In the wilderness, we have little control over our surroundings, and,
whether a provincial park, a rain forest, a crocodile-infested area
along a flooded river, or another forbidding location, our environment
can be hostile, dangerous, or even deadly.
Trees obscure lines of
sight; darkness impedes vision; sounds in the darkness seem ominous.
Especially in remote locations, the wilderness isolates us, cutting us
off from civilization and the assistance that social institutions and
government agencies could otherwise provide. No ambulances, fire trucks,
or police cruisers are standing by; no emergency telephone operators
await our calls; no infrastructure of highways, hospitals, and other
resources is available.
In movies that combine horror with
wilderness environments, characters are likewise vulnerable and
helpless. They are alone, in the dark, among wild animals or other
threats. They may find themselves in the presence of killers, some of
whom could be family members or friends. These 10 wilderness horror
movies based on horrific true stories may make us think twice about
power outages, camping, traveling, or even staying home alone.
The listicle for which the above paragraphs are the introduction appears on Listverse.
In this post, Michael Williams concludes his remarks about writing a well-plotted story along the lines laid out by Aristotle. Thank you, Michael, for your contributions to Chillers and Thrillers!
In
his Poetics, Aristotle points out that the end of a story should be
both logical—in other words, the cause-and-effect relationships
that have existed among the incidents of the plot throughout the
drama (or narrative) should be maintained—and emotionally
satisfying. The end of the story, in other words, should “make
sense,” both intellectually and emotionally. Otherwise, the
audience (or readers) are apt to be disappointed. He used the example
of the deus ex machina, or “god of the machine,” a device
employed, in his opinion by inferior playwrights, for ending a play
for no other reason than that the playwright wanted the story to end.
An actor portraying a deity was suspended upon a rope, which was
lowered by a stagehand situated out of sight, above the stage, to
descend onto the boards and, by dint of divine fiat, bring the drama
to its conclusion. Often, the conclusion had little or nothing to do with
the performance prior to the descent of the god of the machine. The
expression deus ex machina has come to mean, therefore, a “tacked-on
ending.”
Unfortunately,
in genre fiction, some authors, including Stephen King, have
sometimes tacked on just such arbitrary and unsatisfying conclusions
to their novels, an offense that is especially annoying in volumes of
the length that King writes. The violation is all the more offensive when, on a previous page, the author has already provided
several other, more plausible
possible causes of the novel's many apparently otherworldly
incidents, as King does in Under the Dome
(a 1,074-page tome).
Bentley
Little, once praised by King as “the horror poet laureate,” is
notoriously lax about ending his novels well. When it comes to
endings, he puts little or no effort into writing a conclusion that
makes sense of the mysteries of his plot and in no way satisfies his
readers, especially when his books are really rehashes of the same
formula. How many times can readers stand another slight variation on
a worn theme, especially when there is no meaningful (and, often,
no intelligible) resolution to his books' conflicts, no meaningful
motivations for their characters' actions, and no discernible theme?
To
read such books is to understand not only the wisdom of Aristotle's
demand for an intellectually and emotionally satisfying ending, but
also to see what the lack of such an ending does to a book as a
whole. Playwrights and novelists ignore Aristotle's advice at
their own peril.
If
the beginning of a book shows characters undergoing a quest, the end
must show them fail or succeed in discovering the object or, perhaps
the truth, they have sought (Dorothy discovers that happiness is in
her own backyard).
If
a novel sets forth a mystery to be solved, the end must solve the
mystery—and the solution has to fit the facts and account for any
apparent contradictions and red herrings (Paula Darnell's Amanda
Trent always explains to the readers of her A Fine Art Mystery series not only who committed the novels' murders but also how
and why the dastardly deeds were done).
If
a tale showcases a series of bizarre incidents, these incidents must
be explained through logic; through scientific knowledge, theory,
principles, or verifiable empirical means; or through other pertinent
and convincing evidence (after presenting us with an invisible
creature in “The Damned Thing,” Ambrose Bierce is good enough to
explain to us why the
creature is invisible).
If
beginning a story in media res
avoids providing a context for incidents, the end of the story must
establish this context (we may not know why characters are being
attacked by supernatural creatures during the beginning of AWhole World Full of Hurt, but we
learn the reason [and a whole lot more] by the novel's end).
Only
when these tasks have been accomplished will readers be satisfied
that they have read the full, complete story.
Not
all of the examples in today's post are exclusively related to the
horror genre, but each of the techniques could be or have been used
by writers of horror fiction.
Usurpation:
a minor character becomes the main character.
John
Garner uses this approach in his novel Grendel (1971),
a retelling of the Old English epic poem Beowulf,
in which the villain of the poem, portrayed as an anti-hero, becomes
the main character.
In
Gregory Maguire's 1996 novel Wicked: The Life an Times of
the Wicked Witch of the West, a
retelling of L. Frank Baum's novel, The Wonderful Wizard of
Oz.
Altered
History:
a sub-genre of speculative fiction, alternative history is based on
the premise that historical events occur differently than they
actually took place. There are many examples of this sub-type,
including:
Ward
Moore's novel Bring
the Jubilee (1953),
in which Robert E. Lee wins The Battle of Gettysburg, paving the way
for a Confederate Civil War victory.
1945,
a 1995 novel by Newt Gingrich and William R. Forstchen, wherein the
United States defeats Japan, but enters a Cold war with undefeated
Germany, rather than with the Soviet Union.
The-Future-Is-Now:
visionary predictions of things to come form the basis of this type
of plot.
George
Orwell wrote a Future-Is-Now dystopian novel, Nineteen
Eighty-Four (1949),
in which a totalitarian government uses science and technology,
propaganda, revisionist history, and other techniques to control its
citizenry.
Intersection
Stories:
explorations of the crossroads between two opposites or extremes.
Gore
Vidal's Myra
Breckenridge (1968),
a novel featuring a transgender protagonist, meets male and female
and masculine and feminine binaries as it lampoons and challenges
feminism, gender, sexual orientation, and social mores.
In
Vice
Versa: A Lesson to Fathers
an early (1882!) comic novel by Thomas Anstey Guthrie, magic causes a
father and a son to switch bodies, the father revisiting adolescence
as his son experiences maturity.
Of
course, Robert Louis Stevenson's Gothic horror novel, Strange
Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde (1886),
investigates the intersection of good and evil.
Alien
Archaeologist:
an alien or some other type of fish out of water (who may or may no
be an archaeologist) studies human society and culture, often
interpreting his or her experiences in an altogether unfamiliar
manner.
My
short story, “One Dilemma After Another” (in One
Dilemma After Another, Volume II)
(2018) is an example: an extraterrestrial military scout tries to
hide among us, but his attempts to mimic human beings confronts him
“one dilemma after another.”
Schizophrenic
Studies:
a subject is examined from a variety of points of view.
William
Faulkner's 1929 novel The
Sound and the Fury tells
the history of the Compton family from the perspectives of Benjamin,
Quentin, and Jason, whose stories touch on many of the same
incidents, but provide their narrators' own peculiar interpretations
of the vents.
Using
these techniques often results in a truly “novel” (i. e., fresh)
novel, since each technique offers a way to challenge or change
readers' perspectives on the subjects of the books that are based on
these approaches.
I can't say whether Erle
Stanley Gardner used alliteration as a way of prompting plots, but
some of the titles of his Perry Mason novels sure did—as did even
more—most, in fact—of the CBS television series' episodes—could
have suggested story lines.
Gardner himself created
such alliterative titles as
The Case of the Lucky
Legs
The Case of the
Caretaker's Cat
The Case of the
Dangerous Dowager
The Case of the
Shoplifter's Show
The Case of the
Perjured Parrot
The Case of the Haunted
Husband
The Case of the
Drowning Duck
The Case of the Crooked
Candle
The Case of the
Black-eyed Blonde
The Case of the
Borrowed Brunette
The Case of the
Cautious Coquette
The Case of the
Negligent Nymph
The Case of the Fiery
Fingers
The Case of the
Moth-eaten Mink
The Case of the
Grinning Gorilla
The Case of the
Hesitant Hostess
The Case of the
Restless Redhead
The Case of the
Glamorous Ghost
The Case of the
Terrified Typist
The Case of the Demure
Defendant
The Case of the Lucky
Loser
The Case of the Daring
Decoy
The Case of the
Mythical Monkeys
The Case of the Singing
Skirt
The Case of the Waylaid
Wolf
The Case of the
Duplicate Daughter
The Case of the Shapely
Shadow
The Case of the
Spurious Spinster
The Case of the Blonde
Bonanza
The Case of the
Stepdaughter's Secret
The Case of the Amorous
Aunt
The Case of the Daring
Divorcee
The Case of the Phantom
Fortune
The Case of the
Horrified Heirs
The Case of the
Troubled Trustee
The Case of the
Beautiful Beggar
The Case of the Worried
Waitress
The Case of the
Careless Cupid
The Case of the
Fabulous Fake
The
titles also often invoke mystery or suspense or both. Why are the
legs lucky? Why is the loser lucky? What is the stepdaughter's
secret? Why is the waitress worried?
Most
of these titles also contain adjectives that characterize specific
types of fictional character, many of them women: blonde, brunette,
coquette, nymph, redhead, typist, daughter, spinster, aunt, divorcee,
waitress. Often, in the television series, at least, the character
identified in the title became Mason's client and the defendant in a
murder trial.
While
identifying a type of character, each of the titles also suggest
several questions. The answers to these questions may imply still
other questions, or, at times, they may hint at plot twists or even a
resolution.
The
Case of the Haunted Husband: Who
is the husband? Who is his wife? Why is he haunted? In what way is he
haunted? Has h done something that frightens him or haunts him with
guilt? Maybe he murdered someone. Maybe he had an affair with
someone? Maybe he murdered another woman with whom he had an affair.
If so, who is this other woman? Where did they meet? What attracted
them to one another? Did they break off their relationship? Did the
wife know about the affair or find out about it? Lieutenant Tragg
might consider such knowledge a motivation for the wife to have
killed the mistress. Perhaps the husband didn't kill the other woman,
after all. Maybe she was killed by the wife of a previous husband
with whom she had had an affair, a wife who's tracked her down to
kill her. Was the husband or his current wife the killer's fall guy?
(Since Gardner was writing Perry Mason novels, Gardner also had to
answer the question, How is Perry going to prove his client is
innocent of the charges that the police will lodge against her?)
The
Case of the Borrowed Brunette:
Who is the brunette? Who borrowed her? How was she borrowed? For what
purpose was she borrowed? Was she returned? If so, to whom? An
intriguing title, the name of this story conjures up all kinds of
possibilities. Did the woman look like another woman? Was she
borrowed to impersonate another brunette? Was she, perhaps, killed so
the other brunette could disappear and start a new life or escape a
prison sentence? Did her boyfriend or her husband plan to kill the
other woman and run away with the borrowed brunette? Was the borrowed
brunette a model, a call girl, a wealthy businesswoman, a woman from
a man's past? (Remember, too, that because Gardner was writing Perry
Mason novels, Gardner also had to answer the question, How is Perry
going to prove his client is innocent of the charges that the police
will lodge against her?)
The
Case of the Worried Waitress:
Who is the waitress? Who or what worries her? Why is she worried?
What, if anything, does she do to eliminate the cause of her
worries—or what do the police believe she has done? Is she a
victim? A witness to a murder? Did someone she served as a waitress
leave incriminating evidence behind? Did she see or hear something
she shouldn't have while serving a diner? (As always, since Gardner
was writing Perry Mason novels, Gardner also had to answer the
question, How is Perry going to prove his client is innocent of the
charges that the police will lodge against her?)
Although
the plots of the episodes of the television series may differ from
those of the novels, the episodes provide at least one way writers
answered such questions, generated a plot, and solved the cases.
Summaries of the episodes on the Perry
Mason TV Series wiki
indicate that, in The
Case of the Haunted Husband,
the series' writers came up with this approach:
Hitchhiker
Claire Olger is charged with grand theft auto and manslaughter when
the driver of the car she's riding in hits a truck, killing the truck
driver, then flees the scene, leaving Claire to take the blame.
Perry agrees to help
Claire and eventually does locate the missing driver. Trouble is,
he's dead. Burger drops the previous charges against Claire and files
a new one: first degree murder. A second murder only complicates
things more.
Eva
Martell gets a part, not on stage but impersonating Helen Reynolds, a
woman she has never met. She is paid extremely well and given a
beautiful apartment to live in with her Aunt Agnes as long as she
continues the charade. Still, Eva suspects foul play in paradise, and
seeks the advice of a good lawyer.
Perry steps in and meets
with the real Helen Reynolds, who swears she is not doing anything
illegal, but cannot reveal her motives. That’s fine until they find
that dead body in her apartment. . . [.]
The
Case of the Worried Waitress [sic],
by Erle Stanley Gardner[,] 'The 'Foreword' [sic]
is dedicated to Marshall Houts, who gave up a lucrative law practice
to become an investigator for the Court of Last Resort. Houts
investigated several murder cases in which innocent men had been
wrongfully convicted, and brought about a satisfactory conclusion.
Houts created 'Trauma', [sic]
a publication that deals with the field of legal medicine. Forensic
medicine applies to many cases, from accidents to the more publicized
murders. Perry Mason and Della Street have lunch at a restaurant, and
are served by a new waitress Katherine Ellis. The next morning Kit
Ellis visits Mason for a consultation about her Aunt Sophia. Kit's
parents were killed in an automobile accident, she was left
penniless, and moved in with Aunt Sophia (who met a divorced man, and
turned over her money to him). After he died of heat stroke, his
first wife took everything (their divorce wasn't final). Perry Mason
said this could be a partnership, and Sophia could claim half of the
property. Kit says Aunt Sophia has a hatbox filled with cash, and she
is afraid of burglars. Perry advises her to move out for her own
safety. Soon Perry gets a phone call from Kit Ellis; she is being
accused of theft by a Stuart Baxley. Baxley hired a private detective
to get fingerprints from the hatbox. Paul Drake said this is
difficult. But Perry Mason knows that Macdonell Associates of Corning
NY have invented a method to do this with magnetic dust (Chapter 4).
They learn that Aunt Sophia Atwood is in the hospital, someone hit
her on the head with a five-cell flashlight. Kit Ellis had gone back
to the house by taxi at night to retrieve her shoes and clothing. Lt.
Tragg arrests Kit Ellis at Perry's office (Chapter 9). Mason and Paul
Drake visit another person who knows Sophia Atwood (Chapter 10).
Perry bait a trap with a seemingly missing will (Chapter 11). Does
golf get blamed for things that are the result of human carelessness,
stupidity , and foolishness (Chapter 12)? Perry assigns an
investigation to Paul Drake: put a female operative at the Gillco
Company who can pose as a blind woman (Chapter 14). The Preliminary
Hearing begins with Stuart Baxley. Perry destroys his credibility in
his cross-examination. The judge expresses doubt as well (Chapter
15). Then Stuart Baxley changes his story again! In Chapter 16 Perry
thinks of a theory that can explain the strange events at that house.
Perry and Paul find a cache of money, and are found out by Lt. Tragg
(Chapter 17). In Chapter 18 Perry brings in a surprise witness who
reveals shocking secrets! Lt. Tragg admits fingerprints on the
flashlight do not match Perry's client, and do match fingerprints on
the water cooler, but are from an unknown person. Perry later hands
Lt. Tragg some fingerprints to analyze. Kit Ellis is freed to rejoin
her Aunt Sophia (Chapter 19).
Gardner's
technique—and, let's admit it, his use of alliteration is
fun—can work for any genre,
horror included. Let's make up a couple of alliterative horror titles
(since Chillers and Thrillers
is a blog about The Theory and Practice of Writing Horror
Fiction, after all):
The Case of the
Ravenous Rats: Why are the rats
ravenous? Where do they live? Are they captives? If so, who has them?
Why are they being kept? Are they to be used in a mass attack on
someone? When? Where? Why? If the rats are not ravenous, where did
they come from? A research laboratory? The site of an nuclear
reactor's failure? The military? (Maybe the rodents are living
weapons?) Are they genetic mutants? How are they stopped? By whom?
(Another way to approach plotting from alliterative titles is to consider stories that actually involve ravenous rats, such as Edgar Allan Poe's "The Pit and the Pendulum"; Bram Stoker's "Burial of the Rats" and "The Judge's House"; or my own "A Job Well Done.")
The Case of the
Grotesque Gallery: What's
grotesque about the gallery? What exhibits are shown in it? Is it a
private or a public gallery? Does it exhibit corpses as sculptures,
paintings made with body fluids for paint? Do tableaux depict
perverted acts? Are the owners insane artists? Failed artists? Are
their models alive? If so, are they held against their will? Do the
same ones appear in multiple works of art? Do the paintings or
sculptures that include them show them as victims (or perpetrators)
progressive acts of torture? Do the artworks depict past—or
future—catastrophes? Why does the grotesque gallery exist?
The Case of the
Screaming Skull: Part of this
title actually includes the title of a 1958 indie horror film, The
Screaming Skull, giving us an
example of how an alliterative title might have suggested a plot; the
synopsis is courtesy of Wikipedia:
Over
a scene [sic]
of an opening coffin, a narrator explains that the film's climax is
so terrifying that it may kill the viewer, while reassuring the
audience that should they die of fright they will receive a free
burial service. Inside the coffin is a card that reads "Reserved
for You". [sic]
Newlyweds Jenni . . . and
Eric . . . move into Eric's palatial country home. Jenni is Eric's
second wife; his first wife Marion died when she accidentally slipped
and hit her head on the edge of a decorative pond on the estate. At
the home they meet Eric's friends, the Reverend Snow . . . and his
wife . . . , as well as Mickey . . . , the developmentally disabled
gardener. Eric privately mentions to the Snows that Jenni spent time
in an asylum following the sudden death of both her parents, and Mrs.
Snow reveals that Jenni is very wealthy.
Jenni is disturbed both
by Mickey's belief that Marion's ghost wanders the estate and by
Marion's self-portrait inside the house, which Jenni believes
resembles her mother. When she begins to hear unexplained screaming
noises and see skulls around her house, she believes that Marion is
haunting her. Though Eric speculates to Jenni that Mickey, who was a
childhood friend of Marion and thus dislikes Jenni, may be behind the
trickery, Jenni worries that she is going insane. Eric suggests to
remove Marion's self-portrait from the home. Eric and Jenni take the
painting outside and burn it, later uncovering a skull from the
ashes. Jenni panics at the sight of the skull, but Eric denies that
the skull is there. Jenni faints and Eric withdraws the skull and
hides it, revealing that he has been gaslighting her all along.
Believing she has finally
lost her sanity, Jenni resolves to be committed. She tells Eric that
the entire property will be meticulously searched for the skull as a
last resort. Mickey secretly steals the skull and brings it to Snow
before Eric can retrieve it. That night, Eric prepares to murder
Jenni and stage it as a suicide. Jenni sees Marion's ghost in
Mickey's greenhouse and flees back to the house, where Eric begins
throttling her. The ghost appears and chases Eric outside, corners
and attacks him, drowning him in the decorative pond.
After Jenni regains
consciousness, the Snows arrive. Mrs. Snow comforts a hysterical
Jenni and the Reverend discovers Eric's body in the pond. Some
undisclosed time later, Jenni and the Snows depart from the house.
Reverend Snow declares whether or not Marion's death was an accident
will remain a mystery.
Gardner's plotting
technique (if his alliterative titles really was a plotting
technique, rather than just a fun way of enticing readers to buy his
books) can be used by anyone, for any genre. Why not try it yourself?
More a fan of the idea of the haunted house, perhaps, than one who aspires to actually visit such places, even in fiction, I have, nevertheless, visited a few and written several-article series, available right here on Chillers and Thrillers, concerning “How to Haunt a House.” The haunted houses I’ve visited are a dilapidated and apparently (but not, as it turned out, really) abandoned house in a field of tall grass, the Winchester Mystery House in Los Gatos, California (which was partly the inspiration for the haunted house in Stephen King’s Rose Red televisions series), and the Disneyland Haunted Mansion.
As a fan of the idea of the haunted house, I was particularly interested in reading King’s insights and observations concerning the haunted house stories he’s both written (The Shining and, in a way, ‘Salem’s Lot) and read, two of which, the one in Shirley Jackson’s novel The Haunting of Hill House and Anne Rivers Siddons’ The House Next Door, are standouts in the genbre, King argues. The first, he believes, presents readers “with a history--a sort of supernatural provenance,” and the other “gives” readers “the provenance itself.” After quoting the opening paragraph of Jackson’s novel, King dissects it to show just “how many things this single paragraph does.” Jackson’s paragraph reads:
No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone.
King’s comments take up a paragraph about as long:
All I really want to do is point out is how many this single paragraph does. It begins by suggesting that Hill House is a living organism; tells us that this live organism does not exist under conditions of absolute reality; that because. . . it does not dream, it is not sane. The paragraph tells us how long its history has been, immediately establishing that historical context that is so important to the haunted-house story, and it concludes by telling us that something walks in the rooms and halls of Hill House. All this in two [sic] sentences (“Horror Fiction,” Secret Windows: Essays and Fiction on the Craft of Writing, 91).
Siddons’ novel, which “could have been subtitled ‘The Making of a Haunted House,’” goes Jackson’s one better, King thinks. No human characters set foot inside Siddons’ haunted house until the novel’s last fifty pages, but its next-door neighbors, Walter and Colquitt Kennedy, are affected by the residence: “We see their lives and their way of thinking change as a result of their proximity to the house,” King observes (92). At the outset of the novel, the house has yet to be built, but, as soon as the domicile is completed, “Dionysian change,” it is apparent, King says, “is coming to the Apollonian suburb where hitherto there has been a place for everything and everything [has been] in its place” (93). The house is introduced through its impression upon Colquitt:
I drew my breath in at it. It was magnificent. I do not as a rule care for contemporary architecture, [but] . . . this house was different. It commanded you, somehow, yet soothed you. It grew out of the penciled earth like an elemental spirit that had lain, locked and yearning for the light, through endless deeps of time, waiting to be released. . . . I could hardly imagine the hands and machinery that would form it. I thought of something that had started with a seed, put down deep roots, grown in the sun and rains of many years into the upper air. In the sketches, at least, the woods pressed untouched around it like companions. The creek enfolded its mass and seemed to nourish its roots. It looked--inevitable.
The book is divided into three sections, each one telling the story of a different family of the house’s residents, the Harralsons, Buddy and Pie; the Sheehans, Buck and Anita; and the Greenes, Norman and Susan. It would be unfair to share any more of the story’s plot, but it should go without saying, perhaps, that any haunted-house novel that captures the attention and earns the respect of a horror maestro of King’s reputation deserves a read. What I’m more interested in, at the moment, is the introductions that the writers give their haunted houses. As I argue elsewhere, a grand entrance is important to establish new characters (and protagonists, especially); the same is true for places that, in effect, themselves become like characters--and a specific type of character, at that: the antagonist. Haunted houses are typically evil places, and, as such, they will pit themselves against those who are foolish enough to take up residence beneath their roofs and within their walls. King does a fine job of dissecting Jackson’s opening paragraph, but he doesn’t have much to say about the haunted house in Siddons’ novel. In its own way, the introduction of “the house next door” is effective in seizing the reader’s attention as it also simultaneously spotlights the new house on the block. The house, Colquitt implies, is breathtaking, not so much for its architectural style, but for its effect upon the viewer; the house makes Colquitt feel a certain way: “commanded,” yet also “soothed,” as if the house exercises, by its mere presence, a hypnotic or spellbinding effect upon anyone who would look upon it. It is “like an elemental spirit,” but, at the same time, it is also like a plant that, seeded by “hands and machinery”--that is by human design and technology, rather than by nature--establishes “deep roots” and seems one with the “woods” that surround it, even as it is “nourished” by a “creek.” The “elemental spirit” is, perhaps a dryad, and an evil one at that, which takes up residence in the strange vegetative abode. The dryad is the perfect entity to bring to “the Apollonian suburb” as King calls the haunted house’s setting “Dionysian change.” Another example, justly famous, of a writer’s introduction of his story’s haunted house to his readers is the opening chapter of Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Fall of the House of Usher”:
During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was--but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind usually receives even the sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I looked upon the scene before me--upon the mere house, and the simple landscape features of the domain--upon the bleak walls--upon the vacant eye-like windows--upon a few rank sedges--and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees--with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after-dream of the reveler upon opium--the bitter lapse into everyday life--the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart--an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. What was it--I paused to think--what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher? It was a mystery all insoluble ; nor could I grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of very simple natural objects which have the power of thus affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies among considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a mere different arrangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of the picture, would be sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful impression; and, acting upon this idea, I reined my horse to the precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in unruffled luster by the dwelling, and gazed down--but with a shudder even more thrilling than before--upon the remodeled and inverted images of the gray sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems, and the vacant and eye-like windows.
So many critics have dissected and analyzed this paragraph that it need not be done again. Suffice it to say that Poe’s description of the place embodies it, for Poe, in writing of the dwelling’s “vacant eye-like windows,” and, indeed, what Walter Evans sees as the “‘bleak’ cheeks, huge eyes. . . ‘rank’ and slightly bushy mustache, and perhaps even ‘white trunks of decayed’ teeth” of the story’s protagonist, Roderick Usher himself (“‘The Fall of the House of Usher’ and Poe’s Theory of the Tale,” reprinted in Short Story Criticism). The house not only looks like its owner, who will fall mentally, into madness, as the house has already begin to fall into physical ruin, but, like Siddons’ haunted house, it has an almost palpable effect upon those who encounter it: “with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit,” the narrator admits, adding, “There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart--an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. What was it--I paused to think--what was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher?” Like Jackson and Siddons, in introducing his haunted house, Poe both hooks his readers while, at the same time, making his haunted house forever--well, haunting!
A short-short story is a narrative that is under 1,000 words in length, It is often made up of only a single scene, wherein a conflict, usually between two characters, is posed and resolved. There is frequently a twist, or surprise, ending to the story, which is generally effected through dramatic irony, situational irony, verbal irony, or a combination thereof. However, these are not hard-and-fast rules, but sweeping statements. Many times, short short stories derive from situations. In any case, they must be tightly written. Every word counts, adding to the narrative’s development and effect.
My own short-short story, “Finis” illustrates the form. After writing it in full, I changed the second paragraph to provide a stronger motivation for the protagonist’s extreme action. Before this revision, the paragraph supplied enough information to suggest why the actress might do as she does, but not sufficient motivation for her to do what she does; the revision makes her actions more believable.
Finis
Copyright 2009 by Gary L. Pullman
The director asked, “Ready, Amanda?”
The actress thought of her husband and three-year-old daughter trapped inside their SUV, burned alive before they could be rescued; of the doctor’s pained expression when he’d detected something suspicious in her left breast and had, sober-faced, his voice flat, an attempt at a smile faltering at the corners of his lips, telling her that, “just to be on the safe side,” he wanted to order a biopsy; and of the five million dollars she’d been paid for this role and of how the money would finance her institutionalized daughter’s needs, and she nodded. “Ready.”
“I’d like to get it right the first time,” he said, and she nodded.
The production assistant held the clapboard between her and the camera: Snuff, Scene 1, Take 1. He snapped the top lever, the clapstick, down, upon the board, clack!
“Action!” the director called.
The camera dollied in, close.
Blood spurted from Amanda’s left forearm, bright and explosive.
She grimaced, drawing the straight-razor down the vein in her other forearm.
Blood was everywhere. Amanda felt faint. She listed to her left, her head spinning. Dizzy, she capsized, landing in the pool of her own splattering blood. The vital fluid was warm and thick. She moaned.
“Cut!” the director cried. “Perfect. Print it.”
For Amanda, everything went dark, and silence claimed her.
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’ Dictionarycontends 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.
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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