Shock Totem 5: Curious Tales of the Macabre and Twisted

by Shock Totem

  “You can’t promise that.”

  “Becky, I will. I’ll give my life for it.”

  Becky’s hands rest on her belly, her eyes focused on her hands. She nods because she knows what William means, because she can’t bring herself to refuse the promise. “Thank you.”

  William faded. The voices echoed painfully in his head as they rose and fell around each other, tugging at him. They held him together even as they threatened to pull him apart...

  “You were right. I don’t like this,” Peter called to William.

  “It’s a little late to change your mind,” William said. Bullets flew by them as they crouched down.

  “At least we never worked with Jameson,” Peter said.

  “You were right about the French.” William had trouble hearing Peter. It wasn’t just the noise of the battle around them, of artillery and musket fire, it was the ghosts crowding the field. Old ghosts reached out to claim lives for company even as new ones rose up from corpses on the field. And they were reaching for Peter.

  “Do you think it was a boy?” Peter asked.

  “Stay down,” William ordered.

  “I bet she had a boy. A son.” The boom of a cannon.

  “To your left, Pete. Move to your...”

  The world spun around William, the moments of his life ticking away, measured out in counts of four, threading around each other, complex despite its parsimony. The heft of a stack of beaver pelts. The sound of Peter’s harmonica on summer nights as a ribbon of stars hung above their heads; the sound of their father’s fiddle on winter evenings while blizzards raged and burning logs crackled. Becky’s lips as William kissed her, the sting of her slap as she ran away, the click of the dice as the ghosts turned them against him.

  Huddling together, damp around a fire, frightened behind the battle, engrossed over a map of the Ohio River, William dissolved into it.

  Blood trickled down William’s forehead as his clothes became the ragged uniform of a militia volunteer. A terrible ache shot through his head, and then he felt nothing at all. The ghost became solid...

  “I don’t know, Pete. Women would slow us down.”

  “I mean Mister William, there. He ain’t normal.”

  “We’ll throw the dice for Becky.”

  “Do you think it was a boy?”

  Peter Jefferson Smith had a ghost at his back. The ghost, four years younger and five minutes dead, loved Peter’s wife, and wanted him to go home.

  Anaea Lay lives in Madison, Wisconsin where she sells houses by making TARDIS jokes and obscure board game references. She's been published in venues as varied as Apex, Penumbra, and the FrumForum, and blogs about everything at www.anaealay.com.

  BLOODSTAINS

  & BLUE SUEDE SHOES

  by John Boden and Simon Marshall-Jones

  PART III: AFTER THE BLUES

  In the 1950s, the landscape of American music was changing, which by decade’s end resulted in a glorious mutation sprouting from country, blues and jazz, which, in its turn, evolved into the broad tapestry of genres, subgenres and sub-subgenres we take for granted today. In other words, big band music was something for the old fogies—the kids were hungry for new sounds. What they got was an entirely new genre—rock and roll.

  This new music originated from the various streams of indigenous styles of American music, mixing genres as diverse as rockabilly, country, and rhythm & blues (or, as Wikipedia nicely puts it, “a merging of the African musical tradition with European instrumentation”).

  Certainly there’s no denying that it reinvigorated the popular music of the time, and instantly appealed to a new generation of post-war youth, bringing with it a new identity separate from the war-torn era of their parents. However, the saccharine pop and newly christened “rock and roll”—a term which could either be a description of the spiritual fervor seen in black churches of the time or a euphemism for sexual activity—of the 50s was not to the taste of everyone. The more commercially acceptable doo-wop and the jazz-based contemporary songs from the likes of Frank Sinatra and Eddie Fischer still appealed to a wide audience of young and old, even if the latter’s song “I’m Walking Behind You” strikes one as a disturbing ode to the modern stalker.

  It’s fair to say that beneath much of the new style of music, which was loudly making its presence felt, a species of darker material was beginning to peek out from the swirling shadows. For instance, in 1956, Louis Armstrong gave us one of the most popular renditions of the sinister song “Mack the Knife,” a song that had begun life as part of “Die Dreigroschenoper” (translating closely to “The Three Penny Opera”), a 1928 musical written by Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht. The latter wrote the song as a character study of the sadistic and cruel highwayman and anti-hero MacHeath, who in turn is a much exaggerated version of the real-life robber, burglar and thief Jack Sheppard (1702–1724).

  While most of us tend to think of popular fright-themed songs of the 50s as nothing more than goofy novelty tunes, such as Sheb Wooley’s “Purple People Eater,” there were plenty of others waving the bloody fear flag at the masses. Screamin’ Jay Hawkins climbed out of a coffin to prowl the stage, crooning and bellowing about voodoo and a “Little Demon.” Simultaneously, bluesmen such as Howlin’ Wolf found success singing about superstition and “Smokestack Lightning,” and LaVern Baker sang of “Voodoo.” Also released in the 50s was Kip Tyler’s “She’s My Witch,” while Hasil Adkins gave us the psychobilly dance craze “The Hunch.”

  The post-war era of the 50s was the perfect time for fear to take root and worm its way into our entertainment avenues, especially in the wake of the chilled relations between the East and the West that we now know as the Cold War. Consequently, the movie theaters gave us films chock-full of invaders from the stars, creatures from the deep, and humongous shapeless blobs that devoured all. In fact, Burt Bacharach has the honor or crafting the silly yet infectious theme song to the pivotal horror film The Blob. Even John “The Cool Ghoul” Zacherle, host of Shock Theater, got into the act and recorded the song “Dinner With Drac”; while a young Michael Landon, better known as Little Joe in the TV Western series Bonanza, released the single “Gimme a Little Kiss (Will Ya, Huh?)/Be Patient With Me” after appearing in the film I Was a Teenage Werewolf; and Gale Storm sang about a “Dark Moon,” a 1957 song penned by Ned Miller and made popular by Storm’s label-mate Bonnie Guitar.

  Meanwhile, the political climate was getting complicated, strange, even. Communism and Capitalism were fighting for both headlines and supremacy, resulting in the “Reds under the Bed” scare. (Much of the sci-fi film fare of the era, while superficially about invasion by aliens from outer space, often carried a subtext that the invaders could be seen as the pernicious infiltration of “alien”—or Soviet Communist political ideals and mores, anathema to capitalism—into everyday US life.) In the US, McCarthyism was beginning to rear its ugly head—the result being that Senator Joseph McCarthy headed hearings which accused thousands of people of harboring Communist sympathies, leaving many to be blacklisted and unable to work as a consequence. No one was safe. The winds of paranoia blew wildly amidst the growing unease over nuclear energy and the rumblings of war in Korea from coast to coast.

  SHOCK! TERROR! FEAR!

  Music, for the most part, appears to have escaped such wholesale censure as Hollywood suffered in the decade between the late 40s to early 50s. However, to counteract this and to direct attention away from such poisonous philosophies and the fear of them (as has always been proven the way), the best method for combating fear is to confront it with more fear, even if the “fear” is comedic rather than serious.

  For instance, 1959 saw the release of a compilation of horror-themed songs called Monster Rally, by Hans Conried (mostly remembered for his role in the 1953 film The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T) and Alice Pearce, with The Creatures and the Frank N. Stein Orchestra. It was published on the RCA Victor label, and featured not only the previously mentioned “Purple People Eater,” but
also songs with such titles as “Mostly Ghostly” and “The Invisible Man.” Also released in 1959 was another compilation called Spike Jones in Hi-Fi, by Spike Jones and the Band That Plays for Fun, featuring the talents of impressionist Paul Frees who sings various songs in the voices of Dracula (Bela Lugosi), Frankenstein (Boris Karloff) and Alfred Hitchcock. With song titles such as “Teenage Brain Surgeon” and “Two Heads are Better than One (Beatnik Duet)”—which apparently featured novel use of the then-new stereo technology—you can probably see where this piece of “horror” pop vinyl came from.

  Rock and roll and pop wasn’t the only genre to get its teeth into the horror thing. A year earlier than the two aforementioned compilations, in 1958, the Philly Joe Jones Sextet released Blues for Dracula, the title track of which features a comedic Bela Lugosi/Dracula doo-wop routine over a swinging jazz backing. This, however, is the only reference to horror on the entire album.

  The trend for novelty horror “pop” songs spilled bloodily into the 60s, with perhaps the exemplar of the subgenre being Bobby “Boris” Pickett’s 1962 song “Monster Mash,” which was a smash hit on both sides of the Atlantic. Originally released in August 1962 on the Garpax Records label, it was subsequently re-released several times, including in December of the same year, and in August of 1970 and May of 1973. The BBC even banned it in 1962, deeming it to be “too morbid.”

  In the same year, John Zacherle, of “Dinner with Drac” fame, released a novelty LP also entitled Monster Mash, which included a cover version of Pickett’s song. The rest of the album consists of monster-themed versions of songs by artists on the Cameo/Parkway label, essentially taking them and reimagining them as if they’d been penned by songwriters with a comedically-horrific bent.

  During research for this article, I came across a short but nevertheless informative piece written by Tony Maygarden1 on horror-themed novelty songs of the 50s and 60s on vinyl. Featured here are quite a few more examples of this subgenre, which serves to underline the popularity of the then-current monster craze. These are all very much pop songs—the article doesn’t delve into any other style of music, apart from the Philly Joe Jones Sextet jazz album, Blues for Dracula, already mentioned.

  One other area that could conceivably be considered horror in its very loosest sense was the phenomenon of the “teenage tragedy” song, a subgenre which is also sometimes referred to as “deathrock” or “splatter platter.” These songs would lament the death of a teenager, and were most popular between the late 1950s and early to mid-60s.

  Perhaps the most familiar song of this type would be 1960’s “Tell Laura I Love Her,” by Ray Peterson, as well as The Shangri-Las’ “Leader of the Pack.” Other songs in similar territory include “Ebony Eyes,” by The Everly Brothers, “Moody River,” by Pat Boone, “Leah,” by Roy Orbison, “Last Kiss,” by Wayne Cochran & the C.C. Riders, and 1964’s “Dead Man’s Curve,” by Jan & Dean. Even today, the subgenre still occasionally rears its head—the theme of teenagers dying before their time appears to be a perennially fascinating subject.

  THE END OF INNOCENCE

  But this was only the beginning of the love affair between music and horror—by the time the mid-60s had faded away the two were holding hands, staring into one another’s eyes and going steady. Over the next fifty years, the “real” horror of our society, continually growing and mutating into ever-more violent and bloody forms, would be reflected in the depth and broadening of styles that tended toward the darker end of the musical spectrum.

  When the 50s closed and ticked away to become the early and then the mid-60s, sadly so did the little bit of innocence that had been left to us. In the aftermath of the Korean and Vietnam Wars, plus the shocking assassination of President John F. Kennedy, the shape of the world and our reality had irrevocably changed forever. In fact, the late 60s and early 70s would kick in the door like some kind of a brutish lout and take whatever it wanted by force—and it would also spell the end of whatever notions of romantic idealism fostered by the likes of the peace-and-love movement, and replace it by a much harsher and more abrasive stylistic regime. Things were about to get loud and scary...

  In parting, we would like to extend our gratitude to Tony Maygarden for the information contained in his wonderful (but sadly all too brief) look at “horror on vinyl,” from which we culled some of the information contained herein.

  1 http://www.endlessgroove.com

  John Boden resides in the shadow of Three Mile Island with his wonderful wife and children. Aside from his work with Shock Totem, his stories can be found in 52 Stitches, Everyday Weirdness, Black Ink Horror #7; and Psychos: Serial Killers, Depraved Madmen, and the Criminally Insane, edited by John Skipp.

  Simon Marshall-Jones is a UK-based writer, artist, editor, publisher and blogger: also wine and cheese lover, music freak and covered in too many tattoos.

  THE CATCH

  by Joe Mirabello

  I tell Finney I just don’t trust Grog’s driving and that I’ll meet him at the trailhead. That’s a straight-faced lie.

  After all, Grog isn’t worse than most city drivers, despite being an authentic ninth century Viking. But we had an agreement, Finney and I. Throw everything bigger than us back. Rules existed for a reason.

  I smoke three cigarettes while I wait for them to arrive.

  You really have to look hard to make out the old trail, returned as it has to the tangle of wilderness. Even in its prime the trail had never seen more than the accidental visitor, human or animal.

  It’s a cold day, but at least it stopped raining. The woods smell like moss and new growth and spring renewal. Might be a good day to patch things up between me and Finney. If I was inclined to patch things up.

  Keep it civil, I tell myself. You need each other.

  A car pulls up to the trailhead. It’s a dark car. New. Freshly washed. Expensive-looking. I think it’s a Lexus. It would be just like Finney to get a Lexus. Can’t have an authentic Viking chauffeur driving you around in a Chevy.

  “Jack,” Finney says, as he steps out of his car.

  “Finney,” I say, and then, with a nod to the Viking behind the wheel, “Grog.”

  Grog grunts. It’s not a violent grunt this year. It’s almost civilized.

  Finney pulls his tackle box and fishing rod from the trunk. The rod hooks onto the tackle box, which leaves him a free hand for the shotgun. Wouldn’t want to forget that.

  “Ready to do this?”

  “Of course.” I slip my backpack over my shoulder and pick up my own rod. “Let’s go.”

  “Grog, stay here. Watch the car. We’ll be back around sunset. Play your iPhone,” Finney tells the big man.

  “Angry Birds?” the man asks.

  “Angry Birds.”

  We set off down the trail in silence. This part always brings back memories. Those first years had been filled with wonder, with excitement, with real magic. Now there was only suspicion.

  We get to the first marker. It’s a boulder not unlike a man’s brow, furrowed with concentration.

  Finney pulls out the burlap hood and slips it over his head.

  “Let’s get this over with,” he murmurs through the material. I check the hood carefully for holes and lead him off the trail. The real path starts here and the old man had entrusted it to me alone.

  Protect the secret, the old man had told us. That was rule number one and the most important.

  I help Finney over some roots and rocks, let him stumble on a few others, and guide him around a fallen tree or two. It’s slow going, since we’re cutting through underbrush, one of us is essentially blind, and I keep inventing additions to throw Finney off, just in case he’s trying to memorize his steps, but after two hours we arrive at the second marker, where a stream becomes a waterfall and bubbles its way down a dozen stone steps. It’s a frothy Slinky mocking me as it perpetually tumbles. It’s all I know how to reach, and it feels criminal to have to relinquish control.

  Finney hands me the hood. The a
ir inside is hot, the burlap itchy. All these years and we’ve never bothered to get something more comfortable. I stumble along, trying my best to keep my bearings with the direction of the sun’s warmth, except it ain’t all that warm. I’ve been trying for years, but no matter how many times I come here on my own, I never find the pond. Not without Finney.

  The miles creep past and I get a couple good shin bruises from walking into things. Payback for the ones I led Finney into. And then the hood comes off and we’re there. The grove. The Pond. The world seems darker here, dangerous. The pond, she sings to me. Her water, bottomless and black, sucks in whatever gray light spills through the trees.

  “Here we are, Jack. Go do your thing,” Finney says, begrudgingly, as if he were saddled with a child for the day. I feel the same way about him.

  I can’t help but stare into the water for a moment, same as I do every year. It’s inky black. And still. And impossibly, terribly, frighteningly deep.

  Never touch the water. That was rule number two.

  Neither of us had ever been tempted to. Fishing was enough. More than enough. No addiction ever compared, no tranquility, no buzz. The pond is a universe unto itself and my heart pounds at the very sight of her. She’s a lover with an infinite embrace, and I long to cherish forever the anticipation that wells within me, to hold myself to the brink like this and let this memory warm me through the long seasons.

  It’s good to know I still have this feeling inside, even after all these years, even with Finney here to sour things.

  “Stick to the rules this year?” I ask. I’m not trying to pry open the wound, but I need to know.

  “Whatever,” Finney says. He’s already rigging up his gear.

  The fishing is never the time-consuming part. You always get a bite. Always. It’s what the pond gives you that matters, that determines whether or not you needed the shotgun.