| General Fiction posted May 19, 2015 | Chapters: |
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Horror story in 2130 words
A chapter in the book Short
Experiences
by Bill Schott
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
Revulsion, shock, and disgust were the first impressions that I had, when it came to writing horror stories. It was a month ago, though it seemed longer, that the need of a horror story became apparent. There was a contest, a promise of money, and a necessity to bend a story in the attitude of the macabre.
The contests were controversial though. They were cloaked in secrecy and peopled by a mutual admiration society, who typically selected a winner from known associates. Who could blame them, really? It wasn't like they were awarding Bongo Bucks; the prize was a C-note.
I hadn't known how to begin then. Now it seems simple. Writing a horror story is easy.
My journalism professor had told me, "Good writers have to experience more of life."
Taking that advice to heart, I endeavored to be involved in the world.
On a Monday, last month, I met a girl named Mona. She was a Taurus, a freshman at MSU, and lived near the campus with a friend. By Tuesday I had been invited back to the apartment that Mona shared with another girl, Amelia. The three of us hit it off and it wasn't long, Thursday actually, until I was into some serious action with Mona. If Amelia was out, el Hombre was in.
Things were hot and heavy for a good forty-eight hours. By the weekend, however, my wandering eye went to Amelia. She and I spent the weekend testing the springs on her VW bus.
The following Monday, I drove the bus back to the campus and invited Mona out to see it.
The Volkswagen looked like it had been painted with a combination of paint roller and cat. The reddish coating was smeared all over the outside of the vehicle.
Opening the doors, Mona stared in disbelief at the disemboweled corpse, spread in an X stance in the center of the van. Amelia's vacant eyes seemed to stare out through her blood-soaked hair, that stretched across her face. Hands, nailed to the roof, held her lifeless body erect. The entire front of her torso from collar to trunk was absent of flesh and organs. Her skin had been ripped off her legs as well. Nails also held her feet to the bus floor.
Writing a horror story is easy. Just make sure to change the names to protect the innocent.
The tap on Mona's head was pretty significant, but no matter. That bloody wound wouldn't bother her much longer. I loaded Mona into the van and went to work. Before long I had created a masterpiece.
The following Monday, I drove the VW back onto campus and parked it in the lot outside Spartan Stadium.
When the Volkswagen bus was found by the security officer early Tuesday morning, the newspapers noted that "a grisly sight was discovered inside."
The traumatized guard would later describe how he seemed to be seeing two bodies, sewn together and hanging in the center of the van. One body, a dark-skinned female, with the head attached, had a lighter skinned chest and abdomen stitched to the front. Caucasian skin had been stretched across the legs and held on with baling wire. At the foot of the abomination was a twelve-inch square canvas frame with the word AMONIA drawn on it in blood.
Writing a horror story is easy. All a writer needs is enough real-world experience to lend authenticity to whatever skeletal story line he chooses to follow. If I were to tell a story of farm life, a visit for the weekend to a rural setting would provide a world of ambience.
Three weeks ago I visited a working farm just about three miles south of town. It was the McWendy Farm. I know; I laughed too. Sounds made up. I took a walk among the livestock as I felt it would be conducive to pastoral enhancement. I took part in snipping the testicles off a hog, chopping a few chicken and rabbit heads off, and even milked a cow. All of these chores would provide rich background for a barnyard-based scenario. Did I mention the cow would get a metal shaft jammed into its brain? It's all good.
These tasks took most of the day. Imagine how much easier it would have all been if farmer McWendy could have assisted. That was an oversight of mine. It was really almost at the same second I was pushing the pitch fork through his chest that I realized he could have been a great help in the animal adventures. I'm not at all certain that Mrs. Farmer McWendy would have been much more help. Certainly not with that cleaver in her head.
Glenda McWendy looked up from her kneeling position in front of the lower egg-laying tier to see an opaque figure blocking the early-morning sun. Frightened, she looked to the wall where an antique cleaver, hefty and rusty with age, hung on an even rustier nail. Her hand was not the first to grab it, but its use was now destined to include her hand, which gave way to the first blow to her head. The cleaver was heavy, but its dull state made a second and third chop necessary. The flat, weighty blade was then firmly wedged in the woman's skull.
Would a retelling of the Orwellian classic Animal Farm be better written as a graphic horror story? It could open with a sledgehammer to the skull. Evisceration would follow, as all the skin, meat, organs and bone were systematically removed for all of their various commercial uses. That would be the end of Farmer Jones. He would not be making a second appearance. The gore would, naturally, ramp up from there. To paraphrase the original story: All barnyard horror stories are created equal. But some are more equal than others.
The long and short of it is, if I should choose to write that revision of that allegorical masterpiece, the background work is complete. I have actually managed to preserve the McWendy couple in what had to be three winters worth of mason jars. It took working day and night for three days to get it done. The worst was keeping those gosh darn cats away. One made off with Mrs. Farmer McWendy's left eye. The one that was left, or right, looks dumb now, staring out alone from the brain jar. Cats!
I left the farm animals where they fell. That's nature, right? The foxes came in the first night, then the possums and skunks. The crows will be the size of turkeys when they finish with the cows, pigs, chickens, ducks, rabbits, family dog, and that highly motivated UPS guy. He is in a shallow grave, but he could get himself untied before he suffocates. He IS only a foot down. I'm sure they'll get around to digging him up sooner or later. I drove his truck way back out into the woods.
The traumatized veterinarian would later describe how he seemed to be seeing a canning jar cabinet for cannibals. All of the McWendy animals had also been killed in horrific fashion. The family dog, a collie, had been skinned, and its hide hung from a shovel handle. The shovel was protruding from what looked like recently upturned earth. A UPS package lay near the scene.
Writing a horror story is easy. With only a couple of weeks to go, however, I needed to expose myself to more inspirational influences.
I recall reading The Paper Lion in college and how George Plimpton experienced being a Detroit Lion for a season in order to write what it was like. Other magazines had told of actors who had put themselves through hazardous and painful ordeals in order to strengthen their ability to channel these tortures through to the characters they would play. It seemed even more fitting, that in order to win a horror story contest, I would have to draw on experiences that placed me in painful and deadly peril. So, I made a list.
The WAYS-IN-WHICH-I-MOST-FEARED-DYING list contained a few of the deadly finales I wouldn't want to experience. Number one--fire. I would never want to burn to death. I saw a monk immolate himself once, on television, but I'm certain his apparent composure was due to years of discipline or powerful narcotics.
Number two would be being eaten alive. I've seen bugs and rodents eaten alive. The occasional African clip of some gazelle with a charley horse that gets a butt load of cheetah claws and a 'See ya later' from his fair-weather, fleeter o' foot friends might pop up on the Animal Channel once in a while. But aside from Jonah and Pinocchio, two stories I find curiously unbelievable, not any humans.
The third, and actually the last of my, REALLY-TOO-SHORT-TO-BE-CALLED-A-LIST list, was being boiled in oil. Now I know that sounds a little like being burned alive, but when I saw it on the ABC Novel for Television presentation of James Clavell's Shogun, this poor slob was being lowered slowly into a vat. He screamed the scream of the walk-on actor who is finding that the director is insane and is actually lowering him into a vat of boiling oil. He screamed in Chinese though, so, way to stay in character.
What this is all leading to is my 'ah-ha' moment. This moment used to be called a 'Eureka!' moment, or an epiphany. This new, mono-syllabic language of the texting generation, however, has reduced it to a palindrome that can be burped out if necessary.
Last week I went back out to the McWendy farm. The CSI (Can't Solve It) team had vacated and I found that the UPS guy's grave had not been disturbed. The dog's hide was still hanging from the shovel. I dug him up and, sure enough, he had died. The spade blade in the throat wouldn't have benefitted either if he had somehow survived. I resurrected the post mortem parcel purveyor and placed his wormy and malodorous body next to me in the UPS truck that I had retrieved from the woods. I put his shoulder strap on to keep him from folding into a lump in the seat. I drove to the zoo, which is closed at night, of course, and proceeded to drive around the road blocks and gates. The security is obviously there to prevent someone who didn't want to get into the zoo from doing so. Once inside I moved Carl into a position behind the steering wheel. Oh--I found his wallet in his trousers pocket and his driver's license said his name was Carl Doolittle. I know--funny.
I placed a gallon bottle of Crisco oil on Carl's boney lap, just under the belt. From the back I pulled out a five-gallon can of Sunoco premium, which Carl had chipped in to buy when I used his UPS credit card. Aiming the truck for the tiger pit, placing a heavy UPS box on the accelerator, and lighting a makeshift fuse, which was actually a pretty nice blouse that someone had thought to deliver by parcel, which was now stuffed into the gas can, I sent the vehicle barreling into the tiger pit. There was a tremendous explosion.
The traumatized zoological park custodian would later describe how the burned out hull of the huge brown truck had landed in the center of the tiger pit. Once the fiery corpse of the driver had gone out, tigers began tearing at the charred body. Noted animal behaviorists questioned that detail as tigers would not likely do that. In rebuttal, the custodian remarked later that UPS doesn't typically deliver packages in flaming trucks to the center of the zoo at night either. The deceased driver, one Carl Doolittle, is now thought to be a suspect in a recent slaughter of a man and his wife on their farm. Doolittle had been missing since approximately the same time as the incident.
Going to the address on Carl's driver's license, I found that he lived with his mother in a quaint little home on the historic side of town. She was most helpful in telling me how she thought Carl would have felt being burned and eaten. I also mentioned that he was also likely somewhat boiled in oil. Her reaction to my involvement, despite my logical explanation, ended with her going to sleep early. The Big Sleep. Nice little house though. Needs a new carpet.
Writing a horror story is easy. I am now ready to pen a tale that should win a prize of some kind. If it doesn't, I'll simply continue the research, expand my knowledge, and gather the bits and pieces of humanity that will bring the people and places in my stories to life.
Horror Story Writing Contest contest entry
Revulsion, shock, and disgust were the first impressions that I had, when it came to writing horror stories. It was a month ago, though it seemed longer, that the need of a horror story became apparent. There was a contest, a promise of money, and a necessity to bend a story in the attitude of the macabre.
The contests were controversial though. They were cloaked in secrecy and peopled by a mutual admiration society, who typically selected a winner from known associates. Who could blame them, really? It wasn't like they were awarding Bongo Bucks; the prize was a C-note.
I hadn't known how to begin then. Now it seems simple. Writing a horror story is easy.
My journalism professor had told me, "Good writers have to experience more of life."
Taking that advice to heart, I endeavored to be involved in the world.
On a Monday, last month, I met a girl named Mona. She was a Taurus, a freshman at MSU, and lived near the campus with a friend. By Tuesday I had been invited back to the apartment that Mona shared with another girl, Amelia. The three of us hit it off and it wasn't long, Thursday actually, until I was into some serious action with Mona. If Amelia was out, el Hombre was in.
Things were hot and heavy for a good forty-eight hours. By the weekend, however, my wandering eye went to Amelia. She and I spent the weekend testing the springs on her VW bus.
The following Monday, I drove the bus back to the campus and invited Mona out to see it.
The Volkswagen looked like it had been painted with a combination of paint roller and cat. The reddish coating was smeared all over the outside of the vehicle.
Opening the doors, Mona stared in disbelief at the disemboweled corpse, spread in an X stance in the center of the van. Amelia's vacant eyes seemed to stare out through her blood-soaked hair, that stretched across her face. Hands, nailed to the roof, held her lifeless body erect. The entire front of her torso from collar to trunk was absent of flesh and organs. Her skin had been ripped off her legs as well. Nails also held her feet to the bus floor.
Writing a horror story is easy. Just make sure to change the names to protect the innocent.
The tap on Mona's head was pretty significant, but no matter. That bloody wound wouldn't bother her much longer. I loaded Mona into the van and went to work. Before long I had created a masterpiece.
The following Monday, I drove the VW back onto campus and parked it in the lot outside Spartan Stadium.
When the Volkswagen bus was found by the security officer early Tuesday morning, the newspapers noted that "a grisly sight was discovered inside."
The traumatized guard would later describe how he seemed to be seeing two bodies, sewn together and hanging in the center of the van. One body, a dark-skinned female, with the head attached, had a lighter skinned chest and abdomen stitched to the front. Caucasian skin had been stretched across the legs and held on with baling wire. At the foot of the abomination was a twelve-inch square canvas frame with the word AMONIA drawn on it in blood.
Writing a horror story is easy. All a writer needs is enough real-world experience to lend authenticity to whatever skeletal story line he chooses to follow. If I were to tell a story of farm life, a visit for the weekend to a rural setting would provide a world of ambience.
Three weeks ago I visited a working farm just about three miles south of town. It was the McWendy Farm. I know; I laughed too. Sounds made up. I took a walk among the livestock as I felt it would be conducive to pastoral enhancement. I took part in snipping the testicles off a hog, chopping a few chicken and rabbit heads off, and even milked a cow. All of these chores would provide rich background for a barnyard-based scenario. Did I mention the cow would get a metal shaft jammed into its brain? It's all good.
These tasks took most of the day. Imagine how much easier it would have all been if farmer McWendy could have assisted. That was an oversight of mine. It was really almost at the same second I was pushing the pitch fork through his chest that I realized he could have been a great help in the animal adventures. I'm not at all certain that Mrs. Farmer McWendy would have been much more help. Certainly not with that cleaver in her head.
Glenda McWendy looked up from her kneeling position in front of the lower egg-laying tier to see an opaque figure blocking the early-morning sun. Frightened, she looked to the wall where an antique cleaver, hefty and rusty with age, hung on an even rustier nail. Her hand was not the first to grab it, but its use was now destined to include her hand, which gave way to the first blow to her head. The cleaver was heavy, but its dull state made a second and third chop necessary. The flat, weighty blade was then firmly wedged in the woman's skull.
Would a retelling of the Orwellian classic Animal Farm be better written as a graphic horror story? It could open with a sledgehammer to the skull. Evisceration would follow, as all the skin, meat, organs and bone were systematically removed for all of their various commercial uses. That would be the end of Farmer Jones. He would not be making a second appearance. The gore would, naturally, ramp up from there. To paraphrase the original story: All barnyard horror stories are created equal. But some are more equal than others.
The long and short of it is, if I should choose to write that revision of that allegorical masterpiece, the background work is complete. I have actually managed to preserve the McWendy couple in what had to be three winters worth of mason jars. It took working day and night for three days to get it done. The worst was keeping those gosh darn cats away. One made off with Mrs. Farmer McWendy's left eye. The one that was left, or right, looks dumb now, staring out alone from the brain jar. Cats!
I left the farm animals where they fell. That's nature, right? The foxes came in the first night, then the possums and skunks. The crows will be the size of turkeys when they finish with the cows, pigs, chickens, ducks, rabbits, family dog, and that highly motivated UPS guy. He is in a shallow grave, but he could get himself untied before he suffocates. He IS only a foot down. I'm sure they'll get around to digging him up sooner or later. I drove his truck way back out into the woods.
The traumatized veterinarian would later describe how he seemed to be seeing a canning jar cabinet for cannibals. All of the McWendy animals had also been killed in horrific fashion. The family dog, a collie, had been skinned, and its hide hung from a shovel handle. The shovel was protruding from what looked like recently upturned earth. A UPS package lay near the scene.
Writing a horror story is easy. With only a couple of weeks to go, however, I needed to expose myself to more inspirational influences.
I recall reading The Paper Lion in college and how George Plimpton experienced being a Detroit Lion for a season in order to write what it was like. Other magazines had told of actors who had put themselves through hazardous and painful ordeals in order to strengthen their ability to channel these tortures through to the characters they would play. It seemed even more fitting, that in order to win a horror story contest, I would have to draw on experiences that placed me in painful and deadly peril. So, I made a list.
The WAYS-IN-WHICH-I-MOST-FEARED-DYING list contained a few of the deadly finales I wouldn't want to experience. Number one--fire. I would never want to burn to death. I saw a monk immolate himself once, on television, but I'm certain his apparent composure was due to years of discipline or powerful narcotics.
Number two would be being eaten alive. I've seen bugs and rodents eaten alive. The occasional African clip of some gazelle with a charley horse that gets a butt load of cheetah claws and a 'See ya later' from his fair-weather, fleeter o' foot friends might pop up on the Animal Channel once in a while. But aside from Jonah and Pinocchio, two stories I find curiously unbelievable, not any humans.
The third, and actually the last of my, REALLY-TOO-SHORT-TO-BE-CALLED-A-LIST list, was being boiled in oil. Now I know that sounds a little like being burned alive, but when I saw it on the ABC Novel for Television presentation of James Clavell's Shogun, this poor slob was being lowered slowly into a vat. He screamed the scream of the walk-on actor who is finding that the director is insane and is actually lowering him into a vat of boiling oil. He screamed in Chinese though, so, way to stay in character.
What this is all leading to is my 'ah-ha' moment. This moment used to be called a 'Eureka!' moment, or an epiphany. This new, mono-syllabic language of the texting generation, however, has reduced it to a palindrome that can be burped out if necessary.
Last week I went back out to the McWendy farm. The CSI (Can't Solve It) team had vacated and I found that the UPS guy's grave had not been disturbed. The dog's hide was still hanging from the shovel. I dug him up and, sure enough, he had died. The spade blade in the throat wouldn't have benefitted either if he had somehow survived. I resurrected the post mortem parcel purveyor and placed his wormy and malodorous body next to me in the UPS truck that I had retrieved from the woods. I put his shoulder strap on to keep him from folding into a lump in the seat. I drove to the zoo, which is closed at night, of course, and proceeded to drive around the road blocks and gates. The security is obviously there to prevent someone who didn't want to get into the zoo from doing so. Once inside I moved Carl into a position behind the steering wheel. Oh--I found his wallet in his trousers pocket and his driver's license said his name was Carl Doolittle. I know--funny.
I placed a gallon bottle of Crisco oil on Carl's boney lap, just under the belt. From the back I pulled out a five-gallon can of Sunoco premium, which Carl had chipped in to buy when I used his UPS credit card. Aiming the truck for the tiger pit, placing a heavy UPS box on the accelerator, and lighting a makeshift fuse, which was actually a pretty nice blouse that someone had thought to deliver by parcel, which was now stuffed into the gas can, I sent the vehicle barreling into the tiger pit. There was a tremendous explosion.
The traumatized zoological park custodian would later describe how the burned out hull of the huge brown truck had landed in the center of the tiger pit. Once the fiery corpse of the driver had gone out, tigers began tearing at the charred body. Noted animal behaviorists questioned that detail as tigers would not likely do that. In rebuttal, the custodian remarked later that UPS doesn't typically deliver packages in flaming trucks to the center of the zoo at night either. The deceased driver, one Carl Doolittle, is now thought to be a suspect in a recent slaughter of a man and his wife on their farm. Doolittle had been missing since approximately the same time as the incident.
Going to the address on Carl's driver's license, I found that he lived with his mother in a quaint little home on the historic side of town. She was most helpful in telling me how she thought Carl would have felt being burned and eaten. I also mentioned that he was also likely somewhat boiled in oil. Her reaction to my involvement, despite my logical explanation, ended with her going to sleep early. The Big Sleep. Nice little house though. Needs a new carpet.
Writing a horror story is easy. I am now ready to pen a tale that should win a prize of some kind. If it doesn't, I'll simply continue the research, expand my knowledge, and gather the bits and pieces of humanity that will bring the people and places in my stories to life.
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