirley had demanded.
       “Have you considered moving?” the officer had asked.
       That was all the good complaining to the HOA and the police had done, which is to say none.
       And, now, from the looks of things, the neighborhood wouldn’t have just Mr. Lincoln’s loud music to contend with; the tenant, apparently, now had a cockroach or a rat infestation. Why else would a “Pest Control” vehicle be parked across from his house?

#

       “It’s been a week now,” Teresa said.
       “Seven precious days of peace and quiet,” Shirley remarked.
       She sipped her tea.
       Her guest helped herself to another finger sandwich. “Like the old days,” she declared, “before he arrived, to ruin our lives.”
       “I wonder what happened to him.”
       “Maybe they took him back to the hospital.”
       Shirley considered the possibility. Not much happened in Golden Hills without their or one of their friends noticing it, but, of course, it was possible, if only barely, that an ambulance had spirited Mr. Lincoln away, perhaps in the middle of the night. After all, on the two occasions they’d seen this very thing happen, the vehicle had neither flashed its lights nor sounded its siren. “No doubt, you’re right, dear,” she concluded. She placed her hand around the teapot’s handle. “More tea?”
       Teresa held her cup out. “Thanks, dear. Don‘t mind if I do.”
       Shirley poured. “I just hope the exterminator eliminated the cockroaches or rats or whatever other vermin infested his place. I sure don’t want any such pests in my home.”
       Teresa shuddered at the thought. “Nor do I!”
       The women settled back in their respective rockers, surveying the street in peace and comfort from Shirley‘s front stoop. Everything was neat and orderly, trees and shrubs trimmed, flowers in bloom, lawns mowed, houses fresh with paint, and not a sound but that of birds twittering in treetops high overhead, an occasional light and melodious jingle of wind chimes., or a flutter of leaves in the summer’s breeze.
       Shirley sighed. “There is nothing more precious than peace and quiet,” she declared.
       “Silence truly is golden,” Teresa agreed.
       For half an hour more, the women sipped their tea, nibbled their cookies, and rocked their tired, aching bodies, enjoying the sound of silence and praying, fervently, that Mr. Lincoln would never return from the hospital again to ruin their lives.
#

       He didn’t.

#

       The next tenant to rent Mr. Lincoln’s mother’s house was a school teacher, Mr. Lombardo, and he lived quietly, keeping to himself. He rented the place for six months, and then a young woman named Cynthia Reynolds took up residence in the house across the street from Shirley, annoying the woman of the neighborhood only by passing on their invitations to join them for gossip and tea. Still, she was quiet, and that’s what mattered, really, in a renter. She lived in Golden Hills for over a year before leaving.
       Then a rough-looking, loud, obnoxious, and foul-mouthed young man named Skinner—Shirley was never sure whether it was his first or last name—moved into the house, and all hell broke loose. He sped up and down the street in his sports car, instead of keeping to the posted fifteen-miles-per-hour speed limit; hosted loud parties that lasted into the wee hours of the morning; neglected the lawn, trees, shrubs, and flowers; abused the property; frequently had any number of different young women as his overnight guests—sometimes two or more at a time!—drank to excess; and played harsh, discordant “music” at all hours of the day and night.
       Something had to be done, Shirley, Teresa, and the uncouth young tenant’s other neighbors agreed, but what? That was the question. The HOA and the police proved of no greater assistance than they had before, in the case of Mr. Lincoln, and, as far as Shirley or any of the other ladies knew, Skinner wasn’t insane—at least, not certifiably. There was, therefore, no chance that he’d be carted off on a gurney to a hospital, as Mr. Lincoln, presumably, had been. With the HOA unwilling to enforce its rules and regulations and the police unwilling to enforce the county’s ordinances, there was nothing, really, that anyone could do. Golden Hills, once an idyllic paradise, had become, once again, a hell on earth, and Shirley and her friends were stuck with Skinner, damned to the endless torment of his devil-may-care ways.
       And, then, one day, the exterminator’s truck showed up, and, this time, Shirley didn’t mind, not one bit, that it had parked in front of her house. As before, its driver, the same unkempt man in the uniform labeled “Pest Control,” had gone into her neighbor’s house across the street, and, ever since, there had been
serenity in Golden Hills.
       “Seven precious days of peace and quiet,” Shirley remarked. She sipped her tea.
       Teresa helped herself to another finger sandwich. “Like the old days,” she declared, “before he arrived, to ruin our lives.”
       Shirley had been about to say, “I wonder what happened to him,” but she didn’t. She knew what had happened to him, all right: the same thing that had happened to Mr. Lincoln.
       There was no need to worry about cockroaches or rats, either, she knew, or pests of any other kind, not when someone in their community, bless his or her heart, knew the number of The Exterminator.
       She placed her hand around the teapot’s handle. “More tea?”
       Teresa held her cup out. “Thanks, dear. Don’t mind if I do.”
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Paranormal vs. Supernatural: What’s the Diff?

Copyright 2009 by Gary L. Pullman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

According to Todorov:

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

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

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

My Cup of Blood

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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