spooky scary
Mary Shelley was nineteen when she wrote Frankenstein. That’s a fact that I’ve thought of fairly regularly for over a decade. I believe I was eighteen when I learned it; a fresh-faced college student at a book talk. I can’t remember who I saw speak (so sorry, dear author) or why they made this point, but I do remember the haunting fact itself.
“She was only nineteen!” I bemoaned because I believed it meant that I was running out of time. If Shelley wrote this important, classic work at nineteen, then what the hell was I doing? Nevermind that she was actually a lifelong writer who was relegated for many years post-death to simply “Percy Shelley’s wife.” I selfishly took that little tidbit and turned it into some kind of an indictment on me and how much I had (or had not) accomplished.
Nowadays, I’ve mostly rid myself of the limiting belief that accomplishment has a time limit, especially when it comes to writing. You can write at any age! And, as my beloved thesis advisor Micheline Marcom once advised me, there’s no rush. You’ve got to live a little in order to build up that rich experience. So, yeah, Mary Shelley wrote a notable book at the age of nineteen, but she also lived quite the young life. Plus, she did a lot more writing over the years. Good job, Mary.
Another interesting factoid that has stuck with me about her is that she wrote the initial version of the story while holed up in a house with her dude Percy, Lord Byron, and her step-sister Claire. These nerdy, artsy (probably untenably obnoxious) writers decided to hold a spooky story contest as they cuddled around the fire (and also had affairs with each other, I think? Free love and all that. The precursors to the hippies.). It’s easy to imagine this scene during a cold November, but it actually took place during the “year without a summer.” Because of a volcanic eruption on the other side of the world (I just checked, it was Mount Tambora in Indonesia), that summer was wet, cold, and snowy. So, there you go, many little pieces to the puzzle. And many odd trivia facts that may eventually get your team to first place.
Like Mary and her pals, I find myself drawn to spooky stories during the summertime, too. There may not be rain outside, yet, without really meaning to, I often grab the mysteries and scary books off the shelf during June and July. Unintentionally, I get the itch to re-watch old favorites and check-out new horror films when the days are long. Maybe it makes me feel a bit bolder to have less time during those shorter nights for the specter of nightmares to catch hold. Either way, I’ve been watching a few movies (The Invitation and False Positive this past week, and I’ve been itching to re-watch Us) and racing through non-scary books so that I can free up some time for page-turning mysteries (suggestions always accepted).
Without that background, this week’s prompt might seem out of place; however, maybe I’m not the only summertime horror-lover? If not, maybe I can convert you. Be like my bestie Mary Shelley and me.
prompt #46:
Time to get spooky, my dears. Before you start, get in a creepy mood. Light a candle, make some tea, sit in the dark, go call out to Bloody Mary in the bathroom a few times, whatever gets you into the eerie mood. Then, start that timer for five minutes and reflect on what scares you. Could be ghosts, vampires, and werewolves; could be fire, climate change, and break-ins; could be a combo of them all. This five-minute free write can be an unburdening of sorts. Allow yourself to imagine the scary, the eerie, the creepy, the horrifying. You may find yourself reflecting on stories or experiences that have scared you in the past, or on worries and fears for the future. You might find that it is the supernatural that is most frightening, or perhaps instead it is the uber natural. See where this free-write takes you.
After five minutes are up, take your break. Switch on the light and give yourself a gulp of fresh air before jumping back in to the fear. Read what you’ve written and let the spark of creativity tell you where to go next. See if you can capture the feeling in a story, song, essay, or something else. Have fun and don’t forget to leave your nightlight on.
ashley's piece, a sensitive girl:
The little boy that sent people to the cornfield, what was his name? Anthony? I’m almost jealous of him. He seemed to enjoy it. He used that power, his imagination, to get his revenge. It’s never been like that for me. I’m sensitive. I don’t want to hurt anyone. Most of the time.
The first time I realized what I could do, I was in kindergarten, I think. I wonder if I did it before then without realizing it. How would I know? I only remember kindergarten, but maybe it happened before that.
Caro was the pretty girl in class. Long blonde hair in braids. I wanted hair like hers, hair that would shine in the light. Instead, I had brown. Poop brown, as she told me while we drew self-portraits at the art table. She handed me the brown crayon.
“This is like your hair! Like poop!” I knew yellow was pretty, but, before she said that, I didn’t know brown was gross. My classmates, Dora and Jacob and Lia, they laughed. Giggles and guffaws and agreement. My eyes burned with tears, and I raked the crayon against the paper, trying to scrape through it, deposit the wax right through the page onto the wooden desk below. I blocked out the sound of their laughs with a hot roar of anger that filled my head. As I scribbled, fist pressed hard against the paper, I imagined Caro, saw her face blotted out by the brown wax. I imagined her beneath my hand, drenched in brown.
Roughly, I felt my body being pulled back, away from the table and into the present. The heavy blot of anger was replaced by a terrifying wail. I looked around, confused, dazed. There were multiple frightened screams, but one rose above the rest, louder and pained. I tried to focus on something, to make sense of the cacophony, but all I recognized were the screams and the sick scent of burning. I realized Mrs. Anand was yelling, “go get help, go over there” as she pushed us away. From her. From Caro.
Finally, I saw the bright yellow hair. But rather than a small, pretty face, it adorned a terrifying mass of bubbling, brown wax. Through the ooze, her mouth opened wide, wet tongue, bright teeth, releasing that terrible shriek. I don’t remember anything more than that open mouth drenched in hot wax.
Caro was okay after that day. I mean, she was alive. Thankfully the doctors were able to graft skin from her thighs onto her face. She was gone for a long time, healing. Mrs. Anand had us write “get well soon” cards with markers and pencils, but I was terrified. I didn’t draw any pictures. I only wrote the words.
That was the first time, but it wasn’t the last.