Black Static Horror Magazine #2 Read online

  Readers of horror fiction recognise its slippery nature, its resistance to easy definition. This being the case, then the values and beliefs that underpin the genre are, necessarily, constantly shifting and always open to negotiation. How then can we share a set of cultural values? Maybe the notion of a horror canon, a set of texts generally recognised within the community as embodying what the genre is about, can help in identifying the tenets of an autonomous horror culture. Most fans of the genre would probably have little trouble coming up with a canon of horror works. The core texts would presumably include Dracula, Frankenstein, Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, Poe's Tales of Mystery and Imagination and a selection of works by writers like M.R. James, Algernon Blackwood, Lovecraft and William Hope Hodgson.

  Expanding on this core list isn't difficult, but there's a danger that it becomes predicated not on beliefs and ideas, but on the genre's material signifiers—the supernatural, vampires, zombies, ghosts, werewolves and the rest. Many of us get hung up on these things but they are not essential to horror. Douglas Winter put it succinctly in the introduction to his collection of author interviews, Faces of Fear (1990), when he wrote that the best horror fiction poses the intrinsic question of “whether the reality we perceive is indeed real, or whether it may slip away to reveal even darker landscapes.” Instead of thinking about horror in terms of its creatures, we should consider the genre in terms of what it can be and what it can do. And, to quote Winter again, one of the things that horror can do is expand “our assumptions about where we live to include the dark and frightening regions within ourselves, as well as those hidden beneath the familiar relationships to which we look for support."

  It's difficult to think of a better statement of guiding principles for the genre. If we take the idea of a fiction that shines a light beneath the surface of our everyday lives, which confronts and interrogates the nature of our humdrum daydreams and imaginings to reveal the varying shades of darkness in which our realities are rooted, then we can start to consider an alternative canon. Instead of a culture largely circumscribed by the supernatural and the gross out, we can think in terms of a genre in which these devices are at the service of a questioning, always curious, attitude. It can be stroppy and confrontational, as in Clive Barker's Books of Blood, or work in a more allusive manner, like Daphne Du Maurier's Don't Look Now. It can embrace ordinary domestic fears like the terrors of parenthood beautifully sketched in Nicholas Royle's ‘Hide and Seek’ and Glen Hirshberg's ‘The Two Sams', or it can use the apparatus of horror to illustrate the lunacies of corporate capitalism, as Thomas Ligotti does in My Work is Not Yet Done.

  But these are, after all, writers already known to a significant portion of horror readers. I hesitate to say the ‘majority’ because I suspect that some of these, in particular the last three mentioned, while familiar to most in what I think of as the horror community, do not register at all with the majority of readers of what is marketed as horror fiction. By which I mean readers who unwittingly collude with those publishers whose risk-aversion leads them to market only the kind of horror fiction which accords with a prescriptive definition of the genre. On the other hand, you have publishers like Transworld, whose Corgi imprint marketed Scott Smith's recent novel The Ruins as a thriller, despite its being, as Pete Tennant observed in Black Static #1, “a horror story in the tradition of Hodgson, Blackwood et al.” And a damn fine one at that, but one which will miss out on a significant part of its potential readership because of a lack of bottle on the part of its publisher.

  An alternative horror canon that exemplifies Winter's notion of expanding our assumptions, of digging beneath the familiar, shouldn't be worried about sliding over the border into other territories. The boundary between horror and SF has always been blurred, and has become increasingly so with Crime—check out John Connolly's The Unquiet (2007) and his earlier Charlie Parker novels. There are any number of writers operating on the fringes whose works have been more or less accepted by the horror community. But what about those who inhabit the literary mainstream? I'm thinking of writers like Cormac McCarthy, who in No Country for Old Men (2005) created an antagonist possessed of an implacably deterministic will which cannot be reasoned with. Evil—a word that will suffice for what Chigurh represents—has rarely been so starkly portrayed in mainstream horror. McCarthy has created an even more terrifying vision of pervasive evil in his gothic western, Blood Meridian (1985), in the form of Judge Holden, a character whose desire to dominate the wills of others makes him seem, even to the men under his command, something other than human.

  I propose this alternative canon not to try and get us all to agree on what horror is, but to provoke further discussion and debate, to prompt readers into looking beyond the barriers to see what else is out there, to explore unfamiliar territories where horror might be lurking. I leave you with a tentative list of works that reveal dark and uncomfortable truths about ourselves and the realities in which we live.

  As well as the two Cormac McCarthy novels already mentioned, check out The Road (2006); Richard Flanagan's Gould's Book of Fish (2001) and The Unknown Terrorist (2006); Toni Morrison's Beloved (1987); William Gay's Twilight (2006); James Ellroy's LA Quartet (1987-92) and American Tabloid (1995); J.G. Ballard's Super-Cannes (2000); Don DeLillo's White Noise (1985), Mao II (1991) and The Body Artist (2001); Alice Sebold's The Lovely Bones (2002); Michael Collins’ The Meat Eaters (stories) (1992); Theodore Roszak's Flicker (1991).

  Copyright © 2007 Mike O'Driscoll

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  THE SERPENT & THE HATCHET GANG—F. Brett Cox

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  Brett's fiction, essays and reviews have appeared in numerous publications. With Andy Duncan, he co-edited Crossroads: Tales of the Southern Literary Fantastic (Tor, 2004). A native of North Carolina, Brett is Assistant Professor of English at Norwich University in Northfield, Vermont. He lives in Roxbury, Vermont, with his wife, playwright Jeanne Beckwith. For the history behind ‘The Serpent and the Hatchet Gang’ he is especially indebted to J.P. O'Neill's The Great New England Sea Serpent (Down East Books, 1999) and Eleanor C. Parsons’ Hannah and the Hatchet Gang (Phoenix Publishing, 1975). Although limited liquor sales resumed in 2005, there are still no bars in Rockport, Massachusetts.

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  The serpent in the sea was nothing compared to the serpent in the hearts of men. The serpent in the sea may or may not find you, Esther Lane said, may or may not be there at all. But the corruption in a man's heart, the malicious weakness that disguises itself as passion and autonomy, then drowns itself and all around it in liquor and violence and failure—that is inescapable. Its effects can be lessened, its power can be curbed, but it can never be banished entirely. Put the men in chains and pour their liquor out on the ground, she continued, and they will still find a way to do you harm. The serpent in their hearts will not be defeated. Better to take your chances with the monster offshore.

  Julia Brooks listened attentively. The others, though steadfast in their commitment, were long used to Esther's grand pronouncements and greeted them placidly, nodding in agreement but clearly waiting for the old woman's rhetoric to run its course. But to Julia, the youngest among them, Esther's words flowed like the tide into Sandy Bay, and as they all sat—in three cases, stood—crammed liked netted mackerel into Rachel and Stephen Perkins’ parlor, the temperate July night turned sweltering in such close quarters, she waited eagerly for Esther to continue.

  Instead, there was the sound of an elderly throat clearing, and Julia turned with the rest of them to see Hannah Jumper look up from her knitting. “Don't say that, Esther. The whole point is to pour the liquor out. Ain't that why we're here?"

  Esther looked momentarily annoyed, but quickly composed herself and said, “Of course, Hannah. I do get carried away sometimes. Of course we remain united in our purpose. Don't we, everyone?"

  They all voiced their agreement. Tonight, only the leaders gathered for one last coordinated revie
w of their plan. But come tomorrow, fully sixty of the women of Rockport, Massachusetts, would bring moral and economic sense back to the community. The half-hearted attempts of the town's agents to regulate liquor sales had been a miserable failure, and it was now up to the women who bore the worst of the burden, and the handful of men who understood what was at stake, to deal themselves with this public nuisance. No more men lying about in drunken indolence when the winter storms and summer doldrums kept the fishing boats docked; no more backbreaking grocery bills whose main item was rum. No more bruises to hide, Julia thought. No more knowing the back of your husband's hand better than his heart.

  They had been meeting for weeks, in secret. And while Esther's eloquence kept them inspired, Hannah kept them going. She was not well-spoken, and seventy-five years old in the bargain. But it was she who had called the first meeting, she who had kept record as the conspirators discovered, and chalked with white X's that would not be seen by those not looking for them, every spot in Rockport where liquor would be found. It was Hannah who had invoked their Revolutionary ancestors, the twenty women who had banded together some eighty years back and raided Colonel Foster's supply store in Gloucester after their men marched off to Bunker Hill promising to bring back liberty but leaving their fishing boats idle and their families improvident and shivering. And it was Hannah who convinced them that hatchets were the only sufficient instrument for dispatching, if not the men who defied decency and the law, at least the wretched barrels of rum.

  Mary Hale, at thirty-seven the next youngest after Julia, had objected. “Is there not too great a risk of injury? We don't want anyone to get hurt, do we?"

  "Desperate cases need desperate remedies,” replied Hannah, and continued with her knitting.

  Now, on the eve of their action, the old woman sat calmly, the motion of her needles and yarn so smooth and continuous it scarcely seemed motion at all. Although she sat to the side, against the wall, the room seemed centered around her.

  "But why all this talk of sea serpents?” asked Stephen Perkins, leaning forward from his perch on the edge of the room's only sofa. “Haven't we enough to do without digging up all that nonsense?"

  "I agree,” said Mary Knowlton. Her husband had enjoyed great success transporting stone south to Boston, prosperity that set her apart from the fishermen's wives and daughters who filled the room; some were surprised that she had joined enthusiastically in their conspiracy. But when Mrs Knowlton was Mary Clarkson she had been a schoolteacher, and Julia, one of her students, still remembered the impromptu temperance lectures with which the young teacher would punctuate even a math lesson. “Do we want to be laughed at again? To the rest of the world we might as well have been Indians chasing spirits in the woods, and the nineteenth century might as well never have arrived. What we're doing is too important—"

  "I was scarcely speaking publicly for the Boston papers,” said Esther. “I merely invoked the serpent as a figure to dramatize my point. We're gathered here, after all, because of the depravity of men—"

  "We're gathered here because of rum,” Hannah said without looking up from her work. “Rum is real. So's our hatchets. Let's stick to them."

  "Please, friends,” said Mary Hale, “Hannah, Esther—we're all here for the same reason. Let us not divide ourselves from ourselves.” She stood and brushed straight the skirt of her grey dress. There were some of the younger matrons in town who had left their Puritan ancestors firmly behind. Betsey Andrews, the current schoolteacher, periodically took the steamboat down to Boston to inspect the latest fashions, while Judy MacQuestion was rumored to own at least one hat imported from Paris. Mary was not among their number: the neatness of her clothing was matched only by its plainness. “Mrs Knowlton is right. The task before us is too important. Esther, we all admire your eloquence, and are grateful for it. Who of us could have framed the issues so compellingly? How many will there be on the streets tomorrow because of your persuasion?” Esther smiled and nodded her head every so slightly.

  "And if Esther's silver tongue has put people in the streets, it is Hannah's courage and strength that has put us all in this room. Please don't worry, Hannah. We know what needs to be done, and we shall do it."

  Hannah did not reply. They all knew by now that, in a group at least, Hannah would speak only to prod forward or to object; her silence testified that the disagreement was settled. Mary sat and smoothed her skirts again.

  "Well, then,” said Mr Perkins. “Are we concluded, then?"

  They agreed that, barring unforeseen circumstances, this would be their last meeting; the plan was set and would be implemented tomorrow.

  As they adjourned, James Babson, who had kept silent throughout, offered to escort Julia home. As an agent of the Granite Company, Mr Babson had access to all manner of tools and an income not dependent on the vagaries of the ocean; both made him an invaluable ally. He was also corpulent and ill-kept, and the breath that whistled through two missing teeth was foul. Julia had had to accustom herself to such attentions in the two years since her husband's ship had returned to port with its flag at half staff, and she had no real reason to consider Mr Babson's offer as anything other than honorable.

  Still. “Many's the time, ma'am, when I saw your late husband, God rest him, with his hand so reverently on your arm as you walked home of an evening. I would be honored to assume that duty—even if only momentarily, this evening,” he added hastily.

  Julia instinctively leaned away from him, then steadied herself, sighed, and was about to agree when Hannah stepped in. “Walk home with me, child. I reckon I could use the company."

  Hannah had no more need of company, Julia believed, than did Squam Lighthouse. But she quickly accepted the old woman's offer and left Mr Babson standing in the middle of the parlor, Esther heading casually but directly toward him, already talking.

  The night felt almost chilly after the warmth of the overcrowded parlor, and Julia pulled her shawl close about her shoulders. Inside, Hannah's had filled the room; outside, her great height remained—Julia came barely to the old woman's shoulder—but, free of the press of walls and bodies, Hannah seemed reduced, distant. It was like walking with a scarecrow, Julia thought, although a most strong and determined one.

  As they made their way down High Street, Julia, still full of the meeting and the righteousness of their cause, reiterated much of the evening's discussion. Hannah remained silent, her heavy shoes clopping on the cobblestones. When they reached the Inner Harbor, rather than turning right to continue to their respective homes, Hannah stopped, facing the water. Julia followed the old woman's gaze into the harbor. The fishing boats rested at their moorings, looking like charcoal drawings beneath the dim light of the half moon. They had not been out to sea for over a month. On one of the larger boats, at the outer edge of the harbor, several figures moved around the deck. Julia could not make them out individually, but she heard rough laughter, the shattering of glass, a bellowing voice: “She was mine, damn ya! Who said you could get under her skirts afore me?” More laughter, and the sawing of a fiddle. Although she knew it was impossible at such a distance, she could almost swear she smelled their liquor across the salt and the brine.

  Julia shuddered. “After tomorrow perhaps we'll have less of that."

  Hannah stared out past the boats and the profanity. Julia looked up at her. For a moment, the old woman's face was obliterated by the darkness, and she looked like her bonnet and her dress and nothing else. “They should stay on the boats,” Hannah said. “They should stay on the ocean. They can't harm the ocean."

  "Maybe the serpent will get them,” Julia said, and then instantly remembered Hannah's harsh dismissal of Esther at the meeting. “Oh, I know, Hannah, it's just nonsense, forgive me."

  Hannah said nothing in response. Then she turned sharply away and said, “Long past time we were home, child."

  They proceeded down Mt. Pleasant Street, past Hannah's house. Julia tried to get Hannah to stop and let her make the remaining s
hort walk on her own, but the old woman refused. As they turned down Long Cove Lane, Hannah asked, somewhat to Julia's surprise, if the chamomile she had sent to Julia's Aunt Martha had helped with her digestive difficulties. The women of Rockport paid Hannah to mend their dresses, but far more valuable, and free in the bargain, was the harvest of Hannah's herb garden. Horseradish for a sore throat, catnip to sleep, pennyroyal for a chill, pipsissewa leaves for the heart.

  Julia replied that her aunt was much better and expressed her admiration for Hannah's skills. “I wish I could cultivate herbs as well as you. I tried planting some rosemary last season and it just didn't take."

  "Put rosemary close to the high-water mark. It gets its strength from the sea."

  At Julia's doorstep, Hannah bade the young woman good night. “Rest well, child. You'll need all your wits about you tomorrow.” Julia promised that she would and watched the old woman retrace her path down the street and disappear around the corner.

  Later, with the lamps an hour dark and sleep nowhere close, Julia stood before her open bedroom window. The moon was gone, and the land and the ocean and the horizon were a dark unbroken carpet over the world. But she heard the ocean, and felt it in the breeze that chilled her through her nightclothes, and smelled it. If she opened her mouth, she knew she could taste it.

  There was nothing to see, but much to remember. Two years ago next month.

  She had heard the stories; everyone had. The summer of 1817, fourteen years before her own birth. Hundreds down in Gloucester, most more reliable than not, had seen it. From Ten Pound Island to Western Harbor they had shielded their children and grabbed their telescopes, or set out in their boats. The reports were almost all the same: fifty to one hundred feet long, thick as a barrel, dark on top, lighter on what of its belly could be seen when it raised itself from the water. A head the size of a horse's. Some claimed it was segmented; others noted its vertical undulations. It could turn on a dime and raced away when approached. Several had tried to kill it, of course, even as one newspaper suggested they should be grateful to it for driving herring into the harbor.