Dark Narratives: September
Exclusive original short fiction now included! Plus women in horror and some industry news....
When I was a kid, I used to make a monthly magazine called “Scary Stuff” featuring my own stories, comics, articles and so forth. These single issues were printed on computer paper and bound in scotch tape and enjoyed a circulation of…well…pretty much myself. I didn’t have anybody to share my enthusiasm for the dark and spooky in those days.
In a lot of ways, this newsletter is the direct successor to the old “Scary Stuff” days. Except now I have y’all to share it with, and that is incredibly cool. Owing to that legacy, I’ve decided to start including original short stories with each issue. Whether you come here for the horror news, the essays, or now the short stories — or all three! — I hope this newsletter provides some value and brightens your day. If you think someone else might appreciate it, be sure to share!
Eerie River Publishing has a few extremely enticing open calls for submissions going on right now: https://www.eerieriverpublishing.com/open-submission
If you’re in the Horror Writer’s Association, don’t forget to exercise your membership power and VOTE for the new VP, Treasurer and Trustee positions. If you’re not an HWA member, now is a good time to join - there’s always a lot of cool events kicking off around October in there!
Don’t forget: Sept. 21 is release day for House of Lazarus. There’s still time to pre-order your copy: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B099QFN2WN
Gordon B. White’s book Rookfield is also up for pre-order. A tale of pandemics and small-town horror, this one shouldn’t be missed: https://journalstone.com/bookstore/rookfield/
Speaking of things to keep on your radar, Gabino Iglesias has a book scheduled for next year through a Little Brown & Co. imprint, Mulholland Books. Keep your eyes peeled for THE DEVIL TAKES YOU HOME:
Is horror feminist or misogynist? That's been a question hotly debated in academic circles, and the answer -- as with most things -- seems to be, "It depends." But one thing is for sure: Whether they're being hunted down and victimized, or turning the tables to become predators themselves, women are front-and-center in a great deal of horror movies. And as the genre blossomed outward from the salacious rape-revenge grindhouse flicks and blood-soaked slashers, those female characters started being fleshed out and explored in ever-greater detail.
Thanks to a long legacy of storytelling about primarily teenage girls, horror has become one of the only genres that reliably centers on female friendship, sisterhood, and the relationships of women -- the good, the bad, and the ugly.
So let's talk about that for a minute, and see if we can pin down the horror history of the female friendship trope.
Cliques, Social Rules and Transgression
The pop culture view of female friendship is fertile ground for horror because it is rife with conflict. Adolescent girls are portrayed as being in a constant state of competition and politicking. And for many of us, there's ample fact in that fiction: Growing up female often means learning to navigate difficult interpersonal relationships and keeping track of who's popular and who's pariah, lest you inadvertently slip from one group to another.
One of the first and most enduring looks at this is of course Carrie, written by Stephen King and first adapted for film in 1974, directed by Brian De Palma. The film has since been adapted three more times -- 1999, 2002 and 2013. In every iteration, the plot is basically the same: Naive, homely, sheltered Carrie White becomes the subject of a cruel prank where she is tricked into believing she's popular, only to be publicly humiliated and unleashing telekinetic destruction in retaliation.
That this story continues to be adapted is proof of the concept's resonance. From the outset, Carrie is an outsider who's been cast in the role of pariah through no fault of her own. She fails at following the rules of a social game she doesn't even know she's playing. How many of us have been in that position? And how many of us wish that we, too, could have unleashed some supernatural destructive fury on our tormenters?
That desire for power -- the supernatural as a key to escape social banishment -- is at the heart of The Craft, directed by Andrew Fleming in 1996. A girl with fledgling supernatural powers moves to a new town and falls in with a trio of self-described witches. Together, their coven of four begin practicing magic that at first seems to give them everything they want, from punishing bullies to rising out of poverty. But actions have consequences, and as the negative effects of their power trip start to bubble up, the friend group crumples in on itself with in-fighting and betrayal.
Similar themes are explored -- from different angles -- in Mirror, Mirror (1990), Heathers (1988), and Jawbreaker (1999). There is both magic and darkness in female friend groups, these stories seem to say. And perhaps there's some cultural anxiety at work as well. Is there anything more threatening to the patriarchy than a group of empowered teenage girls?
Rivalry and Affection
Another aspect of female friendship that comes up frequently in horror is the intersection of affection, attraction, and mimicry. There is an intensity to some adolescent friendships that is confusing to navigate, especially if you're already questioning aspects of your identity. Do you love your best friend platonically or sexually? Is it a crush, or do you want to become the person you admire?
The trope of women rivals who usurp each other's identities is an old one. It shows up in All About Eve (1951), Ingmar Bergman’s Persona (1966), David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive (2001) and Alex Ross Perry's Queen of Earth (2015). Always Shine (2016), directed by Sophia Takal, delves into this as well, introducing us to two actresses whose long-time friendship spirals into jealousy, rivalry, and ultimately violence. Although it's undoubtedly a film about friendship, it's first and foremost a story about the roles women are allowed and encouraged to play -- in life and on the screen.
The 2009 sleeper hit Jennifer's Body, directed by Karyn Kusama and starring Megan Fox opposite Amanda Seyfried, is one of the best modern examples of that troubled intersection of female friendship, rivalry and attraction. It tells the story of two best friends whose friendship is threatened when one is seemingly possessed by a demon after a cult ritual gone wrong. Although widely ignored upon release, the film is enjoying a cult resurgance now as its themes of queerness and feminism are remembered and celebrated. Also, it's very funny -- if you haven't seen this one yet, it's worth the time.
Compare and contrast Jennifer's Body with the Grady Hendrix novel My Best Friend's Exorcism (2016). This, too, tells the story of a girl who starts acting strangely after what seems to be a satanic ritual gone wrong. But unlike many of the other stories in this list, the book is focused on the redemptive, healing qualities of female friendship rather than destruction. Hendrix's follow-up novel, The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires (2020) approaches female friendships in middle age rather than high school. Set in very much the same universe as Exorcism, Book Club tells the story of a group of house-wives who band together to deal with a predator in their neighborhood after it becomes clear that nobody else will.
Sisterhood and Coming of Age
Another aspect of female friendship explored in My Best Friend's Exorcism is the tendency of relationships to change and drift apart with time as some people undergo experiences and trauma that push them apart (and, let's be honest, puberty itself is a kind of trauma). Friendships aren't the only thing that can be strained by these changes; the bonds between siblings can be damaged or broken by the betrayals of growing up as well. That theme is at the heart of some of the best coming-of-age horror.
Ginger Snaps (2000), directed by John Fawcett, is about two inseparable sisters whose relationship is damaged after one, Ginger, is attacked by what turns out to be a werewolf. Ginger begins a grisly transformation, slowly becoming unrecognizable to her sister. In the film, lycanthropy is a vehicle for exploring puberty, womanhood and sexuality. It's a surprisingly heartfelt take on well-worn tropes.
Make it a double feature by following up with Raw (2016), a French film about two sisters at veterinary school together who share the same bloody secret: a hunger for human flesh, awakened after inadvertently eating meat for the first time. What follows is a bloody, twisted tale about cannibalism, but more than that it's a story about the way siblings compete, lie, argue, make up and betray one another.
For a very different take on the topic of sisterhood, it's also worth checking out A Tale of Two Sisters (2003) or its English-language remake, The Uninvited (2009). Both are about sisters watching out for one another against the seemingly hostile presence of a new stepmother.
And rounding out the sisterhood theme, I'd also recommend taking a step back in time to watch What Ever Happened to Baby Jane (1962) or reading the novel of the same title it was adapted from (written by Henry Farrell in 1960). This tense thriller explores the highly dysfunctional relationship between two former child stars -- one disabled, the other washed up but unable to let go of the spotlight -- who are also sisters. It touches on themes of rivalry and family dysfunction, and it gets deliciously dark.
It's a wet, wild night in Yorkshire, and the wind is howling round the moors.
At least, you hope it's the wind. On a night like this, electricity flickering through the clouds, the air flavored with burning ozone, it's easy to imagine that there's something else out there.
Maybe it's just the place you're staying: A very old house, drafty, condensation gathering in the seams of the stony walls. You bought it for a bargain, considering its age. It's not often that an old property like this, in such a beautifully remote location, comes up for sale.
You'd planned to make a bed and breakfast of it, as soon as the renovations were complete. But that was when you still had the money and the health to see it through. Like many dreams from your youth, the plan died piece by piece, interrupted and stalled out and delayed by countless minor tragedies.
Now: You're alone in this old, drafty house, and the wind is whistling through the eaves. It whispers through the heather and blows against the windows. The glass rattles. Cold seeps in at the edges.
The storm has knocked the power out, and you light a candle with a flickering match and feel a deep chill set into your bones, a chill that has nothing to do with the damp and cold and everything to do with the faraway sounds of...something...out in the night.
Something like a hound, nose to ground, tasting your scent. Trailing you. You've seen it, haven't you? You pretend that you haven't, because you know what the stories say. You know what it means to meet with the crimson eyes of the black dog while walking in the moor. You know in your heart that, from that moment, the seconds of your life have drained away like grains of sand in an hourglass.
You try to push away that looming sense of dread, that terrible unease. It's just the wind, you tell yourself, and you could almost believe it if not for the way your hair stands on edge, the way something deep in your belly has turned cold and hard.
You go to make yourself a cup of tea.
The power is out, but the pilot still lights, and you go through the motions of filling the kettle and lighting a match to the burner and can almost ignore the shaking in your hands.
The bed and breakfast had been your last hope, your final plan for starting over. A life of homemaking, of tending to chores and washing up and preparing meals, has burnt your life down like a candle. You have no other skills and it's too late to learn something new, too late to start over, but maybe if you can make this one thing work then it won't have all been wasted time.
But that's not really why you bought this place, a voice in the back of your mind says, and you try to hush it because you know that what it's saying is true.
You came here for solitude.
You came here to die.
The kettle begins to screech. You quickly switch off the flame and prepare the teapot. Your hands still tremble, but you can no longer tell what is caused by fear and what is due to the palsy of age.
While the tea steeps, you move about in darkness, lightning more candles, and listening to the sounds of the storm. The faraway howling has diminished. Now you hear something different - something closer. Like heavy footsteps crushing damp earth underfoot. Like the eager panting of a very large dog circling the house.
The sitting room shimmers with smoky light, and the teacup and spoon rattles on the tray as you carry it inside. After a moment of thought, you turn the chair away from the window, twist it to face the fireplace.
The hearth is cold and ashy, and you set to work resolving that: Stacking wood, kindling, padding the in-between spaces with newspaper, lighting the whole thing with a long thin match. You hope that the warmth will chase away this chill that's set into your bones. You hope that the light will frighten away the darkness that wraps around the house like a blanket.
The crackling of the fire almost - but not quite - drowns out the sound of scratching at the door.
You ignore it. You pretend that you cannot hear.
Scritch-scratch. Scritch-scratch.
Long, blunted claws dragging across old wood. A snuffling nose. A rasping, panted breath.
You return to your chair, facing the fire, back resolutely turned to the window. You do not want to see. If you do not see, if you do not acknowledge, then perhaps you'll be fine. This is what you tell yourself, even as the scratching ceases, even as the dark shadows move to the window. You do not look up as the eyes rise above the window sill, two crimson embers set into a face black as coal. You do not turn around as the creature's breath fogs against the pane, distorting its face.
You stay there for a long time, drinking cup after cup of tea, each colder, more bitter. Your eyelids droop. Even as the creature's burning eyes vanish from the window pane, you surrender to slumber.
The fire dies down to warm ashes. A chill draft sweeps over the room. You shift your weight in your sleep, head lolling from one shoulder to the other, but do not awaken.
You do not see the shadowy thing that creeps down the chimney. You do not see as its body, pliable as smoke, fills the room.
It is a dog. A giant, monstrous dog made from smoke and ash and darkness. It stands as tall as a hound, a pony, a horse, the ceiling -- its form growing and expanding until it fills the room. Its eyes, two glowing points of red set in its black face, glimmer. Its jaws spread wide.
~*~
It takes a long time to notice when an old widow goes missing. No one is left to wonder about you. In the end, it's days before you're found, and only then because some children ventured close enough to catch the stench of rot.
When they do find you, there is a small flurry of activity and questions. No one is quite certain as to the cause of death. Carbon monoxide poisoning, some think -- poor ventilation from the ashy old fireplace. Or just old age, the simple failing of organs, a body too old to sustain itself any longer.
No one can explain the smell of brimstone that lingers in the room, its sulfuric tang refusing to dissipate long after your body has been removed.
No one can explain the way the wind seems to howl down the chimney, sounding like a hunting dog coursing its prey.
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