Women in Horror: Part Ten

Welcome back to HWA’s WiHM feature special! We’re now at part ten & I’m proud to present to you a little piece by author & journalist, Natasha Ewendt!

Embrace the weird

So, you’re a female horror writer? You write about blood and guts and torture and monsters and stuff? That’s a bit unsavoury for a lady, isn’t it? Newsflash: A lot of us ladies aren’t really ladies. Well, we may have the “lady gear”, but as for the cookie-baking, chick-flick-watching, blinking kind of lady stereotype, that’s a small set of the female population that’s just widely portrayed in the media. Truth be told, even a lot of the women who subscribe to lady status are faking it to keep up appearances and “do what they’re supposed to do”. There are a whole lot of women who would rather watch The Walking Dead than Keeping up with the Kardashians, it’s just that most are too afraid to say so because it doesn’t meet social expectations. We may be an emancipated society, and women may be getting about sans ’50s lacy aprons and Valium fog these days, but there are still certain roles expected of us – and horror writing sure as hell ain’t one of them.

Generally if you’re not sugar and spice and all things nice, if you’re a bit dark and weird as many of us horror writers are, you’re simply freaking out the locals. But this can be an issue for men as well as women. If you write horror, there must be something fundamentally wrong with you, right? You secretly want to kill people, yeah? You’re thinking about killing me right now, aren’t you? You killed the neighbour’s cat and wore it as a hat while dancing Gangnam Style naked covered in peanut butter, didn’t you? Newsflash #2: Horror writers aren’t all frustrated serial killers. Everyone has a dark side, we’re just shining a light on it.

There’s been a great deal mentioned in social media this month about sexism in horror. I’m a newbie who’s only been in the industry a matter of months, but I’ve been in contact with some great and supportive male horror writers, so my thinking is that the divide most likely comes more from readers. And it’s entirely likely it has less to do with the quality of the fiction than the fact male and female brains work differently. Guys like lots of action, women need more of an emotional payoff, and this is reflected in their writing. So male readers tend to gravitate more toward action-driven fiction, usually with a male perspective, and women gravitate toward fiction with more emotional substance and character development. If men are reading less books by women and vice-versa, this is why. A book may be brilliant, but a male reader and a female reader want different things from it and that colours their perception. But the legacy from decades gone by is that men dominate the genre and are more widely known than their female contemporaries, and this has to change.

There are still many who see horror as a “bloke-fest”, as we’d say here in Australia. When most readers think of horror fiction, a long list of celebrated male names springs to mind. Of course there’s also the obligatory Anne Rice, Charlotte Bronte and Mary Shelley, but they’re the exceptions, aren’t they? Horror isn’t a girl thing, is it? Yes, yes it is. There are many more of us female horror writers than you’d think, and it’s about time the literary world knew more about us, so thanks to HWA and other blogs and publications like The Siren’s Call for shining the spotlight on us this month.

Women may like a fair dose of emotional depth in their fiction, but by no means does that mean female horror writers shy away from the gross bits. The most harrowing, nail-biting, panic-inducing, sick messed-up horror I’ve read of late has been by women. There’s no doubt we can scare and gross and disturb the proverbial out of readers as much as guys.

Society should embrace the weird in women, and women should embrace the weird in themselves a whole lot more. Loosening the restrictions on what women are meant to be like could go a long way to changing public perception on female horror writers. Letting women be whatever they want – be it girly, gritty, hippy, high-powered or some twisted freaky horror writer – without making them feel they have to hide aspects of themselves is something we need to work on. The fabulous Bob the Zombie author Jaime Johnesee recently did a gutsy guest post for me on how some women avoid reading horror because of the way we’re portrayed, mostly as victims and mammary-based femme fatales. I think this is a stellar point. Perhaps if in horror and in society women could be seen as more than “girly-girls” and be accepted for who they are, female horror writers would get a whole lot more of the recognition they deserve.

Excerpt from Chapter 17 of This Freshest Hell, where newly made vampires Lily and Maggie stumble upon Maggie’s childhood abuser.

†

Lily was determined not to let the grief of that first night return. But the satisfaction of cleansing the world one miscreant at a time was only ever transitory, while the remorse lingered.

As a rule she now only hunted with Maggie. She wanted to maintain as much distance as possible from the brethren she viewed as captors. She couldn’t bring herself to trust them. But she was too scared to leave.

Feeding with Maggie made the hunt more bearable. The two of them reclaiming their power together made her feel invincible. But after the kill she felt even more guilty for enjoying it.

She looked up at the sky as she and Maggie trawled new streets in search of prey. Thin wisps of cloud bathed an ocean of stars, the grey mist crowning a full moon.

Suddenly, Maggie stopped at a cathedral. Her face fell. Lily recognised that look. She’d seen it in the mirror often enough. Maggie was replaying bad memories.

Maggie looked up at the dark stone with sickness in her eyes. “That church looks kind of like the one I was abused in.” She turned sharply, like a predator sensing prey. “He’s here.”

“What? Who?”

“Minister Hirst.”

“You mean …”

“Yes.” Face like stone, Maggie ascended the church steps and pushed open the huge heavy doors.

Lily followed, her breath quickening in anticipation – of what, she wasn’t sure, and she dreaded to even think.

There was movement in a dimly lit office at the back. Maggie walked toward it, boots echoing.

A small tubby figure emerged from the office. He scratched at the mop of thinning grey hair that made him look like a frayed Franciscan monk as he threw an impatient glance their way. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow. I’m about to leave.” He went to head back to his office.

Maggie kept walking. “We need to ask you a question. It’s a matter of life and death.”

He stopped and turned around slowly. His frown unfurled into fear as an imposing Maggie came closer.

She stopped in front of him. “Does the name Margherite Marcelli mean anything to you?”

His bulbous eyes darted in evasion. His nostrils flared nervously, expanding feathery red veins. He turned and tried to scurry away.

Maggie moved swifter than his human eyes could see to block his path.

He backed into a wall like a helpless animal cornered by a beast, eyes bulging under Maggie’s laser gaze. “I r-really need to be gone,” he stuttered.

“I can help you with that.” She slid a hand to his neck.

The minister perspired, anxiously clenching and unclenching his clammy hands. “There’s cameras.” He pointed fretfully toward the ceiling, hand aquiver.

“No bother. It will make for intriguing viewing. Ironic. I wanted to be a film-maker. Now I don’t even show up on film.” Maggie’s serrated smile shone like silver. She laughed at his bug-eyed look of dread as he saw her fangs.

He tried to edge away, desperation paling his jowls. “It wasn’t me. It was the demon. Satan took control of me and … Jesus saved me.”

Maggie forced him further against the wall. “That’s what they all say when they’re trying to get out of prison. But some prisons you can’t … ever … leave.”

Chapter 18

The minister clutched at his chest with a gasp.

Maggie seized him roughly by the shoulders. “Oh, no. You’re not having a heart attack before I even start.” In a lightning motion, she lifted him high and threw him into a wall. The smashing of bones ricocheted through the cathedral like broken glass.

Maggie was across the room and standing beside him before he even hit the ground. She knelt down, looking satisfied to see the impact had instantly contused his aged skin. “Shattered ribcage. Sorry about that. I was aiming for your skull. Looks like I’ll have to keep trying.”

Lily ducked as the airborne minister hurtled toward the altar, crushing it on impact. Adrenaline surged like mercury through Lily’s bloodstream. Though disturbed by the brutality, she wanted to help Maggie. And she realised with self-disgust that part of her desperately wanted to see this man suffer. She stiffened at the smell of blood. He was coughing it up all over the altar.

Maggie leaned over the minister, admiring the blood pouring over the remains of his sacred podium. “Liquescent entrails. Kinda like viscera soup. How does it feel?” She clapped a hand on his shoulder. A scarlet spatter spilled down his jaw as wails drowned in his sodden throat. “Shh,” Maggie whispered. “We can’t have anyone else join this party. It’s an exclusive reunion.” She yanked a remaining tuft of hair, lifting his head to thrust her hand inside his mouth.

A scream died in its first strain as Maggie pulled, opening her fist to reveal the pink stump of his tongue. She released it to the floor like an empty can as blood seeped from his mouth.

Fluid sobs wracked his chest, tears trickling over waxy purple jowls as he covered his mouth in an attempt to stop the blood flow. Red rivulets spilt over his useless hand.

Maggie raised her fist and delivered a grievous blow, sending a haematic spray flying from his mouth. Then she grabbed his hand and slowly uncurled his fat fingers, drinking in his horror as she bared her teeth and sank them into his palm. The minister trembled, unable to scream. Then Maggie dropped his hand.

Lily wondered why Maggie hadn’t drunk. Then she realised – once she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop, and she wanted to play with her prey a little longer before the death knell.

He began to flail. Maggie snapped her fingers, shattering his leg bones. His body splayed like liquid. She grabbed his left hand and pressed a heel into his elbow until a clean crack resounded, then did the same with the other arm. He sank in a pile of fractures.

Maggie crouched beside him. “See what you made me?” She searched his eyes as if looking for remorse, or at least revelation. But there was only mortal fear and sparks of impending death in the pale grey irises.

Maggie frowned. “Face what you made.”

He tried to avoid her stare.

“Have the courage to face what you made!” Her voice bellowed through the cathedral.

The minister froze, slowly raising petrified eyes.

Maggie dragged a fingertip through the blood on the floor and held it up, dripping. “I may be a creature of hell. But you will know hell long before I do.” She stood. “I could drain all the blood from you right now.”

His head shook in hysterical mute pleas.

“The thought disgusts me.” Maggie flicked his blood off her hand into his face. “Rather than feed on your filth, I’ll leave you here. Paramedics should control the bleeding. A few months in hospital might fix you. Plenty of time to wonder when I’ll come for you again. I will always know where you are. And it’ll make me slightly euphoric to know you live each day in fear of when you’ll see me again. Just like I did with you.” Lamplight illuminated her chilling leer as she loomed over her oppressor.

The minister slumped, clearly about to lose consciousness. Maggie grabbed his hand and mercilessly wrenched him upright into lucidity. Then, looking satisfied with her reign of terror, she turned and began to walk away.

Lily went to the office and fetched the phone to dial the ambulance service.

Suddenly, Maggie paused. She held up her hand to Lily.

Hesitantly, Lily ended the call.

Maggie faced the weeping, mangled heap. “On second thought, I don’t think hell should wait. And I want to be the one to send you there.” She looked from the quaking shape to the giant cross above the ruins of the altar, and smiled.

With a flick of Maggie’s hand, the minister was thrown from the floor to the cross. His rag-doll arms were pulled straight in a crucifixion pose. The altar wreckage quaked as Maggie’s powers drew out all its huge nails until they hung in the air, poised and aimed at the minister.

Maggie held him in terrified thrall, taking clear delight in the minister’s begging expression. She watched with cold fervour as he quivered like a guillotine victim waiting in a standstill of time for the blade to fall. His glassy eyes spewed final tears. Then with a dark smile, Maggie gave another flick of her hand.

The nails shot like bullets into his arms and legs, pinning him to the cross. Then, just as Lily thought Maggie might leave him there to die, Maggie clicked her fingers – and turned the minister inside out.

Lily gasped and turned away as the minister’s insides splattered onto the floor.

Maggie stood for a moment, as if taking in the sight of justice served. Then she calmly walked out.

Lily followed, finding Maggie standing on the steps. Silence reigned as though the nightmare – and dream – had never happened.

Eventually Maggie spoke. “Nothing like extreme closure.” She looked strangely at peace. “All my life I’ve lived in the house he built. The mental prison he created. I used to dream about this day. But I never could have done what I just did as a mortal.”

Lily nodded. “I couldn’t have killed Troy as a human. We’re different now.” A strange calm stemmed her contrition, like cauterisation, like Valium – like justice.

Natasha Ewendt is the author of This Freshest Hell, a supernatural horror novel released in 2013 by Lacuna Publishing. She is also a journalist at the Port Lincoln Times and the director of Port Lincoln Copywriting Services. Often (rather rightfully) compared to Daria of the eponymous animation, Natasha is reluctantly addicted to coffee and The Walking Dead.

Come on back tomorrow & join Leigh M Lane, same time, same place!