Danse Macabre (5 page)

"This guy and his girl go out on a date, you know? And they go parking up on Lover's Lane. So
anyway, while they're driving up there, the radio breaks in with this bulletin. The guy says this
dangerous homicidal maniac named The Hook has just escaped from the Sunnydale Asylum for the
Criminally Insane. They call him The Hook because that's what he's got instead o f a right hand, this
razor-sharp hook, and he used to hang around these lover's lanes, you know, and he'd catch these
people making out and cut their heads off with the hook. He could do that 'cause it was so sharp, you
know, and when they caught him they found like about fifteen or twenty heads in his refrigerator. So
the news guy says to be on the lookout for any guy with a hook instead o f a hand, and to stay away
from any dark, lonely sots where people go to, you know, get it on.

"So the girl says, Let's go home, okay? And the guy—he's this real big guy, you know, with
muscles on his muscles—he says, I'm not scared of that guy, and he's probably miles from here
anyway. So she goes, Come on, Louie, I'm scared, Sunnydale Asylum isn't that far from here. Let's
go back to my house. I'll make popcorn and we can watch TV.

"But the guy won't listen to her and pretty soon they're up on The Outlook, parked at the end o f the
road, makin' out like bandidos. Bart she keeps sayin' she wants to go home because they're the only
car there, you know. That stuff about The Hook scared away everybody else. But he keeps sayin',
Come on, don't be such a chicken, there's nothin' to be afraid of, and if there was I'd protectcha, stuff
like that.

"So they keep makin' out for awhile and then she hears a noise—like a breakin' branch or
something. Like someone is out there in the woods, creepin' up on them. So then she gets real upset,
hysterical, trine and everything. like girls do. She's beggin' the guy to take her home. The guy keeps
sayin' he doesn't hear anything at all, but she looks up in the rearview mirror and thinks she sees
someone all hunkered down at the back o f the car, just peekin' in at them, and grinnin'. She says if
he doesn't take her home she's never gonna go out parkin' with him again and all that happy crappy.
So finally he starts up the car and really peels out cause he's so jacked-off at her. In fact, he just
about cracks them up.

"So anyway, they get home, you know, and the guy goes around to open her door for her, and
when he gets there he just stands there, turnin' as white as a sheet, and his eyes are gettin' so big
you'd think they was gonna fall out on his shoes. She says Louie, what's wrong? And he just faints
dead away, right there on the sidewalk.

"She gets out to see what's wrong, and when she slams the car door she hears this funny clinking
sound and turns around to see what it is. And there, hanging from the doorhandle, is this razor-sharp
hook."

The story of The Hook is a simple, brutal classic of horror. It offers no characterization, no theme, no particular artifice; it does not aspire to symbolic beauty or try to summarize the times, the mind, or the human spirit. To find these things we must go to "literature"—perhaps to Flannery O'Connor's story "A Good Man Is Hard to Find," which is very much like the story of The Hook in its plot and construction. No, the story of The Hook exists for one reason and one reason alone: to scare the shit out of little kids after the sun goes down.

One could jigger the story of The Hook to make him—it—a creature from outer space, and you could attribute this creature's ability to travel across the parsecs to a photon drive or a warp drive; you could make it a creature from an alternate earth a la Clifford D. Simak. But none of these sf conventions would turn the story of The Hook into science fiction. It's a flesh-crawler pure and simple, and in its direct point-to-point progress, its brevity, and its use of story only as a means to get to the effect in the last sentence, it is remarkably similar to John Carpenter's
Halloween
( "It
was
the boogeyman," Jamie Lee Curtis says at the end of that film. "Yes," Donald Pleasance agrees softly.

"As a matter of fact, it was.") or
The Fog
. Both of these movies are extremely frightening, but the story of The Hook was there first.

The point seems to be that horror simply
is
, exclusive of definition or rationalization. In a
Newsweek
cover story titled "Hollywood's Scary Summer" (referring to the summer of 1979—the summer of
Phantasm, Prophecy, Dawn o f the Dead, Nightwing,
and
Alien
) the writer said that, during
Alien's
big, scary scenes, the audience seemed more apt to moan with revulsion than to scream with terror. The truth of this can't be argued; it's bad enough to see a gelatinous crab-thing spread over some fellow's face, but the infamous "chest-burster" scene which follows is a quantum leap in grue . .

. and it happens at the dinner table, yet. It's enough to put you off your popcorn. The closest I want to come to definition or rationalization is to suggest that the genre exists on three more or less separate levels, each one a little less fine than the one before it. The finest emotion is terror, that emotion which is called up in the tale of The Hook and also in that hoary old classic, "The Monkey's Paw." We actually
see
nothing outright nasty in either story; in one we have the hook and in the other there is the paw, which, dried and mummified, can surely be no worse than those plastic dogturds on sale at any novelty shop. It's what the mind sees that makes these stories such quintessential tales of terror. It is the unpleasant speculation called to mind when the knocking on the door begins in the latter story and the grief-stricken old woman rushes to answer it. Nothing is there but the wind when she finally throws the door open . . . but what, the mind wonders, might have been there if her husband had been a little slower on the draw with that third wish?

As a kid, I cut my teeth on William B. Gainer's horror comics—
Weird Science, Tales from the Crypt,
Tales from the Vault
—plus all the Gaines imitators (but like a good Elvis record, the Gaines magazines were often imitated, never duplicated). These horror comics of the fifties still sum up for me the epitome of horror, that emotion of fear that underlies terror, an emotion which is slightly less fine, because it is not entirely of the mind. Horror also invites a physical reaction by showing us something which is physically wrong.

One typical E.C. screamer goes like this: The hero's wife and her boyfriend determine to do away with the hero so they can run away together and get married. In almost all the weird comics of the '50s, the women are seen as slightly overripe, enticingly fleshy and sexual, but ultimately evil: castrating, murdering bitches who, like the trapdoor spider, feel an almost instinctual need to follow intercourse with cannibalism. These two heels, who might have stepped whole and breathing from a James M. Cain novel, take the poor slob of a husband for a ride and the boyfriend puts a bullet between his eyes. They wire a cement block to the corpse's leg and toss him over a bridge into the river.

Two or three weeks later, our hero, a living corpse, emerges from the river, rotted and eaten by the fish. He shambles after wifey and her friend . . . and not to invite them back to his place for a few drinks, either, one feels. One piece of dialogue from this story which I've never forgotten is, "I am coming, Marie, but I have to come slowly . . . because little pieces of me keep falling off . . ." In "The Monkey's Paw," the imagination alone is stimulated. The reader does the job on himself. In the horror comics (as well as the horror pulps of the years 1930-1955) , the viscera are also engaged. As we have already pointed out, the old man in "The Monkey's Paw" is able to wish the dreadful apparition away before his frenzied wife can get the door open. In
Tales from the Crypt
, the Thing from Beyond the Grave is still there when the door is thrown wide, big as life and twice as ugly. Terror is the sound of the old man's continuing pulsebeat in "The Tell-Tale Heart"—a quick sound, "like a watch wrapped in cotton." Horror is the amorphous but very physical "thing" in Joseph Payne Brennan's wonderful novella "Slime" as it enfolds itself over the body of a screaming dog.*

*No less a writer than Kate Wilhelm, the acclaimed mainstream and science fiction novelist (author of
Where Late the
Sweet Birds Sang
and
The Clewiston Test
, among others), began her career with a short but gruesomely effective horror novel-a paperback original called
The Clone
, written in collaboration with Ted Thomas. In this story, an amorphous creature made of almost pure protein (more blob than clone,
The Science Fiction Encyclopedia
rightly points out) forms in the sewer system of a major city . . . around a nucleus of halfrotted hamburger, yet. It begins to grow, swallowing hundreds of people into its noxious self as it does. In one memorable scene, a little kid is yanked arm-first into the drain of the kitchen sink.

But there is a third level—that of revulsion. This seems to be where the "chest-burster" from Alien fits. Better, let's take another example from the E.C. file as an example of the Revolting Story—Jack Davis's "Foul Play" from
The Crypt of Terror
will serve nicely, I think. And if you're sitting in your living room right now, putting away some chips and dip or maybe some sliced pepperoni on crackers as you read this, maybe you'd just better put the munchies away for awhile, because this one makes the chest-burster from
Alien
look like a scene from
The Sound of Music
, You'll note that the story lacks any real logic, motivation, or character development, but, as in the tale of The Hook, the story itself is little more than the means to an end, a way of getting to those last three panels.

"Foul Play" is the story of Herbie Satten, pitcher for Bayville's minor league baseball team. Herbie is the apotheosis of the E.C. villain. He's a totally black character, with absolutely no redeeming qualities, the Compleat Monster. He's murderous, conceited, egocentric, willing to go to any lengths to win. He brings out the Mob Man or Mob Woman in each of us; we would gladly see Herbie lynched from the nearest apple tree, and never mind the Civil Liberties Union.

With his team leading by a single run in the top of the ninth, Herbie gets first base by deliberately allowing himself to be hit by an inside pitch. Although he is big and lumbering, he takes off for second on the very next pitch. Covering second in Central City's saintly slugger, Jerry Deegan. Deegan, we are told, is "sure to win the game for the home team in the bottom of the ninth." The evil Herbie Satten slides into second with his spikes up, but saintly Jerry hangs in there and tags Satten out. Jerry is spiked, but his wounds are minor . . . or so they appear. In fact, Herbie has painted his spikes with a deadly, fast-acting poison. In Central City's half of the ninth, Jerry comes to the plate with two out and a man in scoring position. It looks pretty good for the home team guys; unfortunately, Jerry drops dead at home plate even as the umpire calls strike three. Exit the malefic Herbie Satten, smirking.

The Central City team doctor discovers that Jerry has been poisoned. One of the Central City players says grimly: "This is a job for the police!" Another responds ominously, "No! Wait! Let's take care of him ourselves . . . our way."

The team sends Herbie a letter, inviting him to the ballpark one night to be presented with a plaque honoring his achievements in baseball. Herbie, apparently as stupid as he is evil, falls for it, and in the next scene we see the Central City nine on the field. The team doctor is tricked out in umpire's regalia. He is whisking off home plate . . . which happens to be a human heart. The base paths are intestines. The bases are chunks of the unfortunate Herbie Satten's body. In the penultimate panel we see that the batter is standing in the box and that instead of a Louisville Slugger he is swinging one of Herbie's severed legs. The pitcher is holding a grotesquely mangled human head and preparing to throw it. The head, from which one eyeball dangles on its stalk, looks as though it's already been hit over the fence for a couple of home runs, although as Davis has drawn it ( "Jolly Jack Davis," as the fans of the day called him; he now sometimes does covers for
TV Guide
), one would not expect it to carry so far. It is, in the parlance of baseball players, "a dead ball." The Old Witch followed this helping of mayhem with her own conclusions, beginning with the immortal E. C. Chuckle: "Heh, heh! So that's my yelp-yarn for this issue, kiddies. Herbie, the pitcher, went to pieces that night and was taken out . . . of existence, that is . . . " As you can see, both "The Monkey's Paw" and "Foul Play" are horror stories, but their mode of attack and their ultimate effect are light-years apart. You may also have an idea of why the comic publishers of America cleaned their own house in the early fifties . . . before the U.S. Senate decided to do it for them.

So: terror on top, horror below it, and lowest of all, the gag reflex of revulsion. My own philosophy as a sometime writer of horror fiction is to recognize these distinctions because they are sometimes useful, but to avoid any preference for one over the other on the grounds that one effect is somehow better than another. The problem with definitions is that they have a way of turning into critical tools-and this sort of criticism, which I would call criticism-by-rote, seems to me needlessly restricting and even dangerous. I recognize terror as the finest emotion (used to almost quintessential effect in Robert Wises film
The Haunting
, where, as in "The Monkey's Paw," we are never allowed to see what is behind the door), and so I will try to terrorize the reader. But if I find I cannot terrify him/her, I will try to horrify; and if I find I cannot horrify, I'll go for the gross-out. I'm not proud. When I conceived of the vampire novel which became
'Salem's Lot
, I decided I Ranted to try to use the book partially as a form of literary homage (as Peter Straub has done in
Ghost Story
, working in the tradition of such "classical" ghost story writers as Henry James, M. R. James, and Nathaniel Hawthorne). So my novel bears an intentional similarity to Bram Stoker's
Dracula
, and after awhile it began to seem to me what I was doing was playing an interesting—to me, at least—game of literary racquet-ball:
'Salem's Lot
itself was the ball and
Dracula
was the wall I kept hitting it against, watching to see how and where it would bounce, so I could hit it again. As a matter of fact, it took some pretty interesting bounces, and I ascribe this mostly to the fact that, while my ball existed in the twentieth century, my wall was very much a product of the nineteenth. At the same time, because the vampire story was so much a staple of the E.C. comics I grew up with, I decided that I would also try to bring in that aspect of the horror story. *