Showing posts with label novels. Show all posts
Showing posts with label novels. Show all posts

Saturday, July 31, 2021

Recommended Reading

Copyright 2021 by Gary L. Pullman

 

 

Ambrose Bierce: “The Damned Thing,” “A Tough Tussle

Bierce's ideas are original and intriguing. He also reveals aspects of horror that aren't always apparent in seemingly ordinary, if sometimes also terrible, incidents and situations.

William Peter Blatty: The Exorcist

I read this novel when I was twenty; then, I saw the movie. Both are first-rate excursions into terror. Blatty's literary art is discernible even in his metaphors.

Ray Bradbury: “Heavy-Set,” “The Veldt,” “The Foghorn”

A poetic writer who is especially adept at imagery and symbolism, Bradbury writes tales are sometimes that are much “deeper” than they might sometimes first appear.

Kate Chopin: “The Story of an Hour”

In the hands of a skilled writer, an imagined anecdote can be a powerful transmitter of both feminist angst and horror.

Sir Winston Churchill: “Man Overboard

Churchill echoes the existential despair of Stephen Crane's The Open Boat” in this much more economical, if not as layered, tale of the sea.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, “Kubla Khan”

In teaching a lesson about respecting life, Coleridge also teaches readers about crafting a well-told horrific tale and shows, in the process, his own poetic genius.

Stephen Crane: “The Open Boat”

Crane's story reflects not only the traditional categories of narrative conflict, but also a fourth, man vs. God, which is echoed in Sir Winston Churchill's short story Man Overboard.

Charles Dickens: “The Signal-Man”

For the background to this horrific short story, see my Listverse listicle, 10 Classic Stories Inspired by True Events.

Charlotte Perkins Gilman: “The Yellow Wallpaper”

For the background to this horrific short story, see my Listverse listicle, 10 Classic Stories Inspired by True Events.

 Nathaniel Hawthorne: “The Birthmark,” “Rappacinni's Daughter”

For the background to “The Birthmark,” see my Listverse listicle, 10 Classic Stories Inspired by True Events.

 O. Henry: “The Ransom of Red Chief,” “The Gift of the Magi”

Many horror stories end with a twist. Although his tales are not horror stories, O. Henry is a master at creating such ironic endings.

Shirley Jackson: “The Lottery,” “An Ordinary Day, with Peanuts,” “Trial by Combat

Slice-of-life fiction becomes horrific in
“An Ordinary Day, with Peanuts.”

W. W. Jacobs: “The Monkey's Paw”

A true classic of horror!

Stephen King: 'Salem's Lot, Desperation

As in Frank Peretti's Monster and Dean Koontz's The Taking, God makes a cameo appearance in King's Desperation. (Other Christian authors on this list include Flannery O'Connor and William Peter Blatty.)

Dean Koontz: Phantoms, The Taking

Is the horror of The Taking an account of an alien invasion or something even more sinister?

D. H. Lawrence: “The Snake” and “The Odour of Chrysanthemums

In “The Snake,” we meet a god of the underworld; in reading “The Odour of Chrysanthemums,” I understood why the scent of roses reminds me of death.

Bentley Little: The Revelation, Dominion

Although,  like Stephen King's later fiction, Little's novels often fall apart at the end, the beginning and the middle are captivating and frequently alternate between frightening and being exceedingly eerie.

H. P. Lovecraft: “The Lurking Fear

Lovecraft does not disappoint in this story or in most of his other work. He brought a new perspective to horror fiction, which is not an easy accomplishment.

Daphne du Maurier: “The Birds”

Any writer whose story Alfred Hitchcock picked as the basis of one of his movies has to be a master of suspense.

Robert McCammon: Swan Song, Stinger

Although I later lost my taste for McCammon, his early novels are entertaining.

Saki (H. H. Munro): “The Open Window”

Like O. Henry, Saki sure knows how to twist a plot. In the process, he also reveals character concisely and very well.

Joyce Carol Oates: “Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?”

Reading this story is a bit like watching a music video featuring a psychopathic musician and his groupie victim.

Flannery O'Connor: “The Life You Save May Be Your Own,” “A Good Man Is Hard to Find”

Although she is not a horror writer per se,  O'Connor, something of a Christian, female Edgar Allan Poe, shouts and draws big pictures for a reason.

Frank Peretti: Monster

Peretti's skill as a writer shows in many ways, not the least of which, in this novel, is his mapping of the monstrous. 

Edgar Allan Poe: “The Cask of the Amontillado,” “Hop-Frog,” “Berenice,” “The Masque of the Red Death,” “The Premature Burial

I might have included all  of Poe's works.

Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child: Relic, Crimson Shore

Relic is nothing less than a terrific, terrifying tour de force. Crimson Shore, intriguing for its setting, characters, and situation, is often more suspenseful than frightening, but it is also a fast read.

William Shakespeare: Titus Andronicus, Hamlet, King Lear

Critics are right: Titus Andronicus is certainly Shakespeare's worst play, but, hey, it's still Shakespeare (and it's truly horrific as well). Hamlet is unforgettable, and King Lear is part horrifying, part terrifying, and entirely tragic.

Dan Simmons: Subterranean

This novel is simply harrowing.

Craig Spector and John Skipp: The Light at the End

A Barlow-type creature of the night seems to have somehow slipped his way between the covers of John Godey's (Morton Freedgood's) 1973 thriller The Taking of Pelham 123. It's good fun, amid the splatter of blood and gore.

Bram Stoker: “The Judge's House,” “The Burial of the Rats,” “Dracula's Guest”

All of these short stories show, in miniature, the mastery of both writing and horror that are later exhibited more fully in Dracula.

Rabindranath Tagore: “The Hungry Stones”

At first, puzzling, Tagore's exotic tale is finally downright spooky.

Mark Twain: “Mrs. McWilliams and the Lightning,” “Mrs. McWilliams and the Burglar Alarm,” “The Invalid's Story”

No, Mark Twain (Samuel Langhorne Clemens) is not a horror writer, but he could have been!

H. G. Wells: “The Cone,” “The Red Room”

If you never fully appreciated Wells's artistry, both of these stories will show you that the man was the equivalent of an impressionistic painter who used words, instead of brushes, on pages, rather than on canvases. Wells is a true master!

Oscar Wilde: The Picture of Dorian Gray

Wilde's novel, like so many others, is far better than the movie adaptations of it. Everything complements everything else: plot, characters, setting, theme, and tone.

William Butler Yeats: “Leda and the Swan,” “The Second Coming

More suggestive than definitive, Yeats's poems are often intimations of terror that escapes even his mastery of the language; his poems haunt their readers--haunt them and, maybe, change them. (You have been warned!)

Note: For additional writers of horror, you may wish to consult https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_horror_fiction_writers


Tuesday, March 12, 2019

Sources of Incongruity as Inspirations for Horror Plots

Copyright 2019 by Gary L. Pullman



I've written about movie misconceptions, bizarre explosions, Viking inventions and innovations, disciplined photojournalists, horrific acts that are legal in some countries, the first Christmas card, strange phenomena that have stumped experts, famous writers' accounts of public executions, strange and mysterious islands, Halloween pranks gone awry, an innovations coming soon to a mall near you, among many other topics.


My writing has been eclectic, to say the least, although most of my articles have been, like many of my novels and short stories, concerned with the bizarre, the grotesque, and the exceptional. In fact, the site for which I wrote most of my articles specifically requests such fare. To sell, I worked out an approach, listing sources of incongruity from which to draw ideas for such stories.


It's occurred to me that these same sources of incongruity can help writers of horror fiction develop premises for novels and short stories. Here, without further ado, is the list of my sources for incongruity, together with, by way of example, a few of the titles of the articles I derived from them.


Polarity Pendulum: going from one extreme to another: passengers who became pilots midair, lost and found objects, disasters that sparked new safety regulations. 


Prediction Regarding Everyday Life:  futuristic visions of everyday places


Recent Discovery: recently discovered animal species, recently discovered secret caches


Secrets: secret laboratories, secret caches



Incongruous Placement of Objects or Event Location: bodies at the bottoms of wells, objects found in porta potties, underwater rescues, creatures living in people's ears


Ridiculous + Sublime: elaborate gingerbread houses



Great Waste: government boodoggles


Unusal Purpose: objects made from human skulls, dioramas, dollhouses that aren't for play, items made from human corpses


Bizarre Role: bizarre positions in royal courts, stained-glass windows (with various unusual purposes)


Mysterious Phenomena: mystifying mountains, occultists, bizarre skeletons


Sophisticated Early Technology: early special effects, antique prostheses


Precursors: cabinets of curiosity (precursor to museums)


Misrepresentations: deliberate historical errors and misrepresentations, deliberate map errors, accidental map errors


Confusion of Categories: insect imposters


Irony: a hospital stay can make you sicker


Threats to Safety: snake invasions

By categorizing the types of incongruity, a writer can tap a number of sources, ensuring that his or her writing doesn't bog down with only one or two such sources, becoming predictable and less interesting than it could (and should) be. Simply select one of the above categories as your inspiration and develop a story along the lines the selected category suggests.



 

Sunday, March 3, 2019

Developing a Sense of Horror

Copyright 2019 by Gary L. Pullman


Yesterday, as I walked through the house, I imagined the defensive and offensive actions that various inanimate objects might take in response to environmental stimuli if the objects were imbued with personalities, intelligence, and will.



Sound crazy? Perhaps, but personification can be an important source of inspiration and a significant way of developing one's sense of horror.

Here are a few of the ideas I conceived:



Ceiling: offense = inaccessibility (it's a cathedral ceiling); defense = allowing parts of itself to fall upon intruders (or perhaps divesting itself of such "accessory items" as ceiling fans or light fixtures); alternatively, a ceiling (or a floor) can look deceptively solid, only to be insubstantial and, therefore, dangerous

Floor: offense = strength and solidarity of tiles; defense = allowing individual or sections of tiles to break and slide, making an intruder's footing precarious



Cabinet: offense: closed exterior (like that of a turtle's shell)--also, drawers can contain some pretty dangerous items; defense = hiding (the articles of a cabinet are "hidden" when the drawers are closed)

Toilet: offense = closed exterior; defense = elimination of threat by "swallowing" action (and, okay, yes, maybe odor). (By the way, toilets have been known to explode!) (You probably don't even want to consider the possibilities that Porta Potties present!)

Stove = offense = strength, weight (it's not easily moved), and durability; defense = destruction by fire (or gas)
 


Refrigerator/freezer: offense = strength, weight, and durability; defense = cold or freezing temperatures. (In the hands of master storyteller Stanley Kubrick, who directed The Shining, a freezer can help to disorient characters and viewers alike, adding to the sense of confusion and anxiety.)

Curtains: offense: able to sustain considerable damage without total destruction; defense = able to incapacitate by wrapping around an intruder and to kill by strangling him or her. (Curtains of various sorts have also been used in other ways in such movies as Psycho and Hide and Seek.)



Mirror: offense: as Lewis Caroll (and others) have taught us in Through the Looking-glass, mirrors can be gateways to other worlds, some of which are strange and terrifying, indeed; wardrobes can also be portals to other worlds, of course, as C. S. Lewis has demonstrated in The Chronicles of Narnia); defense: shattering into sharp-edged, pointed shards

Wallpaper: offense: it looks harmless (but appearances can be deceiving); defense = it can drive a person insane (Charlotte Perkins-Gilman demonstrates how, in "The Yellow Wallpaper")



By imagining the offensive and defensive capabilities of the everyday objects in a house, a writer can exercise his or her creative abilities; at the same, time, he or she might conceive of a few ideas (by adding a bit of exaggeration, for effect) for a haunted house story. The familiar, everyday world is the source of horror, as often or not, in this genre.



Friday, August 24, 2018

Horror Fiction: The Appeal of the Need for Autonomy

Copyright 2018 by Gary L. Pullman


The need for autonomy is the need for personal independence, the need to direct one's own path, the need to take charge of one's own life, the need to be in charge of one's own destiny. As with the other fourteen “basic needs” Jib Fowles addresses in Mass Advertising as Social Forecast, advertisers (or horror writers) can appeal to the need for autonomy either by showing characters who are autonomous or “by invoking the loss of independence or self-regard.”

Probably one of the clearest examples horror fiction's tapping into readers' need for autonomy is Stephen King's first novel, Carrie (1974). It recounts the difficult childhood of adolescent Carietta (“Carrie”) White. Her mother, Margaret, is a fanatical Christian fundamentalist who projects her own personal and sexual insecurities onto her daughter, referring to Carrie's breasts as “dirty pillows” and suggesting Carrie is a slut because of her interest in boys. Margaret says Carrie is a hell-bound sinner certain to be damned if she doesn't watch her ways and reinforces her own dictates as to her own dictates with physical abuse. At school, Carrie, who is unpopular, is often treated cruelly and with contempt.


The onset of menstruation is a terrifying to Carrie, who is unprepared for its occurrence, her mother having taught her nothing about puberty and its effects. Her classmates taunt her, throwing tampons and sanitary napkins at her in the communal shower following physical education class, when Carrie begins to menstruate, shouting at her to “plug it up!”

King says he based Carrie on two schoolgirls he knew during his high school years:

One was a timid epileptic with a voice that always gurgled with phlegm. Her fundamentalist mother kept a life-size crucifix in the living room, and it was clear to King that the thought of it followed her down the halls.

The second girl was a loner who wore the same outfit every day, which drew cruel taunts.


King says he wondered what it was like for the first girl to grow up in a home like hers.

Without parental guidance and ostracized by her classmates as a social pariah, Carrie has no guidance (one of Fowles's fifteen “basic needs”), but she has enough courage to attempt to escape her mother's domineering influence and her schoolmates' cruelty as she attempts to establish autonomy, especially after she discovers she possesses telekinetic abilities.



When one of her tormentors repents of her cruel treatment of Carrie, asking her boyfriend, Tommy Ross, to escort Carrie to the prom, Carrie is overjoyed, despite her mother's insistence that going to the dance is a sinful “carnal” act, and she makes herself a red velvet dress. Margaret is afraid of her daughter, convinced that Carrie's telekinetic abilities prove that she is a witch. (Witchcraft, Margaret contends, runs in the family, appearing in every other generation.)

At first, things seem to go well at the prom, until one of Carrie's tormentors, Chris Hargensen, arranges with her boyfriend, Billy Nolan, to pour pigs' blood on Carrie and her date. In the process, Tommy is killed.

Humiliated, Carrie then launches her revenge, locking the students in the room, electrocuting several of them, and incinerating the rest. On her way home, she destroys much of her hometown, snapping power lines and destroying gas pumps to cause massive explosions.



At home, Margaret, believing her daughter to be possessed by the devil, attempts to stab Carrie to death, by Carrie thwarts her mother by stopping Margaret's heart. (in the film adaptation, Carrie kills Margaret by piercing her with knives in a parody of the crucifixion of Christ.) Thereafter, as she makes her way to the roadhouse at which she was conceived (according to Margaret, as the result of “marital rape”), Billy and Chris attempt to run over her with Billy's car, but she crashes their vehicle, killing her would-be murderers. Carrie dies of the mortal wound inflicted by her mother.

Sixteen-year-old Carrie, despite her mother's abusive treatment of her and her classmates' cruelty, attempts to gain independence, defying her mother as she adopts her own values and beliefs and to find acceptance at school by attending the prom with a popular boy. She also exchanges her drab attire for the red velvet dress she made especially for the occasion, a coming-out affair of sorts for the troubled teen. Despite Carrie's lack of parental guidance, the insecurities and fears her psychotic mother attempts to project onto her, and her schoolmates' ostracism and torment of her, Carrie sees that life is to be embraced, not feared, and she courageously attempts to exercise autonomy as she takes charge of herself and her own life.



King suggests that, despite such courage—and despite the paranormal powers Carrie possesses—his protagonist's efforts are in vain because several other “basic needs” have not been met, such as the need for affiliation, the need for nurture, and the need for guidance. Without the fulfillment of these needs, she is unable to satisfy the need for autonomy. By denying Carrie the fulfillment of her need for autonomy, King endorses the importance not only of this need but the others which support it.

Thursday, August 9, 2018

Doctors of Death

Copyright 2018 by Gary L. Pullman


When a doctor goes wrong, he is the first among criminals.” – Sherlock Holmes, “The Speckled Band



Some believe Jack the Ripper was a medical doctor, perhaps a surgeon. Other serial killers are known to have practiced medicine, include H. H. Holmes, Harold Shipman, Michael Swango, Marcel Petiot, Shirō Ishii, John Bodkin Adams, Josef Menegle, Robert George Clements, Thomas Neill Cream, Louay Omar Mohammed ai-Taei, Maxim Petrov, and Kermit Gosnell.

As Sherlock Holmes (okay, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle) observes, medical doctors make splendid criminals. They have the knowledge, the discipline, and the skill to kill, but they also often present the persona of a caring and humanitarian professional in whose hands patients are well-advised to place not only their trust, but also their lives. In fact, their victims often come to them, as patients who are both physically and emotionally vulnerable. They look upon their doctors as their best hopes for survival. Ironically, “when a doctor goes wrong,” he or she is apt to be just the opposite. Alas, patients sometimes learn too late that their trusted physician or surgeon is, in fact, a cold-blooded killer.



Horror movies have featured their share of diabolical doctors, some of whom are researchers, others of whom are medical practitioners or surgeons. Dr. Jekyll, of Robert Louis Stevenson's novel The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, (1886) appears to be a chemist; Dr. Moreau, of H. G. Wells's novel The Island of Dr. Moreau (1896), is a physiologist and vivisectionist; and Dr. Griffin*, of H. G. Wells's novel The Invisible Man (1897), is an optics researcher. (Mary Shelley's Victor von Frankenstein is not a doctor, but an amateur scientist of sorts. Likewise, Dr. Anton Phibes [of the 1972 movie The Abominable Dr. Phibes] is not a medical doctor; he has degrees in music and theology, one of which is a doctorate.)

Several other novels and movies also feature doctors of one type or another, but the ones we've identified are sufficient for our (or, rather, Sherlock Holmes's) thesis: “When a doctor goes wrong, he is the first among criminals.”

* * *


Dr. Jekyll

In creating the dual character of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Stevenson seems to have separated the private person from his persona. The former is the public face, the persona, presented to the world; the latter, the private person, known only to himself (and not entirely known, even then).

All of us are Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. We have private selves and public selves, and these split aspects of our personalities are not always in synchronization with one another. Privately, we desire and fantasize and, perhaps, in some ways act upon less-than-honorable, or even shameful, impulses and proclivities which, in our public lives, we would never dare to acknowledge, much less entertain or act upon.

We are hypocrites, all—or would be, had society not, in its wisdom, allowed us to a differentiate between our private lives, wherein ignominious and disgraceful thoughts, feelings, and secret behaviors are allowed without penalty, as long as they harm no one, and our public lives, wherein we are expected to conform to the mores, traditions, customs, and laws of civilized society.

Wanting to kill, or even entertaining fantasies about murdering, another person is permissible to us in our private lives, the lives that our counterparts to Mr. Hyde live, but such ideas, emotions, and dreams are strictly forbidden to us in our public lives, the lives of our Dr. Jekyll dopplegangers live.

In crossing the line between the private hell of his personal life and the public life of affected propriety, Stevenson's protagonist committed a horror more horrible than the murders he perpetrated. Stevenson's novel is a cautionary tale: this far, one may go, but not a step farther. The boundary between the vile, secret self and the acceptable persona must be respected at all costs. When it is, murders and other immoral acts are unlikely to occur; the monster within is kept at bay.


Dr. Moreau

As we point out in another post, mixing human and animal perverts both natures, dehumanizing the former while objectifying the latter. Men and women, like animals, are better off as men and women or as animals than they would be as manimals or womanimals. By being hybridized as chimeras, neither human nor animal is improved.

Compared to humans animals are not, by nature, very bright. They live mostly by instinct, unable to comprehend the ways of men and women, whom, according to scientists, they regard as alpha members of the pack of which they themselves are lesser members. Unfortunately, with intelligence comes the capacities for treachery, infidelity, malice aforethought, and all manner of other evils. There are no innocent adults, and even children are often cruel to one another. They do not need teachers; such cruelty comes naturally to them. An animal, especially a domesticated one, is more innocent than any child.

By mixing humans and beasts, as Dr. Moreau did, both are made different and are devalued in the process. Indirectly, through is hybrid creatures, Dr. Moreau causes the deaths of others, but his greater crime is the immorality of vivisection as the means he employs for grafting human beings and animals. His means to his ends set him apart in his villainy, just as does Dr. Jekyll's means to his ends set him apart for the same reason.


Dr. Griffin

Humans depend upon their five senses to perceive the world. Primarily, they depend upon sight. To render oneself or anything else invisible is to eliminate the sense of sight, at least as it concerns the persons or objects made invisible. Invisibility blinds us, and blindness hampers our powers to conduct reconnaissance or surveillance and to protect ourselves and defend others. To confer invisibility upon someone or something is to disable those who are thus deprived sight of the person or thing made invisible.

To use a unique and extraordinarily effective ability against others, leaving them vulnerable and defenseless is tantamount to betrayal. Dr. Griffin's invisibility allows him to accomplish just such an immoral act. Instead of using his power to benefit others, he abuses it, even committing acts of murder. Again, his ends to his means is worse than the deaths he inflicts upon his victims, because these ends set him apart from his peers as not only ruthless but also inhuman.

* * *

Stevenson and Wells, although not, perhaps, in the first rank of literature, many might contend, are, nonetheless, superior to the vast majority of writers of their time or, indeed, of any time. The quality of their writing, its urbane and sophisticated style, the subtlety of their novels' various themes, their superb craftsmanship, their attention to detail, and the unhurried manner of their narratives, in which, most often, structure and function are so perfectly balanced as to appear to be one and the same thing, make their stories of such a character that the morality of the tales are not overwhelmed by the sensationalism of their plots. Directly, or by proxy, Dr. Jekyll, Dr. Moreau, and Dr. Griffin are serial murderers. Although their criminal deeds are described in lurid detail, the murders they commit, as extravagant as they are, do not cloud the moral implications of their heinous acts.

Saturday, July 28, 2018

The Horror of Hybrid Creatures

Copyright 2018 by Gary L. Pullman


The Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1978) remake starring Donald Sutherland takes an eerie turn when a dog with a man's face makes its—his?—appearance on the screen. Offhand, I don't remember what accounts for this strange human-bestial hybrid, but, according to a synopsis of the film, “Matthew and Elizabeth are exposed as human when” Elizabeth screams “upon seeing a mutant dog with a human face, the result of . . . . a mutagenic effect” which caused the assimilation of “both Harry and the dog into a composite organism.”



Such special effects were relatively new at the time, and the human-canine “composite organism” looked especially bizarre on film. Of course, such hybrids have a long history. Ancient mythology, Egyptian, Greek, Chinese, and otherwise, frequently includes such creatures as the sirens (bird women and, later, fish women), lamias (snake men and women), harpies (women with eagles' wings), gorgons (women with snakes for hair), satyrs (goat men), centaurs (horse men), sphinxes (lions with human heads), and many others.



Some hybrids consist of human bodies with animal heads (the jackal-headed Anubis, the cat-headed Bastet, the elephant-headed Ganesha, the frog-headed Hequet, the falcon-headed Horus and Monthu, the ram-headed Khnum, the cobra-headed Meretseger, the crocodile-headed Sobek, the ibis-headed Thoth, and the boar-headed Varaha, to name but a few).

Other hybrids are anthropomorphic creatures with added animal parts, including the wings of birds (angels), insects (fairies), or bats (the dragon Hatuibwari); birds' legs (Lilitu) dogs' legs (Adlet), or other animals' legs; and cows' horns (Hathor) or stags' antlers Pashupati). To their anthropomorphic forms, some hybrids add even more animal parts, as many as three, four, five, or even more, from diverse species. For example, the Japanese Baku has an elephant's head, a rhinoceros's eyes, a tiger's legs, a bear's body, and an ox's tail.


One reason such creatures are horrific is that they represent exceptions to the taxonomy, or classification system, scientists use to classify organisms. For scientists (and the vast majority of laypersons), there is a clear-cut demarcation, or boundary line, between human beings (the only extant members of the subtribe Hominina) and non-human animals. When such boundaries are crossed, as they are, or would be, with human-animal hybrids, not only confusion results, but so does the idea that humans are somehow superior to “lesser” (non-human) animals. To insist on a difference between human beings and non-human animals is to maintain the superiority of the former over the latter. If humans are nothing more than an animal, every non-human animal is equal to humans in status and importance. There can be no hierarchy, such as that which was established by medieval Christianity's doctrine of the divinely established “great chain of being,” the basis, like God's decree, in Genesis 1:26, that “man” should “have dominion” over the earth and its fauna:

And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.


Rather than being the image of God, and “the crown of creation,” humans would be just another member of the animal kingdom.

The taboo against bestiality is probably intended to safeguard the qualitative difference between humans and nonhuman animals. The fact that, although not universal, this taboo is widely in effect across the globe, with offenders subject to death or incarceration in some cases, suggests how insistent the separation between the categories of human and nonhuman continue to be. In horror fiction, it is the violation of this separation, the boundary between human and nonhuman animals that the violation represents, that is horrific, which is why the dog-faced hybrid in The Invasion of the Body Snatchers is eerie, even today, despite the less-than-spectacular (by today's standards) special effects that produced it.



Other movies (and novels) that mix both science fiction and horror, as they do man (or woman) and nonhuman animals, include H. G. Wells's novel 1896 The Island of Dr. Moreau, the 1932 movie Island of Lost Souls, the 1986 movie The Fly, the 2009 film Splice, and the 2001 movie Dagon.


Thursday, July 26, 2018

Villages Under Attack

Copyright by Gary L. Pullman


In Godzilla (1954), a radioactive, fire-breathing, dragon-like monster attacks Tokyo. After being transported to New York City, King Kong attacks The Big Apple. Other creatures, gigantic and otherwise, have likewise run amok in other big cities. In The Lost World: Jurassic Park (1997), an escaped Tyrannosaurus rex attacks San Diego. To be a resident of any such metropolis at the time of an attack by such monsters would, indeed, be terrifying.

Big cities aren't usually isolated from the assistance that police, medical personnel, firefighters, and other emergency services provide, and they are often homes to a variety of experts upon whose knowledge and experience endangered citizens can rely. In fact, since, typically, big cities are served by airports, railroads, interstate highways, and, sometimes, ports, the deployment of military troops is often quick and easy. Such cities as Tokyo, New York, and San Diego may suffer some loss of life and damage, but, in the end, it's likely that the likes of Godzilla, King Kong, and T-rex are going down and staying down.

Villages, which lack the size, population, infrastructure, technological assets, expertise, and protective firepower of large cities and are often isolated in difficult-to-reach terrain are a different story altogether. If a gigantic monster—or a monster of any size—were to attack, I'd rather take my chances in a big city than a village, any day.


Beginning of the End (1957, clearly shows how a small town, Ludlow, Illinois, fares—or fared—against the attack of gigantic monsters—in this case, radioactive mutant grasshoppers. Apparently before it could sound an alarm, Ludlow was annihilated. Its entire population of 150 residents, who are nowhere to be found, are presumed to be dead. The only clue to what happened to Ludlow's townspeople is the barrenness of the surrounding farmlands, which look as though their crops were devoured by a swarm of locusts.

The monstrous grasshoppers do not fare well when their swarm attacks Chicago. Botanist Dr. Ed Wainwright has gathered intelligence concerning the attackers. He knows locusts have eaten radioactive grain stored in a nearby silo, and he has heard of mysterious incidents in nearby communities. When he discovers the gigantic grasshoppers, he realizes that they have devoured the region's crops and are now seeking human prey. He provides the expertise that the United States military forces need to exterminate the grasshoppers. An electronic mating call is devised from test-tone oscillators, and the warm-blooded predators are lured to Lake Michigan, where the cold water incapacitates them, and they drown.

Unlike Ludlow, Chicago survives, because it is a large city that can provide the scientific and military resources needed to eliminate the threat posed by the gigantic, predatory grasshoppers.


The Black Scorpion (1957) is similar to Beginning of the End in its contrast of a helpless village the residents of which are attacked and injured or killed by gigantic insects—the scorpions to which the film's title alludes—while a big city is saved from the predators' threat of mass destruction. Troops under the command of Major Cosio arrive in the Mexican town, San Lorenzo, to provide disaster relief in the aftermath of a nearby volcano's eruption. However, their soldiers' weapons prove ineffective against the gigantic scorpions, and the villagers remain unprotected. Military might, this movie suggests, is not enough; it must be applied in a fashion made possible only by scientists or other experts.

Fortunately for the humans whose lives are at stake, the largest of the gigantic scorpions kills the others. Now, it is up to Dr. Velasco, an etymologist, to determine an effective way to destroy the remaining scorpion. It is only after he provides the information necessary to destroy the insects, as the scorpions approach Mexico City, that the military can stop them. Using meat as bait, Velasco and his team lure the insect into a stadium, and the army attacks it with larger, more lethal weapons, such as tanks and helicopters, than those that were used by Major Cosio's men. Nevertheless, the tactic fails, and it is only when geologist Dr. Hank Scott fires a spear attached to an electric cable into the scorpion's throat—its only vulnerable spot—and electrocutes the gigantic insect that the predator is killed and Mexico City is saved.

Unlike the village of San Lorenzo, Mexico City provided such assets as a stadium, military aircraft and tanks, and the combined expertise of an etymologist and a pair of geologists, Scott and Dr. Arturo Ramos. Scientific knowledge combined with military might and the architecture of the big city were enough, combined, to defeat the scorpion.


Some other horror movies in which monsters attack villages include The Birds (1963), The Blob (1958), Carnosaur (1993), Earth vs. the Spider (1958), Iron Invader (2011), Manticore (2005), The Mist (2007), Monster from Green Hell (1957), Tremors (1990), and Wyvern (2009).

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.


Popular Posts