Tag: horror

Ever Be Forgot

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Ever Be Forgot

The foreboding he felt was palpable. Bad juju, bad mana – no good vibes here. It was the sheer number of them. The closer he got to the designated site, the more cars there were. Road sides had started to look congested about 4-5 miles back.

By the time Eddie Whelan parked his car, there was no further to travel; it was park up or turn back. The winding, thinning country lanes up to the forest were stocked with cars everywhere he looked. This felt enormous. People had travelled a long ways to be here, from all over the country, and so very many.

Deep autumn right on the cusp of winter, when “the fall” has lost its charm. The first flashes of crispy pastel yellows and oranges dissolved into the sludge of dark mud under foot.

“Shit,” Eddie somewhat gasped as nearly an entire shoe was swallowed by mud. The visibility was dismal. There was clearly some form of glow emanating from the depths of the forest. Mainly, he was guided by a mid-distant hollering and the banter of the revelers way ahead of him.

A brief glance back and Eddie’s car was no longer visible in the gloom of later year night. Nevertheless, he kept moving forward, identifying the pines and conifers ahead with his phone torch. It felt eerie; it felt like it couldn’t be trusted. Time, place, setting – everything was off.

His years in the field had taught him he couldn’t really trust any novel environment – that caution, and an unblinking vigilance, were a necessity. But this was a flavor of feral he hadn’t sensed in a good while, maybe since youth. This was Guy Fawkes Night after all:

“Remember, remember the 5th of November.”

A holiday 400 years in antiquity, a staple of national identity.

“Gunpowder, treason, and plot…”

Counter terrorism before it was named, as King and Parliament saved.

“I see no reason, why gunpowder treason…”

Bring fireworks along, lighting bonfires must be done.

“Should ever be forgot.”

An evening of national pride, community, and fun.

Eddie wiped a drip of snot from the tip of his nose. The assaulting British cold emanated from the forest with every step. The winter to come was making its presence known – wrap up as you will, it’s going for your bones.

Wading deeper into the foreground of ominous pines, Eddie felt his entire back stiffen. This was a hell of a time to be out late… anywhere. He’d watched helplessly in recent months as his waistline and appetite for casual cigarette smoking grew. He thought to himself that maybe his job had never been harder.

Current affairs reporting in the 21st century was seldom uplifting. Journos knew the score, just as the general public did. Negativity, cynicism, and the inflammatory were catnip to news consumers. Yet, this was a bad year.

Britain’s social fabric was hemorrhaging. National identity had gone from being something revised, expanded and growing, decade for decade, to something febrile and dangerous. Forging ahead was rejected while screaming for something long gone was the order of the day. Exactly what it meant to be British had become a nationwide obsession. In many corners, it became a green light for vigilantism and worse.

Eddie could hear voices getting louder up ahead. The silhouettes of tree trunks getting steadily clearer. He couldn’t tell if it was his eyes adjusting to darkness or if he was moving towards light. A sharp crunch echoed nearby. Eddie made a snap glance behind. Nothing. Was he being followed?

Arguably the originators of conservatism, Britain had only in the most recent decades used the word “diversity.” The term Britain had always favored was “tolerance.” Yet it was clear in some parts of the country, this had long since faded. The picture was ugly. Violent white crime remained on a steady upward trajectory. Youth crime circled its perennial numbers. Hate crimes were suspiciously falling out of reporting, circulation, or consideration. Streets had become hairy.

Some areas of the country started setting curfews – the most economically deprived areas; typically those neighboring acute densities of immigrant communities. This, commentators called the British Establishment’s greatest failure since the three-day week. The defeat of it reeked. If you can’t make a better society, then survey, control, and cage it. The headlines were clickbait gold. Their message was societal decay.

IS THE BRITISH POLICE A SPENT FORCE?

SERVE AND PROTECT WHO?

OLD BILL OUT TO PASTURE!

The fuse was lit 6 months prior.

Three dark figures stand watching a public park ablaze as a bench and child’s slide go up in flames.
(Image courtesy of Marco Allasio via Pexels)

…

Shrill screaming filled the air. A firework ripped through the sky in a phosphorous tear. A pocket of silence followed before a loud pop of neon green splinters gilded the night sky. Eddie made a slow nervous turn to check behind him. Nothing again. As the airborne metal salts faded, the auburn glow of bonfire swelled ahead of him. At his furthest squint, Eddie could make out people marching towards the blaze. He followed.

The internet being a public space mirrors its real life counterpart: what is unacceptable in broad daylight may well find its private settings, corners, or… forums. Many who gather underground, away from the masses, are easily swayed and influenced by conspiracy and fear-mongering. The results can be disastrous.

Such a disaster imploded in an online forum exclusive to the British Isles. Some snarling, aggrieved, nefarious collection of men had taken it upon themselves to begin surveillance of places of worship and their attendees around their local communities. Blinded by bigotry and fear, they did not see the harassment or encroachment of civil liberties they were committing.

Eddie’s walking slowed when the bonfire was only partially blocked. He was no longer alone. The many, many cars parked up had indeed come to this site for what was an almighty bonfire. He couldn’t make out the entire scale of it because it was… it was as big as a house. And no small house.

Like a snowball rolling down a hill, the more this xenophobic tribe posted, the more the number of posts grew. The more the number of posts swelled, the more fictitious narratives and venomous storytelling were assigned to the innocent parties they preyed upon.

After an escalating 3-month campaign against one such individual, stalked and swatted by a forum frothing from the mouth, one of the very worst hate crimes in the country’s history was committed.

Women were left degraded and on life support. Children, grossly still, with skull fractures and broken bones lay in intensive care. A family and their home marred beyond recognition– all while the father was away and unable to protect. Horrifying, blind hate.

Eddie was no longer alone. A hard slap on the back announced the fact.

“Get in!” barked a scratchy voice leaving a full pudgy face, grinning wildly in giddy solidarity. The reveler marched ahead, unawares Eddie was far from one of his own. Eddie was struck by the heat emanating from the bonfire. This was as much a formidable force as a gathering point. The base of the behemoth bonfire was hardly visible from the dense crowd surrounding. Then, Eddie looked up and stopped walking closer.

…

The intelligence communities, in conjunction with the police, soon found the culprits. Those convicted individuals swore that they knew the truth. They claimed, feverishly, that they had attacked the family of an extremist, a terrorist in waiting, a threat to society. Yet, the intelligence communities found nothing of the sort.

Their “target,” upon interview and background checks of length and depth only intelligence teams could conduct, showed no prior or present links, trails, or anything nefarious to his name. The forum had created a monster that didn’t exist. Innocents lay in hospital beds thanks to imagined enemies – a disaster of both social and epistemic proportions.

Like the blast of a bomb, the harrowing damage rippled further than the site of impact. The perpetrators went in the dock, defiant and convinced of a system trying to suppress their “knowing the truth.” In fact, the sheer lack of evidence against the victim and his family only solidified the convicted individuals’ certainty that they were right to act as they had. Worse still, some corners of the internet and certain tribes of British society celebrated these criminals as martyrs.

When the government concluded its McAndrews Commission Report from the investigation – it was met with muted response. People believed what they believed – many felt that they were receiving the true overview of an evil attack of repugnant racism while others believed it was a government smoke screen avoiding uncomfortable realities.

…

The cacophonous chanting and pervasive roar surrounding Eddie was akin to a football cup final. A crowd in raucous anticipation of a great event. He had hoped his undercover following of the forums would turn out to be a damp squib. He tried not to let his own feelings cloud his expectations, but they must have done so. The enthusiasm of the posting was real, the projected attendance was not understated. The scale of this was intimidating, obscene.

This was a celebration, but one rotten and malignant in nature. Oh, the attendees were citizens, but this wasn’t citizenship. A calendar date to stand against nihilism had been hijacked to salute it. Eddie had craned his neck to look up at the towering effigy slowly catching flame. A giant “Guy Fawkes” wrapped in a huge banner. Printed across the banner: a published family photo of the victims.

Eddie slowly raised his phone, to take photos, to report, to do his job. The shriek of another firework and the heat of the fire felt miles away. His blood ran cold. He was numb – what had his country become.

A huge crowd of people stand in the dark watching a gigantic blaze rage with sparks and flames everywhere. A small tower with a melting weathervane can be seen in contrast against the bright fire.
(Image courtesy of Pixabay via Pexels)

‘Batman: Arkham Asylum’ = Enduring Interactive Fear

Posted on by Jonathan

Welcome to the madhouse, Batman!

As a kid, very little excited me more than getting to interact with my favorite DC hero, Batman. Whether it was a new animated show or a movie that changed the superhero film landscape, any opportunity to experience more Batman was a welcome one to me. So imagine my excitement when the brand new Batman game, Batman: Arkham Asylum, was announced. Needless to say, 11 year-old me was over the moon, thrilled to get to properly play as Batman for the first time ever. 

One thing I think no one was ready for was just how scary Batman: Arkham Asylum turned out to be. Most outsiders to the Arkham video game series likely hear “Batman” and immediately think it is just another superhero game. It certainly is a superhero game, with you running around as Batman beating up thugs while trying to stop the Joker’s latest scheme. What makes it so much more than that though, is how the game carried with it a fantastic element of horror throughout the entire story. Although future games in the franchise carried over this horror theme, none of them nailed it quite like Arkham Asylum did.

The game starts out as your standard Batman adventure, or technically the end of one: Batman has captured Joker and is taking him to be locked back up in Arkham Asylum, the incredibly outdated psychiatric hospital (= prison) that hosts the majority of Batman’s rogues gallery. Not long after bringing Joker in, the Clown Prince of Crime launches his real scheme – overtaking the asylum staff and taking control of the madhouse. 

From the very beginning, Batman: Arkham Asylum creates an atmosphere of unease. The titular asylum is dingy, grimy, and very reminiscent of an abandoned, haunted mental hospital you would find in an aging horror film. The only difference is that instead of being haunted by incorporeal spirits, Arkham Asylum is haunted by very real, very alive threats who all have one goal in mind: to kill you, as Batman. 

In fact, the asylum even has some monsters of its own: Killer Croc, a mutated crocodile man, tells Batman in the very beginning of the game he intends to eat the Caped Crusader. Cut to later in the game when you are slowly creeping around Croc’s lair, he will spontaneously burst out from the water, chasing you across flimsy platforms. With your only option being to walk slowly or risk Croc taking notice of your location, players have to painstakingly make their way through his lair with the constant fear of a crocodile man jumping out and hunting you down.

As you run around the asylum, Joker will periodically use the PA system to speak with Batman and taunt him. The PA system makes a noise that will haunt me for the rest of the time; a chime that sounds slightly off, almost as if it’s getting further and further under your skin every time it plays. Eventually, Joker also unleashes the absolutely rabid ‘Arkham Lunatics’, locked up in straight jackets and ready to attack anyone on sight. They hide throughout the asylum, forcing on the player the expectation that one of them could jump out from under the floorboards or pounce on you from the ceiling at any moment. Over the moon. 

Brightly colored classic comic book covers including Batman
(Image courtesy of Dev via Unsplash)

Scarecrow: The Master of Fear

But of course, nothing embodies fear more in the Arkham series than the master of fear himself, Scarecrow. For the uninitiated, Scarecrow, a.k.a. Dr. Jonathan Crane, is a former doctor of Arkham Asylum who invented the aptly-named “Fear Toxin,” a chemical concoction that shows its user their worst fears come to life as horrific hallucinations. Three times throughout the game, players are forced to contend with Scarecrow while under the effects of his Fear Toxin – running a deadly nightmare gauntlet where they need to fight off skeletons and hide whenever the massive Scarecrow appears and looms over his realm of fear. Being seen by him results in immediate death, driving the stakes and the player’s blood pressure up even more. 

Right before the very last Scarecrow nightmare challenge, the player experiences what can be considered the best scare tactic in the entire franchise. As Batman is walking through the asylum, he is dosed with Fear Toxin. Suddenly, the game seems to crash, with the screen and audio glitching and the player left frustrated and dealing with a very real fear for any gamer: did my game just break and make me lose all my progress? From what I’ve read from others who have played the game, this “glitch” tricked many players into resetting their game console, convinced that their game had actually broken. Oh, heavens.

For those who stuck it out, they learned that the glitch was actually a scripted event. As one fear was conquered a new one emerged, and  the game seemingly starts over from the very beginning with its opening cutscene. This time, Joker is in the driver seat, taking Batman to Arkham Asylum where he is promptly brought in on a stretcher and shot by the Joker, leaving the player unable to do anything but watch helplessly. Of course, Batman is a beacon of willpower, so he overcomes the hallucinations and manages to take down Scarecrow and, inevitably, the Joker – though not before Joker mutates himself into a monstrosity that likely haunted the dreams of many young players.

Batman: Arkham Asylum manages to accomplish polar opposites at once: making players truly feel like Batman on an immersive level, who himself inspires fear in the many thugs he takes down, while also managing to surprise and terrorize the player on a meta level. 

Melting down, yet over the moon

Batman may not have been afraid, but I certainly was, nearly having a heart attack every time a lunatic launched at me from out of a grate I didn’t notice. I did notice my controller flying up in the air as I yelled out. In fear?

Horror games aren’t everybody’s cup of tea, myself typically included. But Batman: Arkham Asylum reaches this crucial sweet spot where it gives players all the power and then knocks them back down, forcing them to overcome the twisted thoughts and schemes of Gotham City’s most wanted. Even now, nearly 20 years later, I still find myself feeling that same unease as I step back into the asylum and contend with the likes of Scarecrow, the Joker, Killer Croc. Especially Killer Croc. 

Yet, traversing all that chaos and destruction to triumphantly take down the Joker at the end makes it all the more satisfying when I surpass the nightmares and finally save the day, standing tall as the Batman. 

characters dressed as Batman and the Joker point at the camera
(Image courtesy of dmscs via Morguefile)

A Grave Scribe Tale: Fatal Fame

Posted on by Jonathan

WRITER’S  NOTE: I am writing the introduction of this story as a homage to Tales from the Crypt with my Grave Scribe persona. Please enjoy!

…

A coffin creak is heard in the background.

“Ah… so you found me again, dear reader. ‘The Grave Scribe,’ keeper of secrets and chronicler of souls too restless to stay buried. Tonight, I open my tome to a tale from the humid heart of Malaysia. A tale of vanity, ambition, and blood.

A pop singer turned witch doctor.
A politician turned victim.
A ritual turned execution.

Oh yes… a modern-day witch trial!

Now, let her speak. Let Mona Fandey rise from her grave and tell you, in her own words, how the hunger for fame can devour far more than just your career.”

…

“I will not die.” Those were my last words. 

I knew from childhood, I was born to shine like Taylor Swift and the K-Pop idols who adorn your YouTube feed. They did not have YouTube in my time. All I ever wanted was to be adored. When I sang, people listened. When I smiled, the world tilted a little closer. Even though my husband gave up his savings to give me air time, the moguls of Malaysian media decided I was not good enough. 

Fame, it seemed, was a cruel lover. 

Unlike Affandi, my loyal husband. He was also my greatest believer. He told me I wasn’t meant to fade. “You have the gift,” he said, “If the world won’t give you power, take it.”

After much discussion, we both decided to take up magic. We would make people’s dreams come true since many believed in unseen forces. Some might call it black magic, but it was hope and power for me, Affandi, and our assistant, Juraimi. His ingratitude would lead to our inevitable fall, and I still don’t know if I should curse him or thank him. I still remember smiling for the cameras while being escorted out of the courthouse and thinking I should strangle him, but maybe it was also another chance for fame, so I just took the chance and smiled. I knew I was born for fame; I did what came naturally. But, I digress. 

My clients came from every corner and dark hollow of society: businessmen, socialites, politicians—all desperate for something they couldn’t earn.

That’s when Datuk Mazlan Idris came to me.

A man of ambition, burning so brightly he couldn’t see the shadows closing in. He wanted power. Minister of State, he said. He wanted more. And he could have it, what I could never attain. The people’s praise and respect. I decided that men like him should never outshine me. 

That’s why I told Affandi to give him the axe. “Power to the people,” I say! “Death to tyrants!”

He came with money — lots of it. 2.5 million ringgit was my quote. He did not pay me the full amount upfront – the nerve of him. But a deal is a deal, and he gave enough for my plastic surgery and new car later on. 

I offered him two talismans: a cane and a songkok, once belonging — so I told him — to Sukarno, the first President of Indonesia. “With these,” I said, “you will be invincible.”

He believed me. They always do.

That night, the air was heavy with the cloying fragrance of incense, burnt at the site of our patron’s home. My husband, Affandi, and our helper, Juraimi, prepared the room and the means of disposing of our victim later on. I told Mazlan to lie face down, close his eyes, and trust in the magic of the ritual so money would come to him out of thin air in droves he couldn’t dream of — the fool! 

He smiled at the prospect.
Oh, how easily men trust when ambition blinds them.

I placed petals over his body and whispered blessings. He thought fortune was about to rain from the heavens. Instead, Juraimi’s axe fell thrice.

Three swings.
Three echoes.
Then silence.

We dismembered him, piece by piece, like a broken promise. I told myself it was art. A ritual of power. A step toward the immortality fame had denied me.

But you know what’s strange? The moment the blood touched my hands, I felt alive again. Not as a pop star. Not as a has-been. But as someone seen. I was finally unforgettable. I could have tasted his blood, but not with my husband watching of course. 

When the police caught us, I smiled for the cameras. They clicked and flashed, and I gave them what they wanted — a star reborn in scandal. My name was everywhere. Mona Fandey. The witch. The murderer. The legend.

And when the judge read my sentence — death by hanging — I didn’t tremble. I only smiled wider.

“Aku takkan mati,” I told them.
I will not die.

And, perhaps, I haven’t.

When they pulled the lever, I didn’t scream. I thought of lights, of applause,  of my name echoing in eternity. I got what I wanted; all it took was a sacrifice. All of the greats did so for their art, and I am their peer. 

And now… I’m here.

Whispering through time, through screens, through stories.

You think this is just a tale of horror, dear reader?
No. It’s a mirror.

You scroll, you post, you crave followers and fame.
You’d trade pieces of yourself just to be seen.

Be careful what you chase.
Because vanity never dies.

And neither did I.

…

The Grave Scribe closes the tome with a slow grin.

“Sleep well, my wicked friend. And if you hear a dark song in the shadows, don’t look back. It might just be Mona, craving another chance to perform.”

A skull, red candles, a spell book, and potions/vials sit on an old table – a scene fit for a witch and other figures of the night!
(Photo courtesy of Sabrina Roman via Unsplash)

Of Monsters and Motherhood

Posted on by Jonathan

Amongst humanities graduate students, especially literature students, there is a joke that grad school will kill one’s passion for reading. I always thought that I would be impervious to such a curse – that no matter what my Hispanic Literature programs threw at me, my love of reading would remain unscathed. I chose to study literature because, like most people who do the same, I loved reading from an early age. Further, I loved dissecting passages and plots, analyzing character motivations, and connecting works of fiction to larger societal themes. To a certain degree, I was right about my passion being steadfast in the face of the stresses of advanced academic training. There are numerous books from many different countries and eras that piqued my interest beyond them being required reading.  

However, the greatest book in the world cannot fix the fatigue that a bloated reading schedule causes. I knew what I was getting into, of course, but knowing really doesn’t matter after having to read hundreds upon hundreds of pages of say, Garcilaso de la Vega or Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo (real ones know!), as I had to do during my Colonial Latin American Literature survey course. For six years, I often felt as though I had one eye on a PDF and one eye on the clock, mentally calculating how long it took to read one page and estimating how quickly I could finish a book before moving on to the next one. However, In early 2021, I found myself free of the constraints of reading under pressure, as I had passed my preliminary exams for my doctoral degree the semester before. 

Turning the page

With my attention now solely focused on crafting my dissertation and teaching Spanish language classes, I had won back something that had been missing during my time taking courses: an eensy, teensy bit of free time. Unfortunately for me, I had also been recently diagnosed with allergic asthma, so some of this free time was spent, once or twice a week, in my allergist’s office, on the receiving end of histamine shots that would (hopefully) reduce the severity of my allergies, while also not inducing anaphylaxis.

In that sterile and uninspiring room, far from the creaky, imposing library shelves I had been dwarfed by for so long, the pressure to read for the purposes of writing papers and bolstering class discussions melted away. Accompanied only by my ancient iPad, loaded with the Libby app, I would spend hours waiting in that office, interrupted intermittently by my doctor checking my airways and the injection site on my arm. At my fingertips was what seemed like an unending catalogue of books whose publications I had missed for the last six years. What’s more, I soon discovered something about me that I never expected: I loved reading horror fiction.

All my life I have hated horror movies. I have only seen one, The Strangers (2008), and even that was against my will. The Halloween of my fourteenth year saw me crowding into my friend’s basement with the rest of our social group, which consisted of teens who were not scaredy-cats like me. Due to a combination of peer pressure and shaky confidence, I agreed to watch the aforementioned horror flick while thinking, “Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

Boy, was I wrong. 

Despite my rejection of slasher films, I wouldn’t consider myself an overly  sensitive person, but my anxious personality is not well-suited to the anticipation and gore of the horror genre. There are some days I refuse to watch even an episode of The X-Files as twilight approaches. So to have been, suddenly, breathlessly waiting for books to come off hold that featured content aimed to terrify was very surprising to me, though I embraced it all the same.

My reading reawakening that began beneath the stale, fluorescent lights in a random medical building in north-central Indiana led to a years-long obsession of reading (when I wasn’t writing my dissertation, of course) anything horror- or thriller-adjacent that I could get my hands on. I devoured litfic that centered around body and/or psychological horror, crimes being committed, anything that boasted showcasing the darker sides of humanity.

I didn’t exclusively read horror and thrillers, but I found myself gravitating back toward such works, desperate for the illusion of control while living in a political landscape that was (and still is) trending anti-woman. In these fictional worlds, women could act on their impulses– something we’re very rarely allowed to do in reality. They may be committing crimes, sure, but aren’t we, as women, allowed a little rage when we’re losing our rights to medical care? Can’t we cheer for women doing exactly as they wish when there are those who wish to take away our rights to vote, to divorce, to be employed? Sadly, to everything there is a season, and it seems as though my time voyeuristically consuming women’s rights and wrongs through fiction has come to a possible end. 

A lone light illuminates an old bookcase.
(Image courtesy of Engin Akyurt via Pexels)

Plot twist

After the birth of my daughter, my anxiety has gone into overdrive in an effort, evolutionarily and biologically, I suppose, to try to maintain my family unit within a small, protective bubble and keep the horrors of the world away. The terror that originally had no effect on me when reading horror is now wholly felt, as if I were back in the eighth grade, in my friend’s basement, watching Liv Tyler and Scott Speedman get stalked and terrorized by three weirdos in masks.

I noticed this change when I was finally able to read Monstrilio by Gerardo Sámano Córdova, a book about a woman mourning the loss of her child to such a degree that she turns a piece of his body into a sentient monster. I read, maybe, 10 percent of the book when panic began to overtake me. What if I lost my daughter? In our world, sadly devoid of magical realism, I wouldn’t be able to manifest such a creature. I would have nothing. Plenty of parents around the globe have obviously experienced loss, so I would not be special. But, such a fact does not eliminate the disquietude that this concept produces. I returned the book almost immediately. Then, very recently, a similar thing happened while I was reading the beginning pages of The Lamb by Lucy Rose. 

I had read books describing cannibalism before and, while the idea personally disgusts me, I was able to push past this revulsion to see how these gruesome tales proceeded. Now, my response was so visceral, so palpably felt, that not even a can of Vernors ginger ale could remedy my nausea.

Both books had been hyped up on Bookstagram (a community with which, like BookTok, I have many issues but ultimately can’t quit) for months, as certain accounts received advanced reading copies and therefore raved about how good they were before library-using plebs like me could gain access to them. I was so excited to read them, but, this enthusiasm, and the state of my emotional moods, were in direct opposition.  

The militant feminist in me (which, let’s be honest, is most of my personality) is begging me to push through. She, to be frank, doesn’t even think it’s appropriate to confess that motherhood has caused any change. I should be able to engage in the things I enjoy, instead of letting possible internalized patriarchal ideals – that dictate that mothers’ lives should revolve around their children; that they should spend every single second of every single hour of every single day thinking about their children and their needs; that they are not complete people now, but accessories to the new generation – win. Whatever individuality I can eke out, says this feminist, should be celebrated and pursued doggedly.

Cliffhanger?

Unfortunately, overriding my brain is easier said than done. I find that I miss the previous catharsis I relished while reading; I have no outlet for my frustrations. Also, a small part of me fears that, with this change in taste, I’m no longer cool. Is this how the process from eclectic individual to lame parent starts?

Maybe I’ll return to Monstrilio and The Lamb in the future, when I’m more practiced at divorcing reading and my anxieties. Maybe it’s finally time to give Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time a try? Maybe I’ll exclusively read nonfiction until I’m 90. The specifics of my reading habits were different at 10, 17, 25, and will continue to vary at 32, 46, 54, and so on.

I find myself back at square one, in a place akin to where I was in 2021, wanting to read but not sure where that desire will take me. Still, I have progressed before and will again. And, I should emphasize, I’m ultimately grateful that my lifelong passion for reading remains in spite of the hiccups detailed here, and that I have passed that passion on to my daughter, who demands a reading of Frog and Toad Are Friends at least once a day.

For now, I suppose the horror books on my to-be-read list must wait patiently  in their dark corners. But, as the current total of this list, according to my profile on The Storygraph, is 3,308 books, there’s plenty to read in the meantime. 

Let’s Conjure Up Some Jump Scares!

Posted on by Jonathan

As someone who loves horror films, they still find ways of haunting me. Even now, I occasionally wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare that feels as real and chilling as Halloween night. In my eyes, these cyclical terrors reveal how expertly crafted the creatures and jump scares of fictional films are. Anytime a jump scare occurs, especially in the Conjuring films, which are personal favorite frights of mine, I have to turn my attention to a random corner of the screen or not look at all. That’s how much they get under my skin. 

With its final film premiering this past September, The Conjuring film series has made its impact as a horror film staple for many horror buffs. The films are fictional retellings of notable, real life cases of paranormal investigators, Ed and Lorraine Warren. Whether or not you believe the events of these chilling ghost hunts are factual or fanciful, the films are a perfect example of what horror films should be: fun and entertaining to watch. Furthermore, the franchise contains jump scares that have lingered in the dark recesses of my mind for years, and they remain insidious reminders of the art of a great scare.  

Prior to the franchise’s final film release, I have been rewatching the previous installments in anticipation of the new horrors that inevitably await me. However, of the four previous films, I cannot seem to get past The Conjuring 2 because of one specific performance that always manages to send shivers up my spine. The character of the “Crooked Man” is a standout ghoul of the second film, invading the household through a toy zoetrope (a spinning lantern) and his eponymous children’s song. I am so terrified of this menace that I have to hide my face behind my hands throughout the sequence – I still don’t entirely know what happens!  What I do understand is that the talented actor who plays the “Crooked Man,” Javier Botet, is able to move his body in such a foreboding way that it makes the character unnerving and desperately uncomfortable to watch. Acting directly against Patrick Wilson (who plays one of the series’ protagonists, Ed Warren), Botet moves like a horrific animatronic, sending the audience spinning like the zoetrope he leaps out of in the dark. 

Speaking of the dark, watching any horror film in the middle of the day seems like the best option for me despite the fact that any little noise after the credits roll will make me question everything that’s going on in my own home. And that is an extremely effective way to prove that these jump scares and other techniques awaken my fight-or-flight mode and rattle me when I’m home alone. A prime example of this manifests whenever my family and I make the mistake of watching a scary film at night. It is my job to take our beloved dog outside for the evening, so, every night without fail, I always glance into the dark garage just to double-check that nothing is lurking in the dark despite the tiny security light remaining on continuously. I still don’t understand why I do this; it has just become a habit at this point, probably as a result of the malignant shadows that my loved ones and I so enjoy watching on screen. Consequently, I have learned that family ties are often tethered to fear as well.

A while back, I decided to watch Hereditary, a petrifying film about how some family secrets continue plaguing future generations in truly horrific ways. I viewed it in the middle of the day, being home alone, and the sunshine brought me little comfort. The physical act of Toni Collete, who plays one of the film’s main characters, climbing the ceiling in her family’s home, her head banging continuously against the wall as her terrified son screams, “Mommy, I’m sorry,” will always haunt me because of her character’s unnerving silence and erratic, inhuman movements. The sight and sounds (or lack thereof) of that particular scene never fail to make my blood run cold. And other films continue to use visual and auditory storytelling to incite dread in their audiences masterfully.

I can’t even watch The Exorcist anymore because of Linda Blair’s incredibly nuanced performance as a child actress portraying a girl who is possessed. The words and actions that leave her mouth shook me to my core when I first watched the film. I was shocked beyond belief that not only was this level of brutalistic horror achieved in the early 1970s, but that my seemingly fearless mom and uncle had a hard time watching it as teenagers. While The Exorcist has produced some incredibly famous imagery, the mental image of Regan (the young girl possessed by a demon that Blair plays) profusely cursing and spitting at the priest and her family trying to save her/exorcise the demon is something I’ll never get over. The very sight of Regan’s appearance changing as she swiftly loses her humanity and the gruff sounds of the young girl’s voice as the demon possessing her fights for control are expertly done, and the film has rightfully achieved its goal of being one of the scariest films of all time. 

More recently, horror continues to expand and include the terrors of the everyday. In Longlegs, a film about an FBI agent investigating the grisly murders of a supposed occultist serial killer, there is an emphasis on how the smallest acts can infuse horror that make one’s heart ache. Nicolas Cage plays the titular villain of the horror crime film and is an incredibly eerie character. His performance perfectly encompasses dread and an inhuman rage as he wails, “Mommy, Daddy, unmake me!” in his own car after being thrown out of a hardware store. Such a small act, as being asked to leave a store, sets Cage’s character into a spiral that utterly terrifies me and showcases how quickly someone can devolve to disastrous degrees. Understanding the additional context of the film, Longlegs’ personal yell is horrifying. Cage’s line delivery played on repeat in my mind for a few days afterwards, and it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen and heard. 

Horror films are such a delight to experience, whether at home or in the theater, because they often expose us to things, concepts, and characters we would not dare to dream up. And, if the jump scares give me goosebumps, then I know I’ll be in for a wild ride! Additionally, horror films are a great way for my family to connect with one another. Half of my family (including myself from time to time) will binge true crime podcasts, documentaries, and macabre tv shows across all of the streaming platforms, fueling our never-ending love of the genre. My family loves good scares, whether we get them from horror films or one of the countless documentaries we have watched with bated breath and many gasps. Effective jump scares and thrills from horror films make my skin crawl, get my heart pumping, and provide terrors that I believe most individuals can’t truly fathom in the modern world. Finally, the creativity sparked by horror films continues to stand alone as an irreplaceable form of gruesome (and sometimes gratifying) entertainment. 

Face, Here

Posted on by Jonathan

Be Unkind, Rewind

As the hot chocolate cooled down in our mugs, and the buttery popcorn was ready after the tape was rewound, he popped onto the TV screen. His animated purple skin, bright uncanny eyes, and devious smile materialized.

His dangerous, yet, spirited voice spoke the words, “Hi, there. Face, here!”  I began to scream, thinking of many scenarios where he could attack me. Tears began to flood down my face, like rain on a car window. Not again. Not again.

I just wanted to watch Little Bear! Why was Face here? 

His Role in My Life

Face haunted me on the daily; he haunted me whenever I watched a “Nick Jr.” VHS.

However, the most frightening thing was when I thought about Face before bed. I tossed and turned, while he took the form of objects in my dreams. One second, he was an airplane. The next, a flashlight, shining in the dark. 

I never knew what he would shapeshift into.  I was three — I didn’t understand that images cannot pop out of a TV screen and hurt you. I imagined him emerging from his pixelated prison, harming me with his non-existent body. 

It would have been easy for Face. 

A Continuation 

Once VHS tapes fell out of fashion, I was relieved to know that Face would remain a relic of the past, a horrifying memory trapped in childhood. 

By the time he was revived in 2022, I was 20 years old. Too old to watch “Nick Jr.,” too distracted with college to know about Face’s Music Party on Paramount+. 

As I am writing this, I don’t know why his animated voice still makes my hands shake with fear. 

My body attempts to regulate itself. He isn’t real, it’s just animation. I know he can’t cause me injury, but my inner child relives the emotions I experienced back then. 

His prison holds him, and has done so since 2004. He was let out three years ago, and his release was short-lived. Face’s freedom was tainted by his selfishness — his destiny carried out, much like that of a parasite to a host. 

Resurrecting Face

I stumbled across a Blue’s Clues VHS last month while searching for home videos. He was in a small shoebox that was labeled, “Kristen’s Things: Blue.” I didn’t see it at first, since the shoebox was trapped under a larger one that featured the motif of a VCR. 

Curiosity struck me, and a false sense of security covered my body like a heated blanket. His orange plastic casing kept me safe. 

I believed he had forgotten about my existence. Your mind tricks you, tells you that there is no harm. Occasionally, the fight-or-flight response fails to deploy. 

You are stuck in midair. There is no safety net. This might be your new home. 

Somehow, I found my way back down. I decided to open the Blue’s Clues tape. My laptop began to glitch, and the screen became a bilious shade of green. 

There was no possibility of this occurring, yet, it happened right in front of me. 

A face sits in blackness; all you can see are the whites of their eyes.
(Image courtesy of Omar Alnahi via Pexels)

Ctrl C, Ctrl V, Ctrl X

He spread his code and reproduced until his genealogy had been extended. He forced the commands: Ctrl C, Ctrl V to copy and paste his DNA.

Face spent his time doomscrolling through my files, and eventually, commanded my laptop to press Ctrl X. He lived on while my fragments of me were obliterated. 

The trumpet sound he produces plays on repeat. His eyes are enlarged, and his smile wide and wolfish. He redirects his gaze, focuses on me. 

He is worse than the ILOVEYOU virus. He is more than a bug — he is a trojan. Face seems innocent and cheerful, but he is insidious, a maddening malady. 

I don’t believe that I am his only victim; he will attack whoever seeks him out.

He is your worst enemy; one’s least favorite nightmare. His presence haunts you until you want to beg him for mercy. But, you do not want to let him win.

The Winner?

You destroy the tape when you return home, and practice deep breathing to cope. The terror is over. You were the last person in your family to experience his wrath. 

However, you forget to warn your neighbors who have children. The next day, you hear screaming from across the street, and that laughter that sounds like sick.

From a distance, the words: “Hi, there. Face, here,” are spoken. You know that odious sound too well. If you intervene, he will target you again.

It’s too risky. All you can do is hope your neighbor knows how to destroy him. 

Two days later, you find her TV, remote, and Amazon Fire TV Stick on the sidewalk. There are two large buckets of concrete in the grass. While she is at work, you drown Face in the cement mixture, vindicating your neighbor and her children, now tethered to you in trauma. 

He has finally been defeated. He cannot be resurrected again. His reign has ceased, and you do not ask to take credit for the end. 

A woman’s face is covered in sickly green text reading “disconnected.”
(Image courtesy of lil artsy via Pexels)

2027

Posted on by [email protected]

The invasion happened 40 years ago, in 2027. 

Big, oval-shaped metal ships appeared out of the sky. It’s hard for anyone to think that on that day, millions of lives disappeared. The aliens came in their large spacecrafts with protruding metal legs, and walked around our town in Aberdeen. 

I was ten years old at the time, with Jay, who was eleven, and our mom. We were at the festival park downtown. Our dad wasn’t there, which was how things usually were. I remember that the perimeter of the park had a shaded, circular path for people who took their afternoon walks. There were two playgrounds. At the north-western side of the park, there were numerous wooden picnic tables, shaded by large trees.

 After what felt like hours of Jay and I running around, our mom called us over to the picnic table to have lunch. As we ran over, I heard an eerie, high-pitched buzzing in my ear. I turned around to see where it was coming from. The sound became so loud and painful that I had to cover my ears, trying in vain to protect myself from it. I looked around the park and saw everyone doing the same. A homeless man who always frequented this park with his gang of dogs fell to his knees, his face scrunched up from the buzzing sound. I couldn’t understand what he was saying as I watched him curl into a ball, rolling from side to side with his mouth open. 

Jay grabbed my hand and we ran to our mother as the sky turned dark. The beautiful baby blue color disappeared as the clouds quickly moved in, painting it gray. The wind intensified as we raced to our mother. I was terrified that my brother and I were going to get blown away. But thank God, we reached our mother in time and she took us into her arms. I don’t remember what I said because now all I can see when I close my eyes are the clouds opening and the alien spacecraft crashing from the sky. 

We couldn’t run for cover. The impact of the spacecraft’s landing caused the ground to shake violently. Each time we tried to get up and walk, we ended up with itchy grass on our faces. The ground where the crafts landed on the cars, the public library, and the city hall were all shaking. 

My mom held my brother and me close, whispering, “We are going to be alright.”

She tried her best to shield our eyes from the scene and focused on her, but it was futile. It was impossible not to see the complete destruction of my hometown. I thought again of the homeless man and his dogs. I still remember how hard I screamed when I saw him killed. A part of me, now, is grateful that the buzzing was so loud that I wasn’t able to hear the crushing of his bones or his horror-stricken cry. When the spacecraft’s feet lifted into the air, the man’s body was flattened, and he and the dog’s internal organs fell out of their bodies, mixing together on the ground. 

My mom snatched my face and forced me to look her in the eye, “Mina, keep your eyes on mommy, okay? You too Jay! Kids, hold onto my hand tight and don’t  let go!” 

Jay and I nodded in silent horror.

My mom squeezed our hands, shaking them as she spoke. I didn’t have time to answer and neither did Jay. She got up and dragged us out of the park and towards the car before we could get a word out. I looked at my older brother to see his face turn white, as his eyes flooded with tears, snot running down his nose. I never saw Jay look horrified before then. He was the typical older brother, never afraid of anything. I was the one that would cry hysterically. But at that moment, the roles were reversed. I was the quiet one. I looked over at my mother again. She was clearly horrified, too, but somehow much calmer than either of us, because she wasn’t afraid for herself. Even in the middle of an alien invasion she couldn’t bring herself to be selfish. All she cared about was getting Jay and me out in one piece.

God why didn’t I listen to her then. 

Suddenly, my fingers cease to type. Memories of my mother come flooding back. Her strength, her resolve. How she could be so calm amidst total chaos. Writing about her makes the pang of her absence even more apparent. The sick feeling in my stomach twists as I tell you this story.

My mother started sprinting for the car, dragging us by our arms. As we ran, I turned my head around to look at the mayhem. People scrambled to take cover and dodge the craft’s feet. A man carried a woman on his back towards the parking lot. He leaped over the carcasses of the homeless man and his dog but then slipped on the blood-slicked concrete and fell. My mom yanked my arm to turn me away. We were almost by our car when red lights appeared above us. I looked up and saw that each craft had wand-like appendages with red lights on them. I turned to ask Jay what they were, but his eyes were on our mom, unaware of what was about to happen. 

“Mommy, I’m–“ 

Before I could finish what I was going to say. I heard what sounded like a crack of thunder. 

Rain? Is it going to rain now? 

Suddenly one of the wands shot out a blinding beam of light. The reflection lit up the whole park.  A deep thumping sound came from the wand before another beam came out and struck a woman. She let out a horrified cry as her body turned red, and then her arms, stomach, and legs exploded. Chunks of her body scattered around us, her torso fell to the ground while the remains of her leg landed all around us. Something large and red flew past my head, and a moment later, her blood rained down on us. I turned to my left and saw her disfigured leg on the ground.  

 It was when the three of us took a big leap over something, that I felt a strange substance on my shoulder. I turned my head and saw a red, rust-smelling mass. I tried desperately to get it off me, but Jay’s grip on my hand tightened. I decided to ignore it. We continued running, while our mom pushed and dodged people to get out of our way. She knocked over a woman who was on her knees, screaming for her child to get up. I looked away, unable to bear the sight of it. We were inches away from the car when the sound of multiple lasers rang in the air. 

My mom screamed as we finally reached the car and unlocked it. 

“Keep your eyes on me!”

She threw Jay and me inside before she hurried behind the wheel.  Outside the car window, more crafts swirled around the park, shooting lasers at anything alive and walking. My eyes turned back to the spot where the homeless man was. I saw the woman riding on the other man’s back. She was now on the ground, wailing and calling for him, but he kept running and left her behind. He nearly escaped when the laser beam hit him in the head, disintegrating it immediately.  His lifeless body fell along with the other mutilated corpses around him. In a trance, I watched the bodies explode and the earth shake, and heard the buzzing, which overpowered the sound of my mom calling me.

 She grabbed my face, “Mina! Mina!”  she screamed, her fingernails digging into my skin.

 “Mommy, my face hurts,” I whimpered. I tried to move my face away, but her grip was too strong. 

Our mom’s voice trembled and cracked, “Mina! Listen to me! Do not look outside! Please honey. Look at your brother.” I looked at Jay, and he looked back at me, hyperventilating. With each pained cry he sucked in more air. 

I begged her to let me go, “Mommy please…” I was terrified at the thought that, at any moment, we could all die. 

“Jay, calm down honey, we’re going home. Mina baby…” 

My vision was blurred with tears, and each time  I tried to talk, my throat tightened. The car shook as my eyes trailed away from our mother and landed on the window. More limbs, belonging to both adults and children, were scattered all over the park. Their upper torso would be in one place, but their legs or arms would be far away. The last thing I remember was our mother turning around to start the car. But then, the body of a woman crashed onto the windshield,  and suddenly the bright red light of another laser beam consumed my entire field of vision. 

***

I stop the story and save the document.  The images of the couple and homeless man replay in my head, and I realize I can no longer breathe. I get up from my desk to lay down on my bed. As my head falls on the pillow, I turn off the headset, put it down to my side, and just breathe. On my bookshelf are vintage books and picture frames that have moving holograms inside. One of them contains an image of my mom the last year before she died. 

Our old selves stand in front of the camera with a big smile on each of our faces. Our mom was sitting in the middle while Jay and I flanked her on either side. The three of us posed and waited for the click, when suddenly  Jay burst out into a giggle that made our mom laugh. Looking at this picture always causes this same bittersweet feeling: the memory of being with my brother and mom, the elation we experienced from just being with one another, and the sudden pain in my chest and throat when I realize we will never feel that way again. I stare at the hologram picture until my eyesight gets blurry again. I sniff and wipe my eyes as I turn over to face the other wall.  

I want to write this story–my story. I don’t know why, maybe so I can heal some deep wounds. I take a deep breath and imagine the sound of her laughter on the day the photo was taken. For a second I question why I am even doing this. Forcing myself to remember her in vivid detail and write about how she was before I lost her. The pain of remembering her in this way is too much to bear at times. For a few minutes I entertained the thought of never opening up that document again, of keeping her memory safely tucked away, my only reminders of her the photographs of her smiling eyes. But then I think back to her final moments, how scared yet brave she was. I cannot let her become just a memory. 

I take a deep breath, go to my computer, and open up the document once more.