Storytellersunplugged

Frank T. Wydra

Even for October, the day is gloomy. Puddles paste soon-to-be-decayed leaves on the soles; clouds shadow even the sunniest dispositions. Inside Al’s Gonquin the atmosphere is no better. Edgar, Bram, Papa, and Mary seem to hunch over the conversation as I arrive. “Cheers,” I say, and get hostile stares and what sounds like a muffled “humbug” back. Only Al delivering my Jack-on-the-rocks seems in good spirit.

“Who died?” I ask, forgetting that all around the table but me are dead.

Edgar gives a “please spare me fools and little children” look.

Mary, seeing the look says, “You’re forgiven.”

Bram says, “It’s October.”

Papa says, “They’re expecting a story.”

Edgar says, “A horror story.”

I say, “So?”

Bram says, “We’re not here to write stories. The Gonquin Table is about discussing serious literary subjects, not making up stories to amuse readers on this dyslexic Halloween.”

“Okay,” I say. “What makes a good horror story?”

Edgar cocks one of his caterpillar eyebrows. “Come now. There are as many descriptions of that as there are writers.”

Mary slaps him on the wrist with her fan. It is the first display of violence I have ever seen from her. Clearly, there is something in the air. She says, “You are being disingenuous. While every writer has a personal style, there are elements of a horror story that unify the genre. For example, suspense—the anticipation, the foreshadowing of evil or a threat–is almost always present.”

Bram says, “As is an element of fear, usually based on some aspect of the unknown.”
Papa says, “I defer to you on the specifics, but horror stories I have liked seem to have a character with whom I can identify, empathize.”

“And place,” says Bram. “The place must set the atmosphere, establish an aura where the unimaginable can plausibly happen.”

“So,” I say, “let’s see what we can do with what we have.” I start,

In recent years, Halloween in Middleton has been a quiet affair, more commercial than scary. The costumes come from Wal-Mart and the treats–wrapped and portioned–from Kroger. Though the cloudy night sky is moonless and an intermittent rain falls, this year seems no different.

“Yes,” says Edgar. “Very good. That word, ‘seems’ anchors the suspense, signals that this night will be different.”

Papa picks up the thread,

Anne, a sweet confection of six with a wholesome face and even disposition, is dressed as Little Red Riding Hood. Her hand is tucked into that of her father, Roger, a sensible man, who would not dream of allowing his princess to roam free on a night such as this without his protection. As she walks to one door then the next, sometimes in the company of pirates, bears, the grim reaper, or Cinderella, he hovers far enough to give her independence, close enough to observe, to protect, if necessary, rescue.

Papa pauses to ponder and Mary continues,

Anne’s classmates have boasted that they will be venturing out without a parent, but she is content to have Daddy by her side. In the short walk between houses, she feels him squeeze her hand, looks up at him, squeezes the finger she is holding in her soft white hand. The character of the neighborhood is changing: lots are bigger; houses are farther from the street, streetlamps end. Anne notices none of this. The rain intensifies. Now she stops, looks up at him. They are coming to the house she has been warned about, the house she always crosses the street to avoid. At first, Roger does not seem to understand. Then he remembers, they are approaching that house.

Mary, cocks her head to one side and bites her lip. She seems to know what will follow, but before she can say it, Bram says,

A group of boys some older, some near Mary’s age, all in costume run from the porch of the forbidden house screaming, laughing, seeming delighted with the booty they have won. In the rain, it seems a house like any of the other dozen they have visited.

“No, no,” Edgar interrupts. “Suspense. Where is the suspense? The sense of foreboding? Fear? Try this…”

As they stand in the penumbra of that house Roger senses that two Halloweens have come and passed, with no evil emanating from its rafters. Is it safe? He feels safe. He has always felt safe, here. Forgotten are the stories of the little girl they’d found in the wood. Nothing proved. Forgotten is the next bloody corpse. Nothing proved. Old records culled from the man’s other life betrayed his past. He was seventeen, she fifteen. Rape they called it. Sexual predator they labeled him. Then, the eight year old. Caught, talking her off the bus. Attempted kidnapping, the charge. No conviction, but enough to dredge the past, enough to start speculation about the found bodies, enough to draw a ring around his house.

“Darker,” Bram says. “Darker.”

“Pieces of the girls were never found.”

“Wait,” Mary says. “Go back to where Anne is squeezing Daddy’s finger and the boys are running from the house.”

Anne looks up sensing Daddy’s reluctance to go on. “Please? One more?” The anguish of deprived youth stamped on her innocent face. Roger smiles. The child is right. Nothing was ever proven, yet the thought police have done their work. He has waved to the man. An ordinary looking man. And he has received a wave back. An ordinary wave. Besides, before the thought police, how many teenage girls had lost their virginity to seventeen year old boys with no politically-correct labeling? For an eerie moment they seem alone on the street. No other bandits or werewolves are in sight. Her bag is almost full. After this house they will go home. Have hot chocolate. “Sure,” he says, smiling at his princess.

“Now,” Bram says. “We need the element of fear, an abrupt act that heightens the tension.”

Roger lurks as she presses the door buzzer. Though the porch light is out, soft rays seep through the door’s side windows. A candled jack-o-lantern warms the stoop. The door opens and the pleasant-looking man he has waved at appears. “Trick or treat.” Anne says, holding out her bag. Face still smiling, the man seems to scan the dark, then, instead of depositing a chocolate, he takes Anne’s wrist in his hand.

“I like that,” Edgar says. “The wrist is the unexpected expected.”

Immediately, she turns, crying “Daddy.” The hood blocks him from seeing the fright on her face, but he knows it is there. Roger is already moving. Angry. Outraged. The man’s other hand rises, and the muzzle flash explodes Roger’s face. Anne screams, but the noise of a six year old, muffled by a blood splattered red hood, is lost in a night like this. The man, still gripping her wrist, drags her through the front door and shuts the lights. Only the man and the flickering, sinister jack-o-lantern are smiling. Halloween is just beginning.

“Disgusting,” Mary says.

“Yes,” Edgar, repressing a grin at what he takes as a compliment, agrees. “Horrible.”

“A nice touch,” Papa says “is that the horror is imagined. Rather than being inked on the page, Anne’s fate is left to the reader’s imagination, which is always more extreme and personal than any writer’s prose.

mail to: frank.writestuff@gmail.com
Saturday, October 13, 2007