Screen to Screams: Bird Box and A Quiet Place

Sometimes just facing down a vampire or a haunted house just isn’t enough to frighten some people. To beat vampires, you just have to wait till morning. And even the most haunted houses have doors that lead into bright sunshine and restaurants that serve chili-cheese fries. Some people aren’t frightened until they are faced with the prospect of no escape, when everything and everyone on earth has become a potential threat. Whether it’s caused by zombies, Lovecraftian monsters, carnivorous spiders, the end of the world has always been great fodder for horror fiction. In these stories, though, the threat is never just the monster but from those who have realized that society has broken down and the rules governing human behavior and decency have changed. Look at Josh Malerman’s Bird Box and Jon Krasinski’s movie A Quiet Place to see examples of what humans become when everything they once known has collapsed. People, these stories say, either become better or devolve into something worse.

In apocalyptic fiction, there are moments at the beginning of the story where the reader/viewer gets acclimated. They begin to learn the specific rules of this universe where the social order that we here have taken for granted is no more. In A Quiet Place, at least in the beginning, there is not the swelling, menacing soundtrack that is part of many horror films. The characters themselves make very little noise, using American Sign Language to communicate when outside. When Lee, the father, is forced to take away a toy that makes noise, it confirms that sounds, any sounds, are deadly. What dwells within this new reality are creatures that can hear well and move fast, meaning any sound that you make, from a whisper to a scream, could be your last. The family, each and every one of them, must constantly focus on surviving, but there are also moments where the family, especially the daughter shouldering the burden of her own guilty conscience, is able to reflect on what they have lost even as they concentrate on living another day.

Bird Box, Josh Malerman’s debut novel, also features a unique creature that has overtaken the world, but how this creature operates also changes how people view their new surroundings (or rather don’t view them, in the case of Bird Box). The story begins with Mallory and her two children Boy and Girl. There’s an early glimpse into their routine where the children wake in complete darkness. The readers also find out the windows are sealed up. Sight has become potentially deadly because all it takes is a look at the creatures that inhabit Malerman’s universe to become insane, potentially harming yourself and others. Like Place’s lack of soundtrack, Malerman describes the closed-off windows and ritual for things requiring leaving the house in a way that adds to the tension and to the claustrophobia. The reader, thanks to a double narrative involving the family’s exodus from the house and a pregnant Mallory discovering and then losing friends within the house, is also shown the dangers of seeing these creatures and what it does to the mind. Malerman easily transitions between these two narratives, one ultimately leading to loss and the subsequent gaining of fortitude and the other leading to the discovery of something akin to home. That is usually the running theme of many apocalyptic stories: the rediscovery of something lost when everyday becomes a battle to survive until the next.

The recent zombie explosion has produced great stories like the Walking Dead series, but readers can also look for monsters that aren’t of the undead variety, as well as a reminder that humans can be just as fearsome as monsters while perhaps realizing they also have the potential to be angels, regardless of the situation.

Have You Read This? Review of Clive Barker's Books of Blood

This is one of the nice covers!

Some readers like their horror subdued, the ice crawling down one’s spine and the wind (or fingertips) on one’s next. There is also horror that goes to shock, to truly horrify, their content more blood-soaked and visceral than any emergency room. If Clive Barker should be known for one thing, it is how he achieved a balance of these two extremes. Barker offers blood and guts by the bucketful but he doesn’t skimp on developing three-dimensional characters and the fantastical worlds they inhabit. No more does he demonstrate this gift than in his first, and biggest, horror collection, The Books of Blood.

Read one story from this collection and you can see that Barker’s style is truly unique, his artful use of words and his descriptive power as distinctive as a fingerprint. Not content with giving readers only whispers in the dark and fluttering candles, Barker has people literally turned inside out and torn to pieces, all while describing these horrific scenes in the most beautiful, florid language; think of him as an artist who paints with viscera or sculpts with flesh (“Jacqueline Ess” is a story that’s a great example of this). In these tales, Barker demonstrates that he not only deserves to be mentioned with 80’s horror heavyweights like King and Koontz but also master storytellers like Matheson and Bradbury. Just in Volumes 1 and 2, Barker shows how well he walks the tightrope between high art and gutbucket horror in the “Midnight Meat Train,” he delves deep into psychological horror in “Dread,” and he details a fantastic ritual that has to be read about to be believed in “In the Hills, In the Cities.”  In Volume 3, if you’re a cinephile who’s wiled away many an afternoon in a darkened theater, read “Son of Celluloid,” part haunted house story, part Barker’s love letter to Hollywood.

The stories in this collection show a horror author’s imagination at its most fevered and fertile, but good luck tracking down all the volumes for your library. Volumes 1-3 are collected in this book, and this book is relatively easy to find. Volumes 4-6, on the other hand, might be tougher to track down. For those looking to go beyond Volumes 1-3, the can get The Inhuman Condition, Volume 4, and Volume 5, In the Flesh. Why get them? Volumes four and five contain gems like “The Body Politic,” about hands across the world seeking to overthrow their tyrannical bodies, and “The Forbidden,” the basis of the Candyman movies.

Even if you, or your library, just get the easier to get Volumes 1-3 Omnibus, neither you nor your fellow horror patrons will be disappointed. Clive Barker may not have the current output of a King or Koontz but his place in the evolution of horror should be respected and he will always be, to many, a fascinating and disturbing discovery.

Fearsome Five: Top Five Families You'd Hate To Spend the Holidays With

"DAD'S HERE TO CARVE SOME TURKEYS!"

The holidays can be a time to sit down together with the family and share some special moments. For some, any time with the family is an ultimate test of endurance. It could be anything from asking how close you are to a full-time job to commenting how you will no doubt die alone. Existential grief notwithstanding, and in letting people who may not always enjoy their family know that it could always get worse, today’s Fearsome Five list features five families you definitely don’t want to spend the holidays with.

5) The Morrow family in Ania Ahlborn’s Brother. A visit to the country sounds like a great place to spend the holidays, but people traveling down to the Morrow’s neck of the woods have a way of disappearing. It’s true that Michael Morrow isn’t necessarily interested in the family business, and might seem friendly enough, but it’s the others like brother Rebel that you have to watch out for.

4) The Radleys in Matt Haig’s The Radleys. Now being vampires shouldn’t automatically disqualify a family from hosting a pleasant holiday meal, but being a creature of the night, and being a member of this family, has its drawbacks. Even if you weren’t the main course, you’d still be privy to a family’s dysfunctional fraying as the bonds that hold them together begin to come apart. And even if you liked watching a family fall apart, there’s still a chance that they’d eat you or perhaps keep you in the basement like canned preserves.

3) The White family from Stephen King’s Carrie. Before Carrie used her telekinesis to wreak havoc on all those that wronged her, she was a girl forced to live with a mother who was both physically and mentally abusive. Imagine trying to avoid Margaret White’s pontifications about religion and her daughter’s “whore pillows” while avoiding Carrie’s telekinetically flung silverware. And there is no anecdote that exists to ease the tension in a room after a table is telekinetically flipped.

2) The Bates family from Robert Bloch’s Psycho. Norman really said all you need to know when he said that “a boy’s best friend is his mother.” Best to not get between that. Besides, they probably wouldn’t have enough for anyone other than the two of them.

1) The Blackwoods from Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived in the Castle.  Sure, there’s Merricat’s and Constance’s distrust of strangers that would make any holiday gathering awkward, but having a meal with them might be the last meal that you’d ever have, particularly if you have a sweet tooth.

What Stan Lee Means to Me

"I'm smiling because I'm in ALL the Marvel movies."

The passing of Stan Lee has left me thinking about his own influence on me as a writer and a human being. It seems odd to even write that last sentence because, while I am a scary librarian, Stan Lee is really anything but scary. In all the publicity photos I’ve ever seen of him, he’s always smiling. I don’t recall every seeing the man scowl, barely even a frown and those may have been frowns of concentration. Stan Lee and horror are as distant from each other as Duluth, Minnesota and Daytona Beach, Florida, both geographically and culturally distant. But Stan’s lessons, from teachers like the Hulk and Spider-Man, are still ones that I remember when reading or watching horror.

One horror movie I never plan on watching, for example, is The Human Centipede, largely because of what a human centipede actually entails, but also what is noted about the characters in that movie, which is nothing. When I read horror, I want to experience the terror, the trauma, through the protagonist’s eyes. If there’s gooseflesh on their arm, I want to have the same happen to me. Horror isn’t about being gross for grossness’ sake, but about actually feeling the uncomfortable feelings channeled through the hero of the story, and Stan Lee knew how to make heroes that were more than just men and women who chose to wear underwear as outerwear and who chose to fly so far above our heads.

Before I discovered horror, many of Stan Lee’s creations were my gateway to learning about the forging of the human spirit. The Hulk was the story of a man afraid to give in to his anger because his anger destroys everything. Sounds a lot like werewolves. Scientist Reed Richards pursues the unknown and risks his entire family, giving them superpowers but forever making placing them apart from the humanity they protect. Dr. Frankenstein, before his monster destroyed everything he loved, was metaphorically flying too close to the sun before Reed was trying it literally. One of my favorites is Peter Parker, who has the proportionate strength and speed of a spider, faces monsters, armies, gods, quipping to hide his nervousness but ultimately proving his greatest strength to be his courage. There are so many examples of protagonists (Danny Torrance, off the top of my head) who must face supernatural odds that seem so colossal, too otherworldly to combat, but they still draw on wells of inner courage that helps them persevere. Horror, like superheroics, isn’t always about people being crushed. Spider-Man learned a great deal after lifting Grand Central Station, just like the Losers Club in It learned they had the weapons to battle Pennywise all along. Both horror and superheroes teach us about being human and that we are capable of going beyond being just another weak, needy, snarling human. If horror tests the weaknesses of the human spirit, Stan Lee’s contribution to superheroes shows us our strengths. So thank you, Stan. You’ve given me a lot.

‘Nuff said.

Twisted Minds featuring Cullen Bunn

Some say that we are in a horror renaissance. People might blame the political climate, the culture, what’s in the air we breathe and the water we drink, but there is no question that there are authors working in horror that are not only pushing the boundaries of what is considered taboo but also the boundaries of their respective mediums. Twisted Minds showcases those who are helping horror evolve, and even mutate, with the times.

Cullen Bunn might not be a name familiar with most people, unless you’re a fan of superhero comics like X-Men and Deadpool, which he writes. He is also making a name for himself by writing a few horror series that range from a coming-of-age tale in early Appalachia to a murder mystery that takes place before recorded history.

Getting my English degree at a Kentucky university introduced me to Appalachian literature. The protagonists in these stories often deal with themes like isolation, loss, and, particularly in young protagonists, the warring impulses between the connection to their home and the desire to escape, if only for a little while. Harrow County, where I first discovered Bunn, has all of these themes and then some. In what the book’s back cover describes as a “Southern gothic fairy tale,” Emmy is not only a girl on the cusp of adulthood, but she is also coming into her supernatural powers, which she uses to help the people she grew up with as well as the supernatural creatures that live there. She eventually becomes the land’s protector, serving both human and haint, as she deals with threats both internal and external. The plot is familiar with those who read Percy Jackson as Emmy strives to balance her roles in the human and haint world. Though she is uncomfortable at times with her power, particularly the reputation that comes with it, she soon grows into that fearsome reputation, for better or worse. A North Carolina native, Bunn captures the essence of the South in his characters and the art by Tyler Crook brings to mind a picture from the Saturday Evening Post brought to life.

Like Emmy coming into her powers, one of the major conflicts in Bunn’s work is the search for identity and one identity being gained at the loss of another. That is particularly true in the case of Adrian Padilla, the likeable, tortured protagonist in Regression. Adrian believes the waking nightmares that terrify him are just nightmares. He learns that’s not the case when, in trying to cure him, a hypnotist puts him under for a past life regression. Not only does he learn more about these bizarre visions, but he learns who he apparently was, and that someone was not a nice person. Worse, something has followed him back, an ancient evil from that past life that wants to reclaim him. If there was any argument for a story being improved by visuals, this can be cited as an example, or it can simply turn your stomach. Artist Danny Luckert draws plenty of insects crawling, wriggling, and eating their way in and out of hapless people who seem none the wiser. It is easy to see, since we literally see, what makes Adrian’s visions so terrifying. Fans of Cronenburg’s The Fly might feel a little nostalgic if not nauseous.

Bunn can easily write about our modern society as well as people from a century ago, but his latest collections have him looking at a time when humanity could not walk the earth due to the Flood. Dark Ark’s big draw to me was its premise: while Noah built an ark to safely transport all of God’s natural creatures through the terrible storm, the sorcerer Shrae is commissioned, definitely not by God, to transport the unnatural creatures: the manticores, the vampires, the naga, the things that stalk humanity in the dark. The story here is how these different groups of monsters interact, since they obviously do not care for one another, and why Shrae, who seems to be a good man with a family, must transport them. Admittedly, Shrae does not seem to be searching for an identity but readers will be watching to discover who Shrae is and how he balances the roles of loving father and powerful sorcerer in the service of evil.

Showing a knack for character development over the long haul sprinkled with generous helpings of action and horror, Cullen Bunn is the gateway writer for library patrons who love superhero comics but might want something scarier.