Creature Feature

In the past month, I went to see a Hitchcock film at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery; watched countless horror movies—including, but not limited to, Killer Klowns from Outerspace, Terror Train and Delicatessen—and begun devouring The Living Dead, a collection of short stories about zombies. A hallmark of this season for me are these late-night thrills, something about the balmy weather drawing me to the macabre more than any other time of year.


Today, my one and only sent me “How to Structure Your Short Story” by UK author Nick Daws. He writes:

“A short story is not just a very short novel but a distinctive literary form in its own right. To write stories that sell, you need to understand short story structure ' in other words, what makes a short story tick…. I believe that, to be successful, a short story requires four essential ingredients: characters, conflict, crisis and change.”

Employing Daws’ strategy, I wanted to pay tribute to the ghouls, mutants and undead that populate my summer nights…

"Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes"

In her dream, Lennie’s back on the old Schwinn, cutting through damp morning air as the dew flies from the tires, wetting her legs. Sometimes she’s wearing a dress—it changes—but her clothes are inconsequential compared to the miracle of being able to bike freely, without protection—an activity taken for granted before The Change. Pulling up to McCrary’s Groceries, she doesn’t even bother locking her bike—that’s how carefree she feels! Even before reality melted away—the familiar yet unrecognizable faces contorted with feral hunger, the fires, the stink of death everywhere—she never left her bike unlocked.


The bells tickle as she walks into the store, basket in hand. It’s half full—fresh peaches! Annie’s homemade ricotta! Filet mignon!—before Lennie realizes that the place is completely empty. She turns around slowly—no customers, no managers, no one at the cash register.

“Hello?” she shouts.

Something’s wrong, she thinks, shifting the basket into her left hand and raising her right to her mouth, to bite her nails. A rank smell wafts up and Lennie suddenly drops the basket. All that fresh food! It’s gone bad, covered in maggots and smelling of rot. As she stares down at her ruined goods, there’s a thud behind her, something hitting the front window of McCrary’s. Her heart in her throat, Lennie begins walking toward the sound, and this is when the dream slows down to a snail’s pace. She tries to walk faster and quieter—or turn away and run—but she can’t speed up, and instead keeps knocking cans off the shelves, drawing attention to herself. The front window is almost in view and every fiber of her being is telling her to run but some silly voice is pushing her to see what the sound is, and, besides, reminding her she forgot to lock her bike.


What feels like hours later, the front window finally comes into view and Lennie feels silly for being so scared: it’s just Milo McCrary, the McCrary’s youngest son! Six years old with a bowl cut and huge blue eyes, he’s throwing a ball against the front window. Happy to see someone else, Lennie smiles and pushes open the front door, calling to him, “Hey Milo! You scared me half to death, I thought—” Milo turns, the left side of his face isn’t right. Her vision focuses and the world stops making sense again. A chunk of his chubby cheek is missing and she can see all his teeth, those little baby teeth. He’s caked in dirt and blood and his tiny fist is gripping the ball, which he throws at her smiling—or what looks like smiling, it’s hard to tell with his face like that. She catches it but it’s too malleable, too sticky. Lennie uncurls her fingers to reveal one of Milo’s big blue eyeballs.


The dream always ends there as the day always begins with Lennie bolting up in bed, gripping the .45 she sleeps with now. Those beautiful bay windows, one of the selling points her realtor kept harping on, were boarded up now. All the windows and doors in the house were. For the first few days after The Change, she hadn’t dared leave her room, even after she’d nailed and boarded the rest of the world out. She was lucky her house hadn’t been set on fire—she’d heard her neighbors’ screams, first as they began to burn before running out into the street, and then as they were torn to pieces by the awaiting mob. Either no one had known she was in her house or the loud explosion from the gas station down the street had distracted them, but no one came for her.


The world fell to shit in days, but Lennie remembered the first report in the weeks before the chaos: “Man Who Murdered Wife and Children Claims He Was Sleepwalking”:

Jupiter Island, FLA--John Temmor claims that he woke up last Thursday morning with no recollection of the atrocities he committed the night before. Temmor, 44, called the police himself and they arrived to a scene fit for a horror film. The bodies of Virginia Temmor, 41, Mark Temmor, 13, and Lara Temmor, 10, were strewn throughout the house, not only having appeared to have been dismembered, but also cannibalized by Temmor. He is being held, without bail, by local authorities who have refused to comment. Temmor appeared distraught and shouted to reporters as he was taken away, “I didn’t do this!” Friends of his, who requested to remain anonymous, said they were shocked at the carnage and would never have though Temmor, a “soft-spoken engineer and family man”, would be capable of committing such crimes.

Temmor was the first, but soon more and more cases like his—extreme, senseless violence after sundown—began emerging: “New Jersey Woman Slaughters Motel Guests, Disembowels Herself”; “Late-Night Hollywood Club Turns Into a Blood Bath”; “Five-Year-Old Shot After Gruesome Attack”. By the time everyone figured out what was happening and why, it was too late.


TO BE CONTINUED

Thoughts, suggestions, criticisms all welcome! Back tomorrow with either a middle or an end.