BLACK STATIC #41 (2 page)

LYNDA E. RUCKER

BORN THIS WAY

Are horror fans and creators of horror in fiction and film and other mediums born or made? Anyone who has read Ramsey Campbell’s harrowing introduction to his novel
The Face That Must Die,
which deals with his upbringing in a home with estranged parents and a mother descending into mental illness throughout his childhood and early adulthood, might argue for the latter, but Campbell himself doesn’t make particular claims to that effect in his piece, although certainly those experiences must have informed how well he writes about mental illness in his own fiction. We tend to cherry pick the information we need to draw the conclusions we want: few of us can describe an upbringing quite so gothic as the one Campbell writes about, but few of us can remember a childhood without any shadows. And it is to those shadows that people tend to look when they set out to explain what seems an unnatural affinity for all the things we ought to be doing our best to avoid: the dark, the perverse, the terrifying.

I remain unconvinced, though; I suspect even the sunniest of childhoods might produce lovers of the dark. Separating nature from nurture has so far proved to be a largely impossible task even for those who specialise in such fields, and I can say that my own experience and that of many others with whom I’ve discussed this question is one of being drawn to the imagery of horror and the supernatural before we could articulate it, before we even knew it as something called “horror”. For me, anything would do, from
Sesame Street
’s Count in his bat-infested castle who always disappointed me by never actually doing anything scary, to the covers of books I was too young and too frightened to read. Pictures of haunted castles, ghosts, monsters – I couldn’t get enough of any of it.

I did face something of a dilemma: I was an easily spooked child, one who had to be carried screaming from a haunted house at the age of seven via the emergency exit. I was also prone to nightmares, but none of that stopped me devouring short horror fiction from the likes of Robert Bloch and Frank Belknap Long and spending many a sleepless night listening for the sounds of the son from ‘The Monkey’s Paw’ returning home – to
my
home, for some reason – or for the wax figure of Dr Bourdette from ‘The Waxwork’ to step through the wall of my bedroom and slit my throat.

Meanwhile, there was the sense of a more forbidding adult world of horror that ranged from the real to the unreal to the undefined, and all of it might have been real to me.

I pored over the faces of the Manson family on the paperback of
Helter Skelter
, trying to work out how such ordinary-looking people turned into monsters, all the while too afraid to read even a word of the text. My grandparents had a big coffee table book – I think it was
Life Goes to the Movies
– and among other photos was a still from
Goldfinger
of Shirley Eaton covered in the gold paint. “She died of skin suffocation” the book informed me, and I mixed up movies and reality and believed someone had murdered the actress in that manner. I would get out the book and stare at the photograph every time we went back and visited my grandparents. (Much to my surprise, while looking this up to ensure I got the details right, I learned I was not alone in this misconception: there is an entire article on Snopes debunking an apparent urban legend that circulated claiming the actress herself had died in that way due to Eaton’s retirement from acting shortly after.)

I had one family ally in my love of the macabre, and that was my mother. In fact, my mother is partly the reason that the idea of horror being something that wasn’t for women literally never crossed my mind until I was in my late twenties and then only because people told me so. Besides me, my mother was the horror fan of the family, and it was with her that I watched those classics from the 1970s that were shown on network TV in the US –
Harvest Home
,
Burnt Offerings
,
The Omen
.

And then, of course, there was King, and
Salem’s Lot
, which my mother read along with everything else King wrote in the 1970s and 1980s. I was fascinated with and terrified by the cover, the black paperback copy with the child’s face and a single red drop of blood at her mouth. I remember overhearing my mother talking about the book with a friend. “The part where they had to drive the stake through her heart!” she said, but I misheard and thought she’d said something about skates. For years afterwards, I thought there was a scene in
Salem’s Lot
where someone had to skate through a gauntlet of vampires.

My mother was also there, along with one of my best friends, with twelve-year-old me and another seminal horror experience: my first viewing of
Halloween
. And speaking of urban legends and misconceptions about popular media, my friend Lisa and I watched this one with rising hysteria because a boy at school had told us that near the end of the movie, Michael Myers cuts Laurie’s arms and legs off and throws her down into the basement; she then has to crawl up the stairs on stumps and dial the police with her face. As the film hurtled toward its climax, we clutched each other and watched through our fingers, shrieking “Is this the part where he cuts off her arms and legs?”

What a relief it was that the boy had lied, because we adored Laurie Strode. With not an ounce of feminist theory in our heads, we instinctively knew that she was something different from the victims in other slasher movies. For us, she was a genuine heroine and a real survivor. For months afterwards, we talked about Laurie like she was someone we knew, our friend, because she was the kind of girl we wanted to be friends with.

By then I was reading grown-up horror, the novels on which those 1970s movies were based and, of course, King, as well as devouring a series of doubtless low-quality but unputdownable horror novels for kids branded as the Twilight series (not remotely anything like the present-day one).

Within a few years, my tastes would be refined as I would encounter the likes of Ramsey Campbell and Robert Aickman, Shirley Jackson and Lisa Tuttle, Melanie Tem and Steve Rasnic Tem and so many others for the first time, but I had seized the raw material and clutched it close to me without even any conscious thought.

Horror spoke to me in a way no other genre did. Writing horror always came as naturally as reading it; stories just wanted to be horror stories, sometimes subtly, sometimes less so.

One of the things I love about knowing so many other horror writers and readers is what a similar trajectory so many of us have. I’ve been delighted to see in recent discussions on social media, for example, how many of us in those pre-internet days used
Danse Macabre
as a primer to the written work in the field. I have this mental image of us weird horror kids in different places and different countries all making our way along similar scary routes to the same spooky places.

It’s that frisson, the genuine love of the genre, that I think is overlooked and misunderstood by people who aren’t horror fans. Science fiction fans, of which I am also one, talk about a sense of wonder, but my earliest sense of wonder grew out of horror, and certain types of horror still leave me as much awestruck as frightened. It is as though horror wakes something atavistic within us, takes us back to a primal place where terror and wonder are inseparable, and leaves us there in the dark – where we embrace it.

lyndaerucker.wordpress.com

TIM WAGGONER

ILLUSTRATED BY VINCENT SAMMY

I approach the Dumpster, a full bag of trash hanging from my left hand. The Dumpster’s concealed behind a high wooden fence, with an opening for residents to step through. A sign on the fence warns, in squiggly hand-lettered words, that there’s
no dumpster diving!
. Classy.

The Dumpster’s plastic lid is down, but the metal side door is partway open, revealing lumps of white plastic bags identical to the one I’m carrying. But nestled between the mounds is a shock of what looks like brown hair, and the first thought that comes to me is,
That’s a head.

It can’t be, of course, but that’s exactly what it looks like. Like someone crawled into the Dumpster, lay down, and stayed there while people continued tossing trash bags on top of him. Or her. Maybe it’s some kind of bizarre prank, the sort of thing a teenage kid would do.

I’m tempted to turn around and leave. There’s another Dumpster in the complex, farther from my place. It’s not too cold to walk, and I could use the exercise. But I step closer to the Dumpster to get a better look at the head. Only the crown is visible. No facial features, no neck, no shoulders. Even when people try to remain motionless, even when they’re asleep or unconscious, there’s still a sense of life to them. But I don’t feel that now. If it
is
a head, it’s not a living one.

The thought sparks a surge of fear, but I clamp down on it before it can grow. I examine the head more closely. It can’t be part of a dead body, can it? What sort of murderer would be stupid enough to dispose of a victim like this? I inhale, but I don’t smell rot. I smell trash stink, of course, but nothing that smells like a dead body.

The Dumpster is set on a concrete square, and bits of detritus surround it. A plastic spoon, a splintered chicken bone, a stained paper plate that’s folded in half. I set my trash bag on the concrete and bend down to pick up the spoon. My back complains and my knees pop. I spent five hours yesterday putting in new kitchen and bathroom tiles for my dental hygienist. I’m retired, but I still do the occasional handyman job, mostly just to keep busy. My body isn’t always happy about what I put it through, though.

I don’t like touching the spoon. Christ only knows what kind of germs are crawling all over it. I straighten, ignoring more protests from my back and knees, and I step even closer to the Dumpster. I stretch out my hand and touch the spoon to the head. Gently at first, then applying more pressure. The head’s hard, and it doesn’t give. I bend down, moving my face closer to the head, breathing shallowly to reduce the Dumpster’s stink. I use the spoon to brush away a few strands of hair, and I see rows of tiny evenly spaced holes in the pale pink. The hair protrudes from these holes, is affixed to them, and I know that this isn’t a real head.

A half-smile forms on my face, and if I were the kind of man to laugh at myself, I might do so now.

There’s room for me to fit my trash into the Dumpster, and I pick up the bag and shove it in, one more plastic white stone to pile on top of the faux head. I turn to go, but I hesitate. I’m not sure why. Curiosity, I suppose. There’s some newspaper in the Dumpster, wrinkled loose pages. Seems clean enough. I pull it out, tearing it a bit, but I get enough for what I need. I then take hold of the head, feel its straw-like hair against my palms, and I pull it free from its prison. I only glance at the face, just enough to confirm that it does indeed have one, and then I wrap it in the newspaper, truck in beneath my arm, and start back to my apartment.

I have nothing waiting for me there. I don’t have any jobs lined up for today, and there are no chores to be done. All that waits for me is the TV and whatever I can find on it to make the time pass a little less monotonously. But I suppose now I do have something to do when I get back. I can examine my find. I glance back at the fence enclosing the Dumpster, once more see the sign.
no dumpster diving!

Fuck you,
I think.
I already did.

•••

I live on the ground floor of a two story building. There are four apartments, two on each floor. As I stand in front of my door, my across-the-hall neighbor’s door opens. I tell myself it’s a coincidence. I made no noise coming in. Hell, I haven’t even reached into my pocket for my keys yet. There’s no way she could’ve known I was out here. Unless she heard me leave to take the trash out and stood at her door, eye to the peephole the whole time, waiting for me to return. It’s possible, I decide. She
has
shown an uncanny ability to leave her apartment at precisely the same time I’m in the hallway or on my patio.

“Hey, Pete! How are you doing?”

I’d like nothing more than to pretend I didn’t hear her, unlock my door, step inside, and close and lock the door before she can say another word. But that’s not how neighbors are supposed to treat each other. So, repressing a sigh, I turn and give her a thin smile. Pleasant, but not encouraging.

“I’m okay, Renee. How are things with you?”

I don’t care much. It’s just a thing to say.

“I can’t complain. Wouldn’t do any good if I did, right?”

She’s around my age, mid-sixties, thin. She’s wearing a short black dress with a dark blue suit jacket over it. Her bare legs are trim and toned. The woman takes care of herself, I’ve got to give her that. She looks like she’s dressed for work, but it’s the middle of the day. She told me several weeks ago that she was let go from her job at the mortgage company where she’d worked for years. Maybe she’s on her way to an interview. Maybe she’s in denial. Maybe she just likes dressing nice. A flannel shirt, jeans, and sneakers is my idea of nice these days.

I don’t like looking above Renee’s neck, though. Not because I’m shy or intimidated by eye contact. I don’t like looking at her face for a simple reason: she doesn’t have one – which only makes sense since she doesn’t have a head. Her neck terminates in an opening with a smooth, even rim, as if she’s an animated mannequin. Well, most of one.

I’m not frightened or disturbed by Renee’s headlessness. Unsettled might be the best way to put it. Like when you’re talking to someone who has an obvious physical defect on their face. Severe acne, crooked or missing teeth, a glass eye… Unpleasant, maybe, but hardly terrifying.

I’m about to say it was nice to see her but I have to go. But as if sensing my intent, she hurries on before I can speak.

“How’s Kristie?”

Her voice issues from the empty space where her mouth should be. I have no idea how she can form words without a mouth.

Kristie’s my only child. At first, I have no idea why Renee is asking about her, but then I remember. Kristie recently had her uterus removed because it was riddled with fibroid tumors. I’d forgotten I’d mentioned this to Renee.

“She’s doing well. Recovering. Takes a while, you know.”

I assume what I say is true, but I don’t know for certain. I haven’t spoken with Kristie since the day after her operation, and that was almost three weeks ago.

“I hear you,” Renee says. I can imagine her nodding, as if she knows exactly what I’m talking about. Once again, I get ready to make my excuse and get out of here, but once again, she out-maneuvers me.

“What’s that?”

This time, I know exactly what she’s talking about, and my arm tightens around the head, making the newspaper wrapping crinkle softly. And yes, I’m well aware that I’ve got a fake head tucked under my arm while I’m talking to an apparently headless woman. Life’s full of odd coincidences, isn’t it?

“It’s nothing. Just some old piece of junk.” And then to distract her, I add, “Like me.”

She swats me on the arm.

“Don’t talk like that! You’re still an attractive man.”

I should be irritated by such a clumsy compliment, but I’m not. She
does
have a great body for a woman her age, and it
has
been a while since I’ve been with anyone. Sure, she doesn’t have a head, but she’s got everything else, and I’m sure it all works just fine. But I don’t want the complications a relationship – even a casual one with a headless woman – would bring.

“I’ve got to go,” I finally manage to slip in. “Exercise time.”

Aside from taking the occasional walk, and whatever physical effort I put in during my fix-it jobs, I don’t exercise. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“Oh, sure. I have to get going anyway.”

She pauses, as if to give me a chance to ask her where, but I don’t.

“See you later,” I say, and turn back to my door. I quickly take my keys from my pocket and start to unlock it.

“Want to get together for a drink later on?” She says this fast, the words running together so they blend one into the other. She’s nervous. I can hear it in her voice.

A drink? What’s she going to do, pour the goddamned thing into her neck?

“Sure,” I say, only because it’s easier. I still don’t turn around, but when she speaks again, her tone is lighter, ebullient.

“Great! How about I come over at eight?”

“Sounds good. See you then.”

I open my door and slip inside my apartment. I know I should look back and give her a smile, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I close the door and turn the deadbolt slowly. I don’t want it to seem like I’m locking the door to keep her out, although that’s exactly what I’m doing.

I stand there and listen for several moments. I resist looking through the peephole. I have the feeling that she might be on the other side of the fishbowl lens looking back at me, but how could I tell? After a bit, I hear her walk away, followed by the sound of the outer door opening. She’s finally gone.

I start to take the head into the kitchen, but I change my mind and take it into the living room instead. I remove the newspaper which by this point is barely staying on. I drop my improvised wrapping paper to the floor, then I set the head onto the coffee table, face toward the couch. I turn my back on the head, not yet ready to examine it. I head to the front closet, remove and hang up my coat, and then I return to the couch. I sit in front of the head and lean forward, elbows on my knees, hands crossed at the wrists.

It’s a woman’s face, or rather a replica of one, just as I thought. The neck flares out slightly toward the bottom in order to form a stable base for it to rest on. Its features are delicate or maybe exaggerated. The face long or maybe round. It’s hard to tell since the curtains are closed and I don’t have the lights on. There’s make-up painted on the plastic, some eye shadow, eye liner, rouge, lipstick. It looks understated and subtle at first, but the longer I stare at it, the more overdone and garish it seems. Getting old. Need to have my eyes checked.

She looks familiar, this new acquaintance of mine. But I can’t put my finger on who she reminds me of. I don’t think it’s Renee. I’m pretty sure she’s blonde, or was. And this is a younger woman’s face. I think. The more I look at the face, the less certain I am of what I see. Sometimes she looks barely out of her teens, sometimes several decades older. My daughter? She almost never wears makeup of any sort. At least, she never used to. I haven’t seen her for…actually, I’m not sure how long it’s been. I missed some Christmases over the last few years, and that’s about the only time we get together. My wife, maybe? Anna died six years ago. Pancreatic cancer. I suppose her loss should’ve hit me hard. That’s the way a husband is supposed to feel when his wife dies. But by that point we were two people who shared the same living space and not much else. I sold our house – despite Kristie’s disapproval – and moved here. Less to take care of, and the neighbors keep to themselves and leave me alone. Or they did, until Renee moved in across the hall.

Now that I think of it, the face
does
resemble Renee, or at least what I imagine she might look like. The plastic looks more pliable now, and I feel warmth coming from it. Or imagine I do. I really want to touch it. Instead I get up, retrieve the newspaper, and wrap the head up again. Then I carry it to the bathroom and put it in the cupboard under the sink.

•••

I do my best to put the head out of my mind, and for the next couple hours, I tidy up the place.
Not
because Renee is coming over, I tell myself. I run the sweeper, dust, clean the bathroom – but I don’t open the cupboard door to look at the head – and clean the kitchen. I even make the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles so the covers are neat. Not for any special reason. When I clean, I like to be thorough, that’s all.