Boo!

Shadows of a thousand years rise again unseen,
Voices whisper in the trees, "Tonight is Halloween!"
...Dexter Kozen

I have a confession to make--I'm a horror gal. Since the day I discovered a pile of pulp mags under a bed in my grandparents' house, I've been a shameless devotee of ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night. But I'm most fond of monsters, which is why I love Halloween.

As a kid I always felt a rush of excitement when the Halloween decorations appeared in stores. That's changed a bit, especially now that the skeletons and costumes show up around the Fourth of July. And each year the trick-or-treaters are fewer in number and most Halloween parties for kids are most likely to be called the "Harvest Festival" or "Corn Maze Party." Somehow the adults have claimed the night for themselves and stripped it of any real fun for the kids. But I don't them ruin my fun.

October 31 is All Hallows Eve,the night when the monster hiding under the bed comes out to play. 

A ghoul friend of mine once told me that life's no fun without a good scare. In the spirit of Halloween,  I offer three creepy tales involving a few of my favorite monsters.

Vampire

Perhaps the preeminent creature of the night is the vampire, the ultimate seducer who offers eternal life, with a catch. Like most people, I first encountered vampires in the movies. However, Bela Lugosi's Dracula never did much for me--he looked too much like a waiter. 

"Today's special is pan seared Chilean Bass
in a balsamic reduction..."

But Christopher Lee's hissing count scared the heck out of me. I watched most of Horror of Dracula with my hands partially covering my eyes, afraid to look, but unable to turn away.

But it was only when I read Bram Stoker's Dracula that I felt the cold hand of fear. There was always a sexual component to Dracula, who both attracts and repels. I imagine this passage was pretty strong stuff to Stoker's Victorian readers: 

There was a deliberate voluptuousness that was both thrilling and repulsive. As she arched her neck she actually licked her lips like an animal til I could see in the moonlight the moisture that lapped the white, sharp teeth. Lower and lower went her head. I closed my eyes in a languorous ecstasy and waited.

The vampire offers sex, but it is  debased and bestial, cut off from the human. And I think Stoker touches on the primal fear that animates much of horror--the fear of losing one's humanity. Nowadays vampires have morphed from bloodsucking monsters into someone's prom date! For years I  despaired of seeing a pair of fangs I could relate to, until I found Enter, Night by Michael Rowe.

It's a briskly told tale of ancient, toothy horrors, with an ending that is both heartbreaking and transcendent. If you're hungry for a really good vampire story, this one's for you.

Zombie

Zombie flash mob in London

Zombies are all the rage these days. Did you know there's even a subgenre of literature called zombie lit. Popularity aside, I don't find anything particularly frightening about these plodding creatures. To me they're just one-trick ponies on the lookout for fresh brains. Give me an old-school zombie any day, one created by a Voudou  priestess on a moonlit night.

Which brings me to one of the most frightening short stories I've even read: Pigeons from Hell by Robert E. Parker. The story's set in a deserted plantation haunted by ghostly pigeons, and something else. Stephen Kings calls "Pigeons from Hell" to be "one of the finest horror stories of our century". As usual in matters of horror, King is right.

Ghost

Can they feel, I wonder, those white
silent people we call the dead?
                        ...Oscar Wilde

Ancient and enduring, the  first ghost appeared at some primeval campfire  when one of our ancestors told the first ghost story. More than other monsters, the ghost is a sturdy literary device and pops up in all sorts of fiction, from Shakespeare to Dickens to David Mitchell. But a Halloween ghost always means mischief  and there is no more malicious spirit than The Woman in Black.

Susan Hill's novel is the source for the excellent film of the same name. The narrative's framed as a Christmas Eve ghost story, much as Henry James' The Turn of the Screw. Like James, Hill conjures an atmosphere of escalating dread and isolation. The horror rises to a shattering and unexpected conclusion. 

Psychologists like to theorize why people like me love horror. In his theory of archetypes,  Carl Jung believed that all humans inherited a set of primordial images that are contained in the collective unconscious, and that horror evokes these archetypes. Maybe, but I read ghost stories and watch horror films because I like them. 

So tonight, after the last trick-or-treater has come and gone, I'll pour a glass of blood-red wine and read one of the old tales, one guaranteed to send a shiver down my spine. 

Happy Halloween!

The ghost and the rational woman

When I was little, I had a recurring dream. I was inside a huge, sunlit room that was crowded with furniture. As I threaded my way across the room, long, scaly green arms with clawed hands would reach out from under the furniture to grab at me. I eventually outgrew the dreams. And the monster under the bed, and the one in my closet. Not to mention the one in the basement.

I was now a Rational Woman. Despite this, I am willing to admit that not everything in life can be explained rationally. But since childhood, I haven’t encountered any situations that couldn’t be explained away.

Then last spring I stayed at a hotel where I’ve stayed many times before: a funky older hotel with tons of character and charm.

And ghosts, apparently.

In all the times I had stayed there, I’d seen no evidence of ghosts or felt anything “weird.” The possibility of ghosts never even occurred to me. This last spring, however, another guest casually mentioned that the hotel was haunted. I had a good laugh (at the person’s expense, I might add) and carried on. Then that evening, I repeated the story to someone who is familiar with the hotel and for whom I have a lot of respect.

She told me it was true. She told me that she seen the ghosts, too. And she had been with someone else at the time, someone whom I also respect. They’d both seen the ghosts.

I must have gone a little pale because she assured me that the ghosts were absolutely harmless, even when they appeared at the foot of your bed.

I didn’t sleep much that night. Or the whole time I was at the hotel.

There I was, a grown woman, intelligent, mature, experienced—freaked out at the thought of ghosts in my room. And I never even saw one! I didn’t need to. I actually wanted to change hotels, but I wasn’t about to admit to anyone why, so I stayed. Even after I got home, I still felt creeped out by the whole situation, waking up in the middle of the night and wondering if there was someone—or something—in my room…

The only reason I admit to this now is because I finally got over the irrational fear. I decided to face it in the only way I, as a writer, know how. I wrote a ghost story.

The novel’s almost finished. It started out as modern Gothic, but now, I’m not too sure what it is. It doesn’t matter. Somewhere along the way, after scaring myself silly with some of the scenes, I got over my irrational fear.

I’m going back to the hotel in the fall. I am myself again, a modern woman with a (mostly) logical mind and an appreciation for the rational.

And if I sometimes feel someone watching me when no one’s around…? Well, that can be our little secret… 

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ON HER TRAIL by Marcelle Dubé

Welcome to Romantic Suspense week at NYUS! *Remember: At the end of the week we're giving away a stack of ebooks (possibly a couple of print books too) to one lucky commentator. The more times you comment, the more times you'll go into the 'hat'. See this post. We'll name the winner on the blog next Monday.*

I hope you'll enjoy the following excerpt.

ON HER TRAIL EXCERPT

Blurb:

After five years of covering seedy Eastern European politics, Laura Thorsen returns to Canada only to run afoul of the mob. When they try to kill her over an explosive exposé, she flees to her secluded childhood home in the Yukon. Little does she know that her estranged mother is also being haunted—by the ghosts of her dead husband and a former lover who disappeared thirty-four years ago.

Their nearest neighbor, Mack Hawkins, is drawn into the action when mobsters track Laura down. Despite her protests, he insists on his own brand of personal protection, and desire soon sparks between them. But in this race for time, will Laura be able to evade those who want her dead and mend her relationship with her mother before it's too late?

WARNING: a teeny tiny bit of strong language

Excerpt:

Laura slid out of the driver side door, keeping as low as she could. Before leaving the cover of the truck, she checked again. Mack was still talking to Hicklin. What could they be talking about? The clerk still had his nose in his pocketbook.

Before she could make a run for the Lexus, reason intruded. If Hicklin found his tires suddenly flat, he would be suspicious. She didn’t want Barney Hicklin suspicious.

With a groan, she leaned her head against the cold metal of the truck. She had to get back inside and hide. It was her only chance.

Another peek revealed both men making their way to the cash register. Mack was gesticulating at Hicklin and Laura finally understood that Mack was giving him directions.

She hoped he had the sense to point him the wrong way.

She slithered back into the pickup and sneaked a look. Hicklin was counting his change. Mack was staring straight at her, his expression blank, as if he was waiting for his turn to pay. But his one free hand, out of sight of Hicklin, was gesturing madly at her, waving her away. He wanted her to leave.

Her heart sinking, Laura turned the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life and she glanced nervously at the station. Hicklin was still busy with the clerk, who seemed to be having trouble getting the change right. Mack caught her eye and nodded slowly, once. Without giving doubt a chance to settle in, she put the truck in gear and pulled out of the service station as quietly as she could.

Heart thudding madly, she turned onto the highway and glanced in the rearview mirror. Hicklin was just coming out of the service station. He slipped into his car without giving her a glance.

Then the road curved and she lost sight of him.

“Shit,” she said softly. She didn’t know which way Hicklin turned when leaving the station. He might be speeding away from her, or he might be right on her tail. She stepped on the gas, hoping Mack knew what he was doing.

I hope you enjoyed this excerpt. If you'd like to read more, you can find On Her Trail here. (Marcelle)