The Editor

Rhys Hughes

Hook finished the story he was writing, checked it for spelling mistakes, made a few necessary corrections and then rubbed the palms of his hands together. This was his best work yet. A crime story of ingenuity and morbid force! It would be accepted for publication by a magazine, there was no doubt about that. To reject it would be an insult to literature. He wrote a cover letter introducing himself in a succinct but intriguing manner, stapled the letter to the manuscript of the story, found an envelope among his stationery supplies, slipped his masterpiece inside, prepared to go out and mail the packet.

He was old-fashioned in his methods, careful and precise. He was wary of technology, preferring to write with a pen on paper and then type the piece on a vintage Remington. He regarded himself as more real than other hopeful crime writers, more in tune with the spirit of his subject matter. This new story would change his status from unpublished hobbyist to professional author. He was too excited to speculate on his reactions when he received the acceptance note from the editor. Hopefully, he would play it cool. Showing too much enthusiasm is an error of judgement. He smiled wistfully.

He mailed the packet and returned to his apartment. Unable to contemplate doing anything useful, he opened a bottle of wine and stared out of the window. It was just a question of waiting, but waiting was a terrible thing to do. Owning a television or even a radio might have helped, but he had principles. To remain old-fashioned until the very end was his ambition. He finished the bottle, smiled sleepily, and dragged himself to his bed.

The next day he considered starting a new story. He threaded a blank sheet of paper into his Remington and stared at the keys. Should he write a sequel to the story he had submitted? Or something completely new? No, he wouldn’t do any work today. He was too distracted by thoughts of self-worth, by the notion of his considerable talent. He was an author, a creator, a superb artisan of crime fiction. He went out to purchase more wine instead, and that evening he sat and drank two bottles, one white and one red.

The following morning, head throbbing, he was woken by the postman and the thump of a packet dropping through his wide letter flap. Surely this couldn’t be an answer already? He was expecting the slim whisper of a thin letter, not the crash of a packet of many pages. Anxiety gripped him. He staggered downstairs, retching, and took the packet into the kitchen, opening it as he went. Out fell his story and the rejection letter, terse but not unkind. Hook lurched into the kitchen to make himself a strong mug of coffee.

He drank the coffee too quickly, scalding his tongue, and tried to focus his eyes to read again what the magazine editor had said. The story was quite good, it had promise, it had pacing, it was fairly original too, but the details just didn’t ring true. The gangsters weren’t convincing at all. The editor was compelled to wonder if Hook knew anything about the real underworld? It didn’t seem so on the evidence of this story. But he didn’t want to reject it outright. He wanted an extensive rewrite, a reworking. He wanted more grittiness and authenticity. He wanted the gangsters to have a menacing depth. If such a rewriting was done, it was likely the story would be accepted.

Hook took heart from this sentiment, but he frowned. It was certainly true that he had no personal experience of criminals. Everything he knew about the underworld came from books, from fiction, from magazine tales. To rewrite his story properly he would have to immerse himself in a dark dangerous reality, a world of shadows and bullets. He remembered something one of his friends had told him years ago. There was a pub down in the docklands where gangsters and hitmen went to buy illegal firearms. Could he venture into such a place and buy a gun? The experience would scare him, fill him with authenticity, enable him to rewrite the story with heightened feeling.

Yes, that was the answer! He pulled on his shoes, put on his coat, made his way down the quayside, wandered the slick cobbles for an hour, the tang of the sea air removing his headache. He saw the pub in the distance. It was just as his friend had described it. Some things never change, they are as stubborn as rust on horseshoes or bloodstains, and so he pushed through the creaking door into a musty darkness, and heads turned to regard his entrance, but no one said a word. At the bar he ordered a glass of pale ale.

He drank nervously, trying to absorb the atmosphere of the place as he did so, acquire the desired authenticity through a process akin to osmosis. But even if he became one with the location, merged with the ambience, could he be sure to retain the sincerity and veracity when it was time to write what he felt? Inside his head, a cloud descended on his brain.

How could he be certain the rewritten story would be accepted? What if it was rejected a second time? Cold hypothetical anger surged through him as he considered this outcome. He would be tempted to confront the editor, threaten him. Yes, now he was feeling it. Now some large part of his soul was more like the soul of a gangster. The anger was combining with the atmosphere. It was working. The cloud dissipated. He was struck by an offbeat inspiration. Hook suddenly became a dangerous character.

A man sitting at a table in the far corner caught his eye. Hook knew at once that this was the person he sought. He took a deep breath, carried his drink over, stood nervously in front of the table, looked down at the grizzled man with eyes that shone like emeralds in the beery dusk and said, “I need a gun, a handgun, a special design. Custom made, like this.”

And he drew out a pen from his pocket and sketched a design on the paper napkin that lay on the table, sliding it across to the rogue gunsmith, who glanced at it and replied, “That’s very unusual.”

“But can you do it? I’ll pay whatever you want.”

“Yes, anything is possible.”

“It’s the weapon I require. How much?”

The gunsmith instantly quoted a hefty sum, but Hook didn’t try to bargain with him. He nodded and took out his wallet. He prided himself on his cunning and had already anticipated this need for wads of cash. The gunsmith was rather astonished but managed to keep his expression under control. Only the flashing of his intense green eyes gave away the fact he suspected Hook was insane. The transaction was finished in a few seconds.

“Come back one week from now, at exactly the same time, and I’ll have it ready for you,” the gunsmith announced.

Hook was pleased. He left the pub, walked home. But the cloud that had dissipated returned, passing over the light in his mind, eclipsing his joy. What if the rewritten story was rejected again? After all the effort he had made, the risks too! No, he wouldn’t be able to bear that.

Over the following days, this possibility plagued him. Wine didn’t chase it away, scour the worry out of his being. Painfully, a week passed. He went back to the pub, picked up the custom handgun silently, wrapped in a black cloth, felt a sequence of shivers twist his spine, but managed to leave without weeping. It had been his closest brush with damnation.

Back home, he put the gun down on his kitchen table, stared at it, smiled a terrified smile, closed his eyes, opened them. It was still there. Now he was full of the right emotions, he could attempt a rewriting of the story. But once again a doubt like a worm burrowed through his confidence, ruining it. What if the story was rejected? All his desires and dreams would burst like an overripe headshot, the crime writer’s equivalent of a balloon.

Then a delightful idea occurred to him, an epiphany. Why not start his own magazine, be his own editor? He had enough money saved up to do that. Using modern technology it wouldn’t be expensive. He hated the prospect of having to learn how to use a computer but even that was better than never being published at all. We all have to make compromises.

How brilliantly simple and smooth a solution! Hook would publish a crime fiction magazine. The first story in the first issue would be his own. The thought was sweet. He wouldn’t even need to rewrite the piece or alter one word. Surely the story was good enough just as it was? Hook clapped his hands in glee. When he reached his house, he typed a new cover letter, stapled it to the manuscript. It took him a while to find a new envelope.

He sealed the manuscript inside, addressed the envelope to himself, hurried to the post office, paid for stamps and mailed it. The feeling of relief was vast, a removal of a poisoned thorn as long as a dagger blade from his future. But what should his magazine be called? On the way back he toyed with various names, a combination of bad puns and cold threats.

No wine for him that night, he had decided to become wary of indulgence in liquid form. To be his own editor was indulgent enough. An early night was better. He considered going to bed with his gun, putting it under his pillow, but that aspect of the masquerade was foolish. He slept well, without dreams, yet he woke late, strangely exhausted. The thump of a packet coming through the letter flap startled him. Surely this couldn’t be an answer already? Of course not. He hadn’t even received the submission yet.

He went downstairs, opened the envelope, ignored the cover letter, which he knew by heart, took the story into his office, began reading it on his desk. He read it in one sitting, threaded a blank sheet into the Remington, typed a letter. He wasted no time signing this, sealing it in an envelope and going out to mail it. He rubbed his itching palms together.

To have a story accepted for publication at last! To be a real author and not just a hopeful scribbler! The reason he couldn’t remember any dreams from the night before was because his main dream was about to come true. It dominated the other dreams, crushing them back into his subconscious. Forget the cloud in his head, ignore all prophecies of despair.

He walked the streets of the city every afternoon but never ventured deep into the docklands again. Just in case the gunsmith changed his mind for some reason, wanted the gun back. Hook was careful not to violate any laws at all. He even crossed the roads using the official crossings. He dropped no litter. He had to remain free until the acceptance letter arrived. And it would soon enough. He was beyond confidence in this regard, supremely excited, struggling to mute his enthusiasm, to avoid giving the strangers he passed any clue whatsoever that he wasn’t a normal citizen but a special case, a nascent genius, a crime fiction king not yet crowned, just waiting awhile.

The letter flap clanked and a thin envelope floated to the floor, knifing the dusty air as it descended. Hook was halfway down the stairs before it had even landed. His heart was thumping, his forehead spraying sweat. He snatched up the envelope, ripped it open, unfolded the letter, read it with a smile, his mind not absorbing the words that were there, but the words he thought should be. It was a tense moment, awful, the toppling of an internal tower, the corners of his smile folding but not the middle of the grin.

He choked, he clutched at his shirt, tearing off the top button, gasping for oxygen. He slumped onto the lowest step of the staircase, shook his head, read the letter again. No, this couldn’t be happening. A rejection! A rejection from his own magazine! And it wasn’t even a nice letter, like the rejection from the established publisher. This was curt, unfeeling, almost flippant. No rewrite was asked for, the story was simply declined. It was a substandard piece, a failure, the pathetic product of an untalented hack.

Had he ever entertained this grotesque outcome? He would have said no, but his actions had proved otherwise. He burned inside, as if the marrow of his bones was petrol. His skeleton crackled as he stood. He walked stiffly from the hallway, went to fetch his gun. The editor would pay. The editor would die. The gun was loaded, yes, his trigger finger was like a spring. He didn’t care that he would now become a hitman, a despicable villain. Revenge is permitted in the worldview of the true man. That’s what he told himself. Mercy was an insipid concept, the putrefying ideal of weaklings.

As he accepted his fate, saw himself as a puppet of predestination, his stiff body relaxed. His gait became looser, his movements more supple. He entered the editor’s office without knocking. It exactly resembled his own study. With a lithe motion he raised and aimed the gun.

He said, “You rejected me and now I shall reject you.”

“That’s an odd design,” he said.

“It’s exactly the weapon I require,” he answered.

“Spare me and remain free.”

“You are an ignorant coward, the enemy of creation.”

“I am a humble editor.”

“Humility is a virtue. There is no virtue in rejecting a masterpiece. Your time has come. I am an assassin.”

“Such melodrama is long outdated, obsolete.”

“Die without delay!”

“Your story was extremely badly written.”

“Slanders and lies!”

The editor had no time to reply. Hook squeezed the trigger. As the bullet travelled the length of the curved barrel he began to turn over the rudiments of a paradox in his still intact brain. Not only was he killing Hook, he was killing the man who had killed Hook, namely himself. But this wasn’t suicide. It was only justice, a blow for mocked writers, retaliation against an unjust judge, a moral execution. Hook laughed loudly at the horseshoe barrel and his laugh was the exact duplicate of an old-fashioned scream.

_________________________________________

(From the Archives of The Black Glove Horror Culture & Entertainment E-zine November 4, 2011).

Servante of Darkness #4: Grotesques and the Southern Gothic

Trailer Park Noir (2011) by Ray Garton

Reviewed by Anthony Servante .

Welcome to the Darkness, dear readers. This month we take a look at the underside of the American Dream, that vile village known as the trailer park. We shall investigate the people who populate such a place, through the eyes of Ray Garton, grotesque characters like those one would find in the Southern Gothic novel, in works by the likes of Robert E. Howard (Pigeons from Hell), William Faulkner, Erskine Caldwell, Flannery O’Connor, and Tennessee Williams.

“Southern Gothic” novels would often have macabre characters in exaggerated locales. According to Philip Thomson in his work, The Grotesque (1972) Methuen & Co. Ltd., the characters are usually considered ‘grotesque’ if they induce both empathy and antipathy. Ray Garton’s Trailer Park Noir (2011) meets this definition with its slew of odd characters and urban blithe setting. But, instead of a post-Civil War South, Garton places his characters in a trailer park, the underbelly of middle-class America. In essence, we could call the noir novel, a Southern California Gothic.

The story takes place in a Riverside, California trailer park where sleazy characters reside and the comings and goings of the police would not be unexpected. The characters are distorted tragic figures, traversing the normal and abnormal qualities of disharmony with “unresolved conflicts of work and response” (Thomson). In other words, we like the characters at the same time that we dislike them. There are no heroes here to cheer. We can only hope for some redemption to overcome the repulsion. We cringe as the trailer park characters go from bad to worse. So, let’s delve into our cast of characters from the Riverside Mobile Home Park and see how they work and respond to their dark situations.

Typical of the “Southern Gothic” is the story’s reliance on a character with a childlike mind but corrupted body or soul. William Faulkner's innocent is the mentally handicapped Benji from The Sound and the Fury; Carson McCullers’ the deaf-mute John Singer in The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. Ray Garton has Kendra Dunfy, a twelve year old girl stuck in the body of a seductive young woman, sixteen going on twenty-six. Kendra longs to do “naughty” things, as she is only beginning to learn what “naughty” even means. Boys her own age are confused by her but men, both married and single, are drawn to her with lewd temptations, both physical and mental, in fantasy and plan.

Marcus Reznick sees in the beautiful nubile girl the young wife he had his first sexual relations with since high school. Yet he grapples with his desires for this “retarded” teenager with a child’s mind, fighting off his temptations and erections by thinking of returning to his alcoholic ways. The loss of his wife to suicide, graphically described in the book, haunts the Private Investigator Reznick and had driven him to drink. Kendra reawakens the desires in him that he came to the trailer park to escape. Tension of tragic proportions ensues.

Steve Regent sees in Kendra’s photogenic sexuality his ticket to a bonanza on his pornography website, although he does not realize or possibly does not care that Kendra is underage, but he sizes her up as an easy mark because of her handicap. He allows his greed and lust to dictate his actions. He tricks the young girl into disrobing so that he can photograph her and plans to seduce her on video to satisfy his own desires and quench the lusts of his many website clients. Unlike Reznick, Regent does not seek to control or hide his ‘erections’ and a series of bad events is set in motion.

Kendra’s mother, Anna, becomes a stripper by night and a temp by day, opposing figures that create conflict with the raising of a daughter who also embodies conflicting personalities: child versus young woman. Anna vies to allow her daughter some independence accorded a sixteen year old girl, while worrying that the unsupervised girl may be in danger because her attractive features will draw in bad men. She even worries about her neighbor Reznick, whom she likes and trusts, but whom she promises to ‘kill’ should he deflower her daughter. No jury with a mother on it would convict her of murder, she reasons to herself. Her maternal instinct is murder.

Rose, Anna’s sister, often baby-sits Kendra and lectures her sister about her daughter’s sexuality and the risks she is taking by being a stripper. Rose tells Anna that Kendra would make a good stripper, that she has what men want to see. The sisters argue over the needless comparison of Anna’s voluptuous body to that of Kendra’s and Anna recalls how her parents never discussed such vulgar topics in their home. But Rose reminds her that in her own home, Rose speaks freely of sex to her own son and daughter, without realizing that she is merely leaving the impression that she may be a bit too liberal with her talk of sex with her pre-teen kids. Only confusion can ensue with the mixed messages her kids are receiving, much as Kendra’s own confusion drives the plot.

More grotesque characters abound in this noir novel.

Arnold Garvis, the corpse in Sherry and Andy’s trailer, has a “mom [who] is hooked on pills and his dad drinks and sees hookers. But they go to church every Sunday, so I guess it all ... evens out.” Muriel Snodgrass, park manager, “was a fat pasty-white woman with a big belly, but spindly legs that came like sticks out of the baggy blue shorts she wore. Her black-dyed hair – and a bad job, too – was a mess.” Linda Straight, Reznick’s client, learns her husband’s cheating on her with several women—an example of grotesque exaggeration and excess. Also, Reznick’s parents are killed by a robber soon after he loses his wife—more excess. Senator Wilson Garvis is “big on morals and family values and prayer in schools”, while hiring hookers in his spare time. Monica, the Goth girl, and seven year old Valerie—both already wise to the ways of sex—try to initiate Kendra into being naughty. And on and on the list goes. We have drug addicts, wife beaters, perverts, murderers, rapists, abortionists, many of whom are good church-goers or come from good families (perhaps with the exception of Steve Regent, an irredeemable scoundrel similar to the carpetbaggers infesting the fallen South).

Ray Garton has gathered a cast of characters that could easily fit into a Southern Gothic: grotesque figures, inside and out, morally and physically. Trailer Park Noir (I have found myself mistakenly typing Trailer ‘Trash’ Noir a number of times—just to show you how seedy these characters are) echoes the “trashy” characters one would expect to find in gothic novels of the old South, where the Civil War turned the grand society of civility and manners into a wasteland of bitter losers trying in vain to hold onto their former dignity. Where once there was great light, there now fell a vast darkness. Garton tells us, “When I wrote Trailer Park Noir, I wanted to capture the feeling of Shady Hill Trailer Park that I experienced as a little boy and then reveal the dark underside. But somehow, that eluded me. It was overshadowed by what the park had become.” And what it had become was a Southern California Gothic.

 

Funereal Plots
Horror Cinema Reviews

Matthew M. Bartlett

Companion

Writer/Director: Drew Hancock

Not long into Companion, a movie recommended by a lot of people on social media, I hit pause and posted: “So far, Companion (streaming on Max) would be a lot better if they had even remotely believable characters doing even remotely believable things. What gathering of like 6 people puts on music and dances? ‘It’ll be like Stepford Wives meets M3GAN, but bad!’”

Mea big time culpa. Once this movie settled into its groove as an over-the-top SF-horror-comedy, I was fully on board and issuing retractions left and right. To be fair, the movie starts with a very ‘90s monologue that’s right out of a How to Write a Screenplay – grab ‘em with the opening scene with a shocking line – this scene is narrated by Iris (Sophie Thatcher) talking about meeting her boyfriend Josh (Jack Quaid) for the first time.

We then flash back to the couple going to their friend Kat’s lake house to hang out with friends—a genial gay couple and Kat’s boyfriend Sergey, an annoyingly over-the-top character, an older, Russian gangster type—broadly played and as out of place in this movie as a circus clown in a military parade. This character was another strike against the movie.

But we don’t have to deal with him for long before he attempts to assault Iris, and she kills him. And then we find out Iris is a “companion” robot. We learn how Iris’s boyfriend was using her to facilitate robbing Sergey. And we learn how the robot is controlled, modulated, and adjusted, and those sequences are so clever, and so funny (especially when the newly AWOL Iris figures out how to use the app to up her intelligence to the highest setting) they salvage a clunky beginning and turn the movie around, turning it into an absolute blast to watch as amped up robots and humans war for Iris’s freedom.

I should mention first-rate performances by Harvey Guillén (you may know him from his excellent work on the show What We Do in the Shadows, and this is another strong role), Lukas Gage, and Jack Quaid, the latter of whom I disliked as an actor until I realized he was perfectly essaying a detestable character.

The best work, though, is done by Sophie Thatcher. Playing a robot with an independent streak can’t be easy, but she takes the role and runs with it. We root for her, become invested in her. There are a few surprises in Companion—I don’t dare spoil them—and it really has my strong recommendation. Just get past the first clunky 20 minutes or so, and you’ll be treated to one of the more entertaining and smart genre movies to come along in some time.

 

Ten Obscure Rock Albums

That Expanded my Mind

by Anthony Servante

1. Demian 1971

When I first heard the band Demian, I didn't know they were called Bubble Puppy before. It didn't matter. Their crisp guitar work and catchy melodies ushered in the 1970s with a Rock sound that opened the door for bands like Journey and Boston. Their debut album as Demian, Face the Crowd, reworked some of Bubble Puppy's songs by adding some better production and tougher edge to the soft rock sound of the former band. Sadly, this lineup of the band lasted only through 1971. Still, for me, it's this band showed me that 70s Rock was only just beginning. 

2. Ram 1972

RAM was the last great Psychedelic Rock album. The song Aza was a 20 minute epic piece of music that played with soundscapes, eerie synthesizers, sudden bursts of raunchy guitar-work, and haunting vocals. When I was a DJ at the college radio station, I played this song for the campus. It received equal amounts of cheers and moans. But I didn't care. This music was something new in the Psychedelic Rock realm, and I couldn't wait for their tour and next album. Too bad the band broke up and neither tour nor lp happened. I highly recommend this one to Space Rock fans. 

3. Mad River 1968

Mad River was Psychedelic Rock at its finest and at the heyday of the genre. The songs ranged from five minutes to twelve minutes and incorporated sound effects that added layers to the haunting melodies and trippy beats. Singer/songwriter Lawrence Hammond abandoned the Rock sound in 1969 in favor of a Country style in the tradition of bands like Poco, which sent the band members scattering into other groups such as Country Joe and the Fish and Jefferson Airplane. But their first album, the self-titled Mad River, impressed me in 1968 with its new form of Psychedelic music that I've never heard again till this day. 

4. Touch 1969

Remember that song, Louie, Louie by The Kingsmen? Well, the young keyboardist, Don Gallucci, was fired from the band because he was too young to tour. Coliseum Records signed him, and he formed the band Touch. Legend has it that Mick Jagger and Jimi Hendrix sat in on the studio sessions to watch the band record. And that's the story behind the album. I'll never know the fact from fiction. What I do know is that unmistakable keyboard style of Gallucci is used to full effect on this epic Psych Rock recording that blends technical sound with talented musicianship. The songs soar with catchy riffs, and in the masterpiece "Seventy Five", you'll never forget when the vocal scream turns into a guitar solo. Too far ahead of its time for Prog Rock, but that's what makes it Prog Rock. 

5. Good Thunder 1972

I never knew if the band's name was Good Thunder or Goodthunder, and the internet doesn't seem to know the difference either. So, I'll go with my first impression: Goodthunder. This band is just damn good Rock. And the whole album plays as if it were one long song instead of the eight tracks we get. To me, it Heavy Pop Rock, although I've seen Prog Rock and Psych Rock online. Wrong. These are catchy tunes that'll stick in you head and follow you around for the rest of your lives. I know. They've been living in my skull since 1972. And we're very happy to have them here. 

6. Black Widow 1970

When I was a DJ, I played this album a lot. Listeners would always drop by the station to ask if this was a new Jethro Tull album. After I'd tell them it was a band called Black Widow, they seemed disappointed with the answer. Many were put off by the satanic lyrics, but people didn't realize it was all part of the live show, you know, like Alice Cooper used to do. The music is a fusion of Jazz, Psych, and Prog Rock. If that mix of rock sounds good to you, then forgive the lyrics and enjoy this sound that still stands the test of time. 

7. Tranquility 1972

The Art Rock band, Tranquility, opened for Uriah Heep. The audience booed them, but they kept on playing. "Art Rock" was something new at the time. Bands like Roxy Music were still inventing it. But Tranquility had a firm grasp of the sound. I understand that they are more popular now than in their own time, but that's par for the course with bands like these, you know, trendsetters. This is a sound that must be experienced to be appreciated. No description can do it justice. I'd say it's a cross between Queen and Art in America, two other bands who redefined Rock. 

8. Fat Mattress 1969

I followed Noel Redding's career from the Jimi Hendrix Experience to Mountain, and all the way to Fat Mattress. He parted ways with Hendrix when he wanted to include more of his music to the Experience mix, but that didn't happen. So, Redding added his blend of music to Leslie West's band for a bit, then to The Noel Redding Band, and finally to Fat Mattress. Again, we have a mix of Prog and Psych Rock, but with a touch of Folk Rock. I was sad that the Redding sound never found its place in Rock, but Fat Mattress is the closest, I feel, he's ever gotten to getting it the way he wanted it heard. 

9. Red Weather 1969

If you like Blue Cheer, and who doesn't, then you recognize the name Leigh Stephens, lead guitarist for the band. He went off on his own to create his solo work, Red Weather, a toned down version of Blue Cheer that relies more on earthy blues with electric guitar. That Hard Rock sound is still there, but more laid back, like Led Zeppelin blues ("When the Levee Breaks" comes to mind). Some of the more stand-out songs from the album for me are Joannie Man and Red Weather, but the whole album rocks. 

10. Quintessence 1969

What can I say about a band that combines Hare Krishna chants with three roaring guitars, a flute, power drumming, and a live show that's been compared to the Grateful Dead's epic improvisations onstage and Pink Floyd's intricate arrangements in the studio. Quintessence wore their religion on their sleeve and let their Prog Rock speak for itself. With the advent of YouTube, more Quintessence live material is finding its way to fans, but even if you just listen to the studio work, you'll be blown away by the majestic vocals and hard-hitting guitar work. Yes, even the Hare Krishna pieces are catchy enough to sing along with while you play your air guitar during those edgy solos. 

 

 

Barnacle Bay 

By Dani Brown 

 

 

Peacocks screamed at the night. Their hens roosted in stunted trees growing out of broken concrete. Ice cold fog kissed their tail feathers and licked deformed leaves from the trees.  

Orange lights danced in the darkness, twisting and swaying over old bricks, broken concrete and parting fog. One lingered over a shattered baby doll rejected by the elements.  

Before Jessica could take out her phone, the light zoomed off. She used the torch to find the broken baby doll. Its eyelids, the ones that close when the child holds the doll flat, were missing.  

“I had one of these,” she whispered into the wind.  

The peacocks screamed back.  The wind twisted through deflated balloons caught in the stripping branches. A shrill cry sounded out in the air to compete with peacock screams.  

She held the doll to her chest. Wind pulled her hair and kissed the back of her neck. Something sharp scraped her palm. It was all the confirmation she needed that she should go home and get a real job.  

“Fuck,” but she said it under her breath quiet enough so the wind couldn’t carry it to Michael.  

Naked branches scraped against concrete. Deflated balloons caught the wind, only to let it out in a series of shrill sounds. The peacocks objected to the noise with a series of screams. The wind came by to see if there were any more deformed leaves.  

Michael turned the headlights up bathing Jessica in brilliant white. The lingering orange orbs scattered.  

Jessica turned to him and held her palm up. Blood dripped down her wrist. She didn’t put down the doll but flipped it over and examined it in the high beams. Michael turned the engine off.  

“Hey, leave the lights on a minute,” she regretted the words as soon as she said them.  

“But, honey, it’ll kill the battery.” 

His voice had a particular whine to it that said the unsaid, I’m the man and I know better than you. I’m middle class and you have a trust fund. I know the struggle is real. You are a sheltered Princess outside of her castle.  

“Just for a minute,” she replied, trying to keep her voice calm, “I’ve cut my hand.”  

“Well, if you listened to me, you wouldn’t have cut your hand.”  

Jessica thought better of responding to that.  

“Honey, can I please have the first aid kit?” 

Mama. The wind twisted through those balloons again, but the shrill sound-off couldn’t drown out a second Mama. This one louder than the first.  

“What was that,” Michael asked.  

“A doll I found.” 

Her hand throbbed. A red ball rolled into the path of the high beams with a blinding shine. Waves crashed on the shore below. 

“Bullshit. Everything out here is broken and old. Don’t lie to me woman.”  

Jessica cringed at his anger. It was always there, bubbling below the surface. The ball hit her ankle and proved that his point was nothing more than lies.  

Mama.  

Jessica flipped the doll back over. It wasn’t one of those speaking dolls and even if it was, it had been left to the elements for too long.  

The shadows shifted as Michael stepped out of the driver’s seat and slammed the car door shut.  

Mama. Empty unblinking eyes stared at her. Mama. The soft bits of doll’s body leaked decades of grubby moisture down her wrist.  

Jessica turned to watch him. He stepped closer to her with his (her) camera held out. His persona changed while the camera rolled to the point he was almost pleasant to be around.  

“This is interesting, we’re at the Barnacle Bay Lido where the teacher drowned her entire class forty years ago and Jessica has found something.” 

He paused his filming and snatched the doll. Barnacles strung themselves along between Jessica’s hand and the doll’s underside. Each pull from Michael brought a fresh wince that Jessica knew better than to express.  

“You need to look scared, this is going to be our big break,” he told her with a wink and gapped tooth smile.  

He held the doll over her head, not noticing the barnacles sucking salt and moisture out of the air to reinflate. Mama. Mama. Mama.  

Peacock screams cut through the doll’s distorted voice. The ball shifted away from her foot and hurled towards him. 

“Goddamnit Jessica, that should have been on film.”  

He stamped his feet. Maammaaa. The ball twisted around his ankles. His foot came down and he fell backward.  

Michael regained his balance without falling on to the Lido’s debris.  

“You’re costing us money. We’re one week away from eviction.”  

Orange orbs reflected in the eyes of the peahens. The cocks weren’t happy their wives were woken up and expressed this with a hiss. The wind twisted around those deflated balloons again. 

Michael raised his hand.  

“Look scared, bitch.”  

Jessica briefly turned to look at him before turning back to the doll.  

“The viewers want authenticity. If they wanted to watch acting, they’d see a film,” she tried to reason with him.  

Every podcast and video channel he dragged her along for the ride. Every single one was another failure. Every new topic. Every week he had a new obsession and another promise of a big break and he’d pay her back. He didn’t understand that they needed to consistently stick to the same topic and be authentic.  

“Don’t tell me what people want. I know these things. I’m very highly educated.”  

Jessica’s fingers hovered over long dead barnacles. They had a fresh layer of slime turning into glue. Penetrating outer shells pushed it into her skin.  

Orange orbs accumulated around a statue and lit it up as bright as a midsummer’s day. Long, white fingerbones held glowing orange lanterns above barnacles.  

Mama. The wind looped around and stole the mechanical voice.  Mama. The replacement came back more human-like. Mama. The barnacles breathed air and sucked in Jessica’s blood. Mama. That wasn’t the sound a doll makes. Maa-Mmaa.  

An orange orb zoomed past Jessica with a frantic chill. A cold from some unseen force squeezed grabbed her barnacle-free hand.  

Michael switched off the high beams, plunging the scene into darkness until the orange orbs turned their lighting up. The wind and doll died down for Jessica to listen to his angry growls. 

“We could be rich,” the wind carried his muttering with no need to twist the words, “if it weren’t for that stupid trust-fund bitch.”  

Orange orbs twisted around stunted trees. The cold unseen force pulled on Jessica’s hand while the doll flipped over in Jessica’s other hand.  

The barnacles cut deep. They fed. They breathed from the moisture and salt swirling around in the air.  

Cracking noises from broken shells filled the air and stole all other sounds. The barnacle-encrusted statue turned her head to Jessica and screamed. Some unseen force pulled barnacles from Jessica’s wrist, but they soon reattached and tried to eat her hand.  

The wind died down. Maaa-Mmmaaa. Children’s voices cried out forgotten nursery rhymes catching the deflated balloons.  

“Fuck, stupid, bitch,” Michael fumbled with the camera from the car. “Give me a chance to set up the audio recordings,” he said out loud as if the spirits trapped in at the Barnacle Bay Lido would obey.  

Fog licked Jessica’s legs. The wind retrieved the ball. The noises of tiny shells breaking cracked on the air as the statue raised its arm and pointed at Jessica’s ankles. Vampire barnacles climbed up her trainers before they attached themselves to bare skin.  

Children’s voices whispered from the fog. It's my mother. Fog shifted into the shape of a little girl with pigtails. She floated over and hugged the barnacle-encrusted statue.  

A peacock hopped off his perch. Mist cleared for him to put his tail on display. The hens screamed objections at him. An orange orb circled around to their stunted trees. The wind picked up and stole the bark, leaving behind only deflated balloons for that extra-shrill disorientating sound.  

Voices cried their forgotten nursery rhymes promising that when they woke, the children would have all the pretty horses. Mummy. Barnacles fell from the statue.  

Maa-Maa. The doll begged for Jessica’s attention. She tried to put it down, but the barnacles dug deeper into her skin. You belong to us now. They lapped at her ankles, suctioning her with their glue.  

The peacock turned showing off his feathers. My, my you are such a pretty boy. The nursery rhymes fell silent. The wind died down. Balloons deflated with a low-pitched final hiss.  

“What,” Michael asked.  

“I didn’t say anything,” Jessica winced.  

Barnacles climbed her leg and kissed her knee. Waves crashed on the shore below.  

The doll cried out in malfunctioning gibberish. The high beams flickered. Orange orbs retreated beyond the stunted trees. 

“I’m turning on my camera now, you need to play your part.” 

He seemed to have forgotten all about the high beams killing the battery.   

The wind picked up the beer on his breath and held it there. Driving while under an influence was an offence, but Jessica couldn’t tell him that.  

The peacock’s feather eyes blinked. The high beams flickered and came on with their full force. My, what a pretty boy. 

Jessica turned her face away from the camera. The lens picked up the blood dripping from her hand. Michael jumped out of the car again, with the handheld camera and zoomed in on her hand, ignoring the barnacles climbing up her leg.  

“Jessica has just been attacked.”  

The wind wouldn’t let him say it in real time, kicking up a fuss with those deflated balloons. Forgotten nursery rhymes climbed into just-shy-of-fever-pitch. Dead barnacles cracked as the statue moved her leg.  

If he voices it over, he’ll lose that supernatural sound. Michael didn’t have the patience to lift those noises and put them back on the footage.  

The other peacocks hopped off their roosts with their tail feathers on display. What such pretty boys. Wind twisted and braided Jessica’s limp blonde hair. It picked up the red ball and pitched it at Michael’s head.  

You aren’t welcome here. The warning came as a hiss and pushed him back. He fought and shoved the camera in her face. The real damage could be found on her leg or hand (for those that preferred blood).  

The peacocks turned around. The high beams reflected the stunted trees.  Jessica screamed and took a step back, tripping over her own feet. The barnacles dug themselves in and made her leg home.  

The statue took a step forward, shedding her outer shells along the way. Mama. The doll cried out. The children forgot their nursery rhymes.  

Michael stared at the trees. You still aren’t welcome here. The high beams flickered. Turn around and go back. 

Bones caught the high beams. He pointed the handheld camera in their general direction and pulled out the viewing screen. Old analogue snow distorted the footage. Mama. Mama. Mama. 

“Stop making that sound,” Michael sneered.  

His voice travelled to Jessica’s ears as a faint whisper in the wind. The children told her about all the pretty horses, or tried, they were cut off after five words.   

Strands fell out of his hipster manbun. Mama. The doll screamed louder than before. The barnacles breathed and attached themselves to Jessica’s hand and the back of her knee. 

The statue took another step. The air filled with the sounds of dead barnacles cracking open.  

The wind squealed through deflated balloons caught in children’s bones that masqueraded as stunted trees growing out of the Lido’s crumbling concrete.  

“What did you do to the camera, this is our big break, and you’re sabotaging it.”  

More strands fell out of his hipster bun. The high beams caught his face. His veins stood out. Jessica tried to move her foot, but the barnacles grabbed her tight.  

The wind dropped off pieces of nursery rhymes and a chill. Orange orbs surrounded Michael (those showed up on his footage).  

A peacock turned to him with a hiss. The eyes on its tailfeathers shut. When they opened again, they were blood shot and red. It pecked a barnacle off the broken concrete and chomped down, breaking its shell.  

The peacock threw the discarded shell next to the ones shed by the statue. It picked a barnacle from Jessica’s skin. Her scream cut through the night air.  

Another peacock ran to Michael while he was distracted fumbling with the camera and Jessica’s scream. The first peacock didn’t chomp down until it was sure it had Michael’s undivided attention.  

He caught the entire thing on film. In the background of his shot, Jessica was trapped with the throbbing barnacles growing along her wrist and up her leg, looking to meet somewhere around her hips.  

Michael’s head fell back with his mouth open as the peacock discarded another barnacle shell.  

My, my, you are such a pretty boy, too.  

The statue turned her head to watch the scene unfold. Dead barnacles popped off her dead skin. Take him, he’s mean. The voice came through as an old croak that hadn’t been heard in a decade or more.  

Waves lapped at the shoreline below. Blood dripped from Jessica’s hand and wrist.  

Orange orbs sped out of the waves. Please, Miss, don’t drown me. The barnacles twisted around Jessica’s wrist and grew down her pointing fingers. She tried to free herself with her other hand. They latched onto that too.  

A wraith pulled on Michael’s hair. Her ghostly face pulled itself into disgust. Milky orbs that served as eyes looked over at Jessica.  

Bright daylight threatened Jessica’s eyesight. She took a step forward – her skin remembering the pull of vampire barnacles that existed in air.  

Children jumped into the pool. They splashed with happy little screams. The entire class. Teacher knew best. Miss paid for the trip out of her own pocket.  

An ice cream van pulled up. One final treat for all of Miss’s favourite little girls and boys.  

Girls clapped their hands together and sang nursery rhymes. A stray peacock wandered the grounds displaying his tailfeathers for his hen. The girls pointed and ooohhh, You are so pretty. The peacock turned his back towards them and searched for his hen. 

Children lined up at the ice cream van’s window and held their hands out to receive a Flake 99. Miss already paid.  

The girls paused their nursery rhymes and hand games.  Creamy white ice cream dripped onto the little hands. Miss watched from the pool side.  

The peacocks gave up on wooing their hens. They put their tailfeathers away and turned around, bringing with them the night.  

The wraith opened her mouth, dislocating her jaw. Children screamed at Jessica. Don’t let Miss find you. The children pulled on her hand, staying clear of the baby doll and barnacles.  

Water splashed on Jessica. Each droplet caught the summer sun and burst in an orange eruption. Waves carried debris to the shore. Rats fought over stray scrapes of skin clinging to bones.  

The wraith turned her face towards where Jessica stood only a second before. The wind caught a hidden deflated balloon.  

A woman held a girl with blonde pigtails under the pool water. The woman turned to look at Jessica, her mouth open ready to say something.  

The wraith’s long tongue, ripe with decay, rolled out of her mouth and licked Michael’s ear. This one is mine. The girl beneath the water released air bubbles as her jaw unhinged and her eyes popped out.  

Jessica screamed. Peacocks screamed back. The barnacles pulled on her skin and found the fat beneath.  

Barnacles steamed under the bright summer sun. They didn’t like to be out of the sea.  

A car pulled into the car park. A woman ran out of the passenger’s side and didn’t bother to even slam the door. She screamed, “don’t eat the fucking ice cream”.  

The statue stumbled in the glare of the high beams. Dead barnacles pulled away from her grey and green skin as she fell. 

Barnacles pulled Jessica's arm to her side and tied it around her back. The ones on her leg climbed further to caress her knee. 

The teacher turned to look at the woman. Only hatred existed beyond her black eyes, but the woman didn’t cringe or back down.  

“Your children will never amount to anything,” Miss spat.  

Ice cream dripped from the children’s mouths. A little boy clutched his stomach and puked down his bare chest. The air took on a chill. Barnacles grabbed Jessica’s arm and leg.  

A child’s body washed up on the shore (covered in barnacles). A police siren wailed. The man in the ice cream van smiled and handed out a Flake 99. Threadworms waved in the brown chocolate.  

Don’t anger Miss. A little girl with blonde pigtails pulled on Jessica’s arm. Barnacles came away with blood and a faint pop. A peacock snatched them from the sun-drenched concrete.  

A body floated just beneath the surface of the lido; a little girl with blonde pigtails. Her blue eyes stared blankly at the sun. Waves crashed on the shore bringing with them salt-preserved decay.  

The peacocks ran circles around Jessica. Miss is really upset. The girl pulled on Jessica’s hand with more urgency. Her sharp nails dug into Jessica’s flesh bringing blood.  

The peacocks spat at Jessica and displayed their tailfeathers. You must do what Miss says. Another child joined them. Yeah, no matter how bad it is, you must do it. The peacock’s circle grew tighter. Their tailfeathers weaved together. The eyes blinked.  

Orange orbs danced around the bones that masqueraded as trees. Jessica caught glimpses between peacock tail feathers.  

Please, Jessica, set us free. Another voice joined the first. Help us, Jessica. Her skin crawled with invisible insects. The barnacles ate us too. Another voice chimed in, we were on a school trip. The peacocks closed in.  

A beak pulled at the barnacles regenerating on Jessica’s hand and wrist. Two peacocks fought over the barnacles even though there were plenty to go around.  

Jessica’s blood hit a hole in the broken concrete. The earth lapped it up.  

The peacocks parted letting her watch Michael fell to the rubble. A wraith stood over him.  

Scarps of pale skin hung from the white fingers held together with copper wires that stroked his chin. The long tongue fell out of the wraith’s mouth and licked his other ear. Imagine what else I can do with my tongue.  

The bones pretending to be trees jangled. Deflated balloons blew in off the sea and caught in toes and fingers fused to femurs.  Mists blew around until they formed the shape of primary school children.  

The statue shed the last of her barnacles. Peacocks picked up the empty shells.  

Michael dropped Jessica’s camera. The wind died down and the peacocks stopped their fight so Jessica heard it shatter. The wraith had her tongue shoved down Michael’s throat when she looked over.  

The statue poked Jessica. You need to get out of here. Jessica turned to look at her. The same woman who stormed up to the poolside and watched the children succumb to vomiting sickness and float under the water looked back. Only, her lips had rotted off and barnacles ate through most of her flesh over the years.  

Jessica turned away to look at Michael. The wraith hovered over him. Her long fingerbones held his hands down by his side. Flies fell out of her mouth when she opened it for a kiss.  

The wind blew her scrapes over fabric around. Teasing and twisting her form into something Michael desired.  

You need to leave this place. Go! 

The statue-woman rapidly pulled barnacles from Jessica’s skin, even after Jessica turned away from her live-in partner and his new lover.  

The vague shape of men stood with the peacocks. They wanted to eat the discarded barnacles as much as the birds. The hens had no interest.  

Mists seeped out of the broken concrete and formed into the shape of a man. She did that to me last week. 

The children’s nursery rhymes spun around gaining speed and desperation. Save us Jessica. 

The statue pulled a handful of barnacles from Jessica’s skin as she turned around to tell the children off. This trip is forever. The wind carried any lingering traces of the nursery rhymes to the deflated balloons. Go! 

Jessica ran towards the car with a final glance at Michael. The wind pulled and pushed at the wraith. Orange lights hung over the scene. The last she ever saw of him.  

Children lined the road along with peacocks and men as she backed out as fast as she could. It was a bit too fast for safety. Go. Quicker. The wraith is distracted.  

Once she reached the road, the radio turned on tuned to the station of children’s nursery rhymes and peacock screams. A red ball bounced across the road forcing Jessica to slam on her brakes.  

An orange light floated above the scene. She saw more orange lights ahead. She pressed on the pedals and sped towards them and the sounds of the motorway.  

Mama. Jessica glanced at the passenger seat. Barnacles spread from the doll’s head. Will you be my Mama?  

She turned her attention back to the road and drove faster. The trees and orange orbs became blurs next to her window.  

The barnacles died once she reached the motorway. The doll lost its voice, but sat there, strapped in with eyes that couldn’t close.  

 

 

 

Funereal Plots
Horror Cinema Reviews

Matthew M. Bartlett

The Rule of Jenny Pen

Director: James Ashcroft

Writers: James Ashcroft & Eli Kent

From a short story by Owen Marshall

Stefan Mortensen (Geoffrey Rush) is an imperious judge, stern, sharp, literate, surely a force to be reckoned with. But then, in court, he suffers a stroke that lands him in an elder care facility. There, he shares a room with a former rugby player, clearly also once a figure of strength, strength of the physical variety.

Mortensen quickly learns that there is a terror in the home, in the form of demented bully Dave Crealy (John Lithgow) who wears a doll puppet (the Jenny Pen of the title) on his hand—an extraordinarily sinister-looking baby whose eyes glow with menace and malice. Using the puppet as a mental—and sometimes a physical—bludgeon, Crealy subjects the other residents to abuse and small tortures, right under the noses of the less than vigilant staff. He even leads a few vulnerable oldsters to their deaths.

Much will be made of John Lithgow’s performance, and he is an absolute powerhouse—he gnashes and gnaws the scenery, devours it, really, singing and dancing and mocking and lurking. It is a perfect performance, a tour de force. But Geoffrey Rush kills it too, as his character’s defenses and barriers are broken down, as if the stroke wasn’t enough to lay him low. He expertly essays the brutal combination of outrage and impotence, of fury and vulnerability.

The direction here is exquisite, making Crealy’s doll a larger-than-life thing. Is it supernatural? There’s nothing overt in the film to suggest that it is, and yet the way the doll is filmed—I’m thinking of one brief sequence in particular, so frightening that it’s better seen than described—it seems to be very supernatural, very evil, indeed—and Lithgow helps bring it to dastardly life.

Unlike other movies that feature elderly characters, the men and women in the care home are not figures of fear and not mere victims; they’re not exploited for cheap scares. If there’s a flaw in the movie, it’s merely a quibble: in a scene where Mortensen discovers that Crealy has been at the home since he was young, and that he in fact worked there, the old pictures clearly and distractingly have Lithgow photoshopped in.

Again, though, just a quibble. The Rule of Jenny Pen is a first-rate horror flick, inventive, original, and bolstered by terrific performances, not only by the leads, but by the entire cast. It’ll make you want to check out Ashcroft’s work so far, and happily anticipate whatever he might have in store for us next.

Also, I want that doll puppet.