Horror-Stories and the Devil

After some crazy Truth or Dare at a party last weekend (involving polar-bear jumps into the cold swimming pool) my friends and I decided it was time for a movie. Of course, a movie.

Of course, a horror movie.

Mental sirens. I had decided long ago that horror was just not my genre, and that I preferred sleep to the bone-chilling thrill. But the title gripped me. Devil.

Most horror-stories I've heard of contain one brand or another of satanic possession, but I'd never heard it put quite so bluntly. Devil. Like in the journalism industry, when they get you to click on articles by inserting those magic words "gruesome" or "disturbing," some twisted part of my brain convinced me to stay in the room for what could only be an "uplifting" movie about Satan.

It actually wasn't that bad. Granted, I couldn't sleep that night, but from a story perspective, it was really thought-provoking (if you want the trailer, go here).

It got me thinking: what strategies do directors and writers employ to create that terror in their audience? I mean, everybody at the party knew that Devil was a work of fiction, but that didn't change their reaction. It didn't change my reaction.

Here are a couple of things I've picked up on:

• The main character(s) are always alone when bad things happen. I guess this is a way to instill a feeling of hopelessness in the viewer. There's no one to help. Nobody will hear him scream. It also brings on a sort of paranoia, especially when "aloneness" seems to be following them. Don't stay in one place too long. Everybody will leave. Don't go the short way home, traffic is better. Don't talk on your cell phone or you'll be distracted and go somewhere alone.

• Smart directors will want to keep you on your toes, so they'll mislead you with the music. It will play but nothing bad will happen. This will keep you from hiding under your blankie every time it starts. I've wonder if... oh, my... will he die this time? When's that thing gonna pop out? Maybe...? No, I guess not. *sigh of relief*

• The best horror movies infiltrate your mental "safe-houses." These are places that, after all your years of life, you have come to accept as safe. For example, if the monster manages to break into the Lead's dreams (Nightmare on Elm Street) it will automatically set you on edge. In Devil, the "safe-house" is an elevator. Who actually believes that they're going to be murdered by Satan if they walk into an elevator? I'd be more concerned about dying from the music.

• Above all, too much exposure to the "monster" will kill the fear. This is what ruined the movie "When a Stranger Calls" (go here). It would have been scarier if the bad guy had never been shown full-on and if he had gotten away. Instead, the director filmed plenty of shots with the psycho (perhaps this contributed to the 4.9/10 rating).

I'm curious to see how this will apply to my writing. Obviously, music isn't an option, but some of the other techniques could be very effective.

What techniques have you used to create fear in your audience? If you have a story you would like to share, I would be glad to review it. Send me a link or post in the comments!

Penny Prompt - Something Ugly

Here's another penny-prompt that I did last weekend:

 

 

2) Write about something ugly–war, fear, hate, or cruelty

Johnson swung the barrel of his rifle around in a complete circle, taking in the vast ruined city. ETA of his rescue-chopper was thirty minutes and counting. The air was ghostly quiet.

Might as well do a sweep.

One devastated building blanketed in ivy drew his attention, partially because of the enormous letters painted beneath the ropy vines. He squinted, trying to make out the faded characters.

“ST. MATHESON’S RE----- -OME FOR CHILDREN”

“Refuge home…” he mouthed, intrigued. It looked like it come from an aged fairy-tale. Old brick, faded colors that could’ve been happy – plus, fairy-tales always had orphanages. We drove these kids out. Guilt struck deep beneath his armor as he thought of his own child, only three years old, back home.

He stepped up to a hole in the brick wall and peered in. It was dark and covered in rubble, but he could see light further down the hallway. Probably a battery-powered emergency light. Most public buildings had them.

Despite the fact that nobody was supposed to be there, Johnson couldn’t help but step lightly as he entered the building. It felt haunted, like the ghosts of all his victims had converged on this one spot. A sickening idea struck him: what if there are bodies here? Childrens’ bodies? Now that it occurred to him, it was probably true. Everybody had been taken by surprise when his team swept through, not just the militia. Even the friendlies, even the ones who weren’t supposed to get involved.

On second thought, maybe he ought to go and wait out in the open.

Johnson turned and stepped back into the sunlight. Today wasn’t the day for violence. There would be other opportunities to forage through the tangled, mystical ruins on supply-runs with his team. Natives from the neighboring town would come in and remove the dead. Maybe then they could –

Johnson’s ears perked up. He thought he heard… no, it can't be…

He listened closer.

The sound came again.

“Oh my God!” he shouted, ripping his radio out and pressing the button. “Where are you, Mariel?”

Static. “Captain, are you alright? Are the hostiles back?”    

“The hell they are! I’ve got a survivor on –"

“What are you saying? Calm down! Nobody survived that attack, sir, everyone’s gone – ”

“Don’t talk to me!” He screamed. “I hear it right now! Somebody is crying, I can hear it! Get a medic, now!” He dropped the radio and brought his rifle up to ready position. His own heartbeat was knocking the air out of his lungs. Looks like it’s into the dark, after all.

Muffled static. Finger on trigger.

Muscles tensed, like a prowling cat, Johnson tried to maintain composure. Nobody’s supposed to be alive. Nobody is alive. He proceeded quietly into the darkness, chanting the words over and over in his head.

The sound grew more and more distinct as he advanced through the black hallways. Just a friendly, he began to think, no longer able to accept that he was hallucinating. The crying was too loud, too clear. He kept his eyes forward, ignoring the eerie, peeling wallpaper decorated with flowers and clouds.

There was a shadowy doorway just up ahead. That’s where the sound was coming from, he could tell by the way it echoed. With his lips, he formed the words, “who’s there?” but no sound came out. Fear had caught him by the throat.

SCHHH! “Captain?”

Johnson yelped and pulled the trigger. A deafening bang cut him straight to the bone, and somewhere in front of him, rubble was knocked loose. Johnson disconnected his radio and brought his gun straight back up, panting heavily.

Damn it, damn it, damn it, please, Lord, help me…

There was a moment when he couldn’t hear because his ears were ringing, but then the noise subsided and all that was left was a soft crying. Exactly as before. It hadn’t changed at all. It was a quiet, weak voice, and… somewhat familiar.

Fear turned to terror. Icy terror.

“Oli?” he called out, voice trembling. “My s- oh, God, my son?”

The crying stopped abruptly. Like it had been waiting all along.  

Penny Prompt - Finding Gold

I've never been much a fan of one-line prompts. They always seem too constricting, too boring, too sappy. But today, after a long while just staring at my computer screen with a blank expression, drool running down my chin, I decided to look into them. And, while my opinion of one-line prompts hasn't changed, I've found at least one benefit to using them in my day-to-day writing.

They are absolutely inexhaustible. Yes, indeed, I will never have to wonder. I could write my whole life and never finish with all the ones on the internet.

And that is why I have elected to call them penny-prompts.

 

1) You’re digging in your garden and find a fist-sized nugget of gold

 

I had a smile on my face the whole day. It was time. Finally, it was time.

 

After twenty whole years, I circled around the ruined house and into the backyard, carrying a shovel from the truck. There was the same muddy lump in the corner, only now it was covered in grass and dandelions. Nature had offered its own respects to the shrine of my childhood.

 

I began to dig, without hesitation. Normally, such an occasion would require a moment of silence, but this felt different. This was me. I wasn’t doing this for anyone else. Little Me was still down there, the curious, wild ten-year-old who dressed up like a pirate for school. He needed the new me, the old me. He needed my advice more than anything.

 

The sun grew hotter with each shovel-full of dirt. Finally I struck something hard – like a pirate, looking for treasure. Brushing away a thin layer, a rotting piece of wood came into view, littered with holes and worms.

 

Blood pounded in my temples. Hey, little guy.

 

With the shovel, I worked around the piece of wood until I had carved out an entire box. Then, with a grunt, I lugged it up and out of the hole.

 

Geez, how did I lift this thing?

 

The padlock on my old treasure chest was still there, but it was easy enough to break away from the wood. My breath caught as it fell onto the grass.

 

I am about to go back in time twenty years. Three, two, one…

 

The lid swung open. So did my mouth.  

 

“What in the…”

 

The little pirate inside me had a heart attack. Neither of us had ever seen so much real gold in our lives.