All posts by helterskelliter

Smile Back :)

The universe is made of mouths. Not circles or loops or any other illusions of organization, of control. Just many hungry, gaping maws demanding flesh and blood, promising peace in exchange for a paltry sum of pain. A clear message. At least, clear for those who can read in between the stars like my Mama.

They believe it’s empty out there. Mama would say, dark eyes on the darkening sky. We spent most nights together beneath the stars, awaiting their wishes. Just empty space.

Mama kept her gaze aloft but shook her head. I copied the movement, memorizing her proud posture, making her disbelief my own. Mama sometimes called me her tiny mirror, more often her little echo. 

But nothing is empty. Mama would continue, finally looking from the sky to fix her sharp sights on me. She’d slip into a low crouch so our eyes could meet, our fingers find each other and twine together. Nothing, my little echo, is empty. There is only fullness and hunger. The universe and us.

That was when Mama would untwine our hands and slide out the knife she always kept strapped to her side. It gleamed in the starlight, transformed into a tooth, point terribly true. She would press the blade to the palm of her hand till blood kissed the tip and trickled down the edge, crimson ink till shadows swallowed the hue whole. An offering. A message.

Around us, the night seemed to shudder, darkness undulating like a thousand licking tongues, the stars high above burning in their sockets, ecstatic. A sigh escaped the sky. Or, maybe that was Mama. 

We must feed each other. Mama placed the knife in one of my hands, positioned it’s shiny point on the palm of the other. Made me her tiny mirror. The universe and us. You and I.

You and I. I echoed, blade biting into my flesh, blood dripping down it’s face like drool, devoured by the dark. You and I.

Mama lives between the stars now, a message only I can read. A mouth only I can feed. Her knife fills the hollow of my hand, its tip trusty and true. A promise, sharp and clear. 

There is no empty space.

Above me, the night splits into a smile.

I smile back.


Just a short & sweet story this week ^.^ Hope you enjoyed! This story was inspired by a prompt titled A message from afar. I think this story came off as more whimsical and a bit bittersweet than spooky but I really had a lot of fun turning my gaze towards the stars for this one~

The Night Is Hungry

Tonight, wind batters the brittle panes of my hovel’s weary windows. Had they been skin instead of glass, they’d no doubt be bruised. This high in the mountains, the winds are wicked. They drag drifts of snow with them, freezing the air till it’s very touch is painful. On nights like these, it feels like the dark is trying to rip and tear its way inside. Even the ferociously flickering flame in our lone hearth is not enough to protect against such a relentless, bitter chill. 

The holes in the walls don’t help. 

The gaps may be nothing but pesky slivers between wooden slats during the day, allowing a whisper of wind to wander through, but at night, they became slashes, severing any hopes for a warm home in two. Wind wails though the empty spaces, spits bits of ice in your face.

When I was younger, I remember musing how much the jagged lines in the slats resemble teeth marks. It looked like something was gnawing on our walls, like something had tried to take a bite out of the place. 

Baba laughed when I told her that, her own teeth gleaming in her smile. The rows of teeth she wore on several strings around her neck seemed to gleam in tandem in the fire’s glow. Baba never liked to wander too far from her cooking pot, seated firmly in the fiery mouth of our home. Unless she was going out to find dinner, of course.

A bite? Baba asked, smile still sharp. From what, my child?

The night. I said, then, like it was obvious. The night must be hungry.

Baba’s smile stretched across her face. Too wide, I’d realize too late. Her face, like the walls, should’ve split in two. Wrinkles cut her face into fleshy shards, deep divots marking her dimples. Even the fire’s flickering stretched her shadow into odd points.

Indeed, my child. Baba said at last, raising a veiny hand to finger one of the teeth wound around her throat. Their strings sunk into the loose flesh there, deep into its creases, making the teeth appear almost to grow out of her neck, as if Baba herself were one giant gaping mouth. The night is hungry. 

Baba gripped the long handle of her slightly scorched ladle then, swirling the contents of her cooking pot. They clacked against the cast iron, a hollow sound easily muffled by the wind. A splash of broth overtook the lip and dribbled down the side. At my feet, a tooth fell.

And so are we. Baba swirled the ladle, side to side. So very hungry.

Now, I stand before Baba’s cooking pot, ladle in hand. The wood has gone from slightly scorched to nearly charred, parts of it chipping off in places, splinters biting into flesh. 

But, it still does the job it needs to do.

Around my neck, several strings of teeth hang, a particularly gleaming set hanging on the lowest tier rests just above my heart. When I look down, they smile up at me.

A brutal gust slams into the shack then, rattling the windows and the rickety walls and shrieking unsorry through the empty spaces. Snow catches and clings to the rough edges, dripping like drool from a jagged mouth. Like blood, when it catches the fire’s heated glare. 

It is a mean night on the mountain.

It reminds me of the night Baba found me. Wading through waist-deep snow drifts and wailing against the wind’s screams for anyone at all to help. To help me and my baby sister, swaddled in my arms as I tried to keep both our heads aloft the piling snow, our faces tucked away from the air’s frigid assault. It was a fruitless effort. We were going to die. Like mother and father did when our cabin’s walls caved in, burying them beneath a life that seemed so meager and empty until it fell on top of them.

Baba slithered out of the darkness just as the snow was starting to swallow us whole. I was trying to raise my baby sister above my head, to keep the snow from encasing her like it had me from the chest down. It was that movement, which finally disturbed her rest and it was her cries, somehow, that summoned Baba. It wouldn’t be until much later that I would wonder at how Baba could’ve possibly heard my sister’s whining over the wind. At the time, I didn’t know to be wary of the things attracted to the cries of wounded creatures.

What do you need? Baba asked as she neared, her body except for her wrinkly old woman face hidden beneath a thick cloak. The night swallowed most of her finer features save for a slight smile that might’ve bothered me more had I not been freezing to death.

Help. I begged, teeth starting to chatter. We n-need h-hel-lp.

But, Baba shook her head. Stretched her smile.

No. She leaned in, the lines carving across her face becoming more pronounced, the gleam of her smile more glaring. What do you need?

I started shaking my own head, not sure what she meant and so very, very cold. In my gums, I swear I could feel my teeth shivering, each tooth clacking against its neighbor in my jaw. In my head, I could hear the echo, a soft pounding sound. Or, maybe that was my heart, slowly freezing in my chest. While the wind seemed to quiet and the weather settle at Baba’s appearance, I was still buried almost to my neck in snow. From all sides, I could feel the press. It was a soft bite but the pressure would grow. I thought of mother and father, buried—no, eaten by the mountain. Swallowed by the night. 

We should’ve left sooner. We should’ve let go.

A cruel chill crept over me.

I looked toward my sister then, raised like an offering above my head, and I felt the full weight of her for the first time. Felt the weight our meager home tried to hold. And, I felt the press of something not against me but from within. Something sharp. I heard a crack—possibly a tooth, perhaps another cabin collapsing in the distance, or maybe my frozen heart finally splitting—and then I felt nothing much at all. I should let go.

I looked at Baba, who was all teeth.

I need to let go.

My mouth wouldn’t open, wouldn’t speak the words, but Baba seemed to know what I had decided without me having to spit it out. She reached for the bundle in my arms, took it from me almost reverently as if she, too, could feel its true weight, its burden. She cradled the bundle with one arm and with the other, she pulled me from the snow in one steady, practiced motion. As if I were not the first child she pried from the mountain’s maw. 

Baba tsked at my bony wrist in her grip.

My child, Baba said, digging her nails into my icy skin, their points almost biting through. We need some meat on these bones. 

Some meat, Baba said, the bundle I gave her tucked out of sight. 

I never saw my sister again. 

Not whole, at least.

Since then, mean nights on the mountain have always made me hungry. I hear my own screams in the wind, feel each snowflake on my skin like a tooth sinking in, a dug-in nail demanding blood. I no longer sit in the shadow of a shut mouth waiting to be swallowed. I am a mouth. I must fill myself.

Outside, a cry joins the wind. Small, familiar. Wounded and needy.

I run my hand along one of the rows of tiny teeth strung around my neck, finger the smooth edges. Boiled water in a cast iron pot will polish anything if you let it soak long enough. Baba taught me that well.

Baba made sure I could do what I needed to.

The water begins to boil as the cries tear out of the dark and bleed through the walls. Another gust carries a whimper, offering anything to be spared and I smile with all my teeth.

The night is hungry.


Hey~ So… I started up grad school again for the fall and it has been a LOT to manage hence the delayed posting schedule. Honestly, I’ve hade barely any time to think let alone write a spooky story. That said, this story is inspired by the Russian folklore figure, Baba Yaga. I’ve always found her to be a more plausible monster than most. Especially when I think of the cycles of starvation that occurred in Eastern Europe during different points of history, I find a Baba Yaga-esque figure to be all the more plausible and, because of that, more chilling. I wanted to explore the becoming of such a being in this work.

Hope you enjoyed~

It Will Be Satisfied

Swamp surrounds the village for as far the eye can see. The soggy soil of our secluded homeland is little more than sponge, sopping up so much water even the slightest of us must strap strings stretched across stiff wooden slats to our feet or else risk being swallowed whole by the sludge. Too many have become meals, preserved in the muck for unsuspecting outsiders to stumble across on a daring jaunt to our far-flung wastes.

It’s why we’re the People of the Mud. 

One of the reasons, at least.

Big sister, unruly and untamable, always donning a reckless sort of snaggled smile, became one such meal.

The night she was swallowed was like most nights in the wastes. Damp air clung heavy to our skin, its dankness cloying in our lungs. Every breath tasted like a chunk of mud we had to choke down. It felt like we would suffocate in our home, like the very air wanted us to.

Who wouldn’t want to escape? Who wouldn’t want to try?

Big sister hushed me in my hammock when climbing down from her own disturbed me, jostled the tenuous ropes holding us aloft and together. Shh, shh… She pressed her lips to my forehead, gave me her softly crooked smile, and then said, in a conspiratorial whisper, It’ll be our little secret little sister, yes? 

I didn’t get a chance to croak out a response before big sister slipped away, over the slim ledge of our room’s tiny window, which was little more than a slit in the wooden slats of our shack, and into the wastes. Her muck- shucks remained, I noticed at daybreak.

She never returned for them.

Flesh and blood, an elder in the hobbled hut stilted ‘side ours said when it was clear big sister was another meal for the wastes. The mud demands it.

Mother and father said nothing in response to the elder. Nodded, yes, but they kept their mouths shut. Held tighter to their silence than they did big sister. I kept my mouth shut too. Choked down the dank air of our home. Swallowed the bitterness.

I said nothing when no vigil was held. Nothing when I was moved into big sister’s hammock and my old one was filled not a year later by another child. Nothing when big sister’s muck-shucks were pried from my protective hold and broken into bits by father, strung together again by mother. Remade, so carefully, for a smaller pair of pitter-patter feet.

I said nothing when bitterness turned sour and seeping. 

In the swamp, the mud is not the only thing that makes demands, that requires sacrifices. The water, too, has wants. Has hungers. There is a ritual that must be performed before it will let our dead lie.


We must honor the passed with one last memory of a loving touch. Must comfort them a final time, skin to skin, or else risk their disgruntled, starving spirit coming back with a vengeance for what was denied

Flesh and blood. 

This hunger thickens the air, sticks to our skin like soil to muck-shucks. Burrows deep down the backs of our throats and settles solid in our lungs. 

It thrums through our veins. 

It slithers out of the murk and into your hut at night. Up into your hammock. Coils ’round and ’round you till its smooth, scaly touch is all you can feel. 

It sneaks up on you while you’re muck-shucking at dusk. Watches you with beady eyes from razory reeds, saw-tooth grass, biding it’s time till you tempt fate too far and then it is tusks through your soft tissues. 

It is a jagged-jawed maw lying in wait at sundown in the shallows’ shadows. Scaled hide shades of dark red in the day’s dying light. Eyes dim until the moment mother leans too far for the laundry line and topples down into the drink. Till father wades in too deep to rescue her and is sucked under.

It can be a gentle shove too much. A helping hand pressed too hard to mother’s back. A nudge too knowing towards a hopeless rescue. 

Sometimes, it can be a mouth kept shut. A cry for help choked down. Swallowed.

Shh, shh…

The water settles slowly, red ripples staining the surrounding mud. Feeding it. The soggy soil savors the blood as if starved for it. Just above the murky surface, snaggle-toothed snout slinks. Shadows give it a crooked curl, an almost smile. Then, with a single thrash of its reptilian tail, it fades back into the wastes’ muddy maw. Finally able to rest.

Baby sister wriggles in my hold.

“Ma? Da?” She mumble-grumbles, pointing a pudgy finger at the settling murk. “Go?”

Shh….” I soothe her struggling, her searching, my voice less than pacifying from long disuse. “It’s a secret.”

I glance down at the red streaks still swirling in the murk, the bone fragments floating like the broken bits of an old pair of forgotten muck-shucks. They weren’t forgotten.

“Our secret, yes?”


I hope you enjoyed that! This is yet another story inspired by a Twitter prompt. In this case, it is a second draft of a story I published on this blog a while back. It will probably not be the last draft of this story, either. Most of my stories are all works in progress. I’m sure plenty off writers can relate! Anyway, let me know what you think!

Truth Be Told

They die. If you tell the truth. Sometimes slowly, sometimes on the spot. It depends on the truth being told and it’s weight. The heavier it is, the faster it flattens bone into fragment, pulverizes pulse into a bloody pulp. 

The first time it happened was on the morning news, live. The camera panned across a generic studio audience to the show’s co-anchors, your typical man and woman duo. The man was tailored tight into his fancy suit, grin taut across his too- straight teeth. His arm was slung almost casually across the snug settee the pair occupied, his fingertips just skimming his female co-host’s shoulder, something the smug slant of his lips knew and savored. The woman did not smile. Her lips were set in a fine line. She was looking forward, maybe at the audience, perhaps at something beyond, her gaze focused but unknowable. She shrugged off the man’s prompting, probing fingers and scooted towards the edge of her seat, trying to escape his reach. Then, when the studio audience silenced and the show’s theme song died, she told the truth.

It was a crushing truth. A twisted one.

She told that studio audience and roughly several thousand watchers at home, psyching themselves up for their daily doses of drudgery, exactly what bottom line her boss really wanted to discuss with his female employees, herself included. More male employees than not followed their boss’s example, she said. Those who did not were more than willing to look the other way. Clearly, she had not informed her co-host beforehand of this deviation from the usual drivel, his hand he had not removed from her shoulder earlier now almost recoiling from her as if struck. 

The woman probably hoped her revelation would have impact. She probably never believed that it would.

Not two very tense minutes after the reveal though, an intern came barreling into the studio, blubbering and soaked in blood. Every frantic jerk sent red splattering, some into the studio audience which sat stunned until now, perhaps believing the woman’s piece and the boy’s entrance a part of some poorly contrived bit. The screaming started all at once, people flinging themselves frantically over each other to reach the exit in the back. The camera remained fixed on the boy.

He’s dead, the boy managed in between sobs, his voice barely rising over the panicked clamor. He’s dead. I was handing him his coffee, how he liked it. Decaf, two sugars and…. Just blood, there was just blood. He…his body, it… There was just so much…

The boy seemed to succumb to his shock, then, bloodstained hands falling limp and listless at his sides and eyes vacant. His knees gave out next, springing back like over-stretched rubber bands, and he slid to the floor, the syrupy sludge of blood and viscera that formed beneath him making an audible squish at the impact. 

The cameraman, perhaps not knowing what else to do, spun back towards the anchors. The woman’s gaze was still unknowable and focused but now slightly off-center, clearly intent on the boy covered in her boss’s blood. Former boss’s blood. Her male co-anchor was not as affected. In fact, looking back on it, he seemed downright scornful, his smirk a sneer, jaw clenched, and his frame strained beneath his fancy suit. An accusing finger now pointed at the boy collapsed on the ground. 

He should be arrested. The man declared to the several thousand viewers who were no doubt glued to their screens. And, He turned on his co-host, positively scathing. So should you. For libel. Conspiracy. Premeditated murder. Whatever you call this shit. You should be ashamed of yourself.

That broke the woman out of her trance. She turned her sights on her co-host, slow and calculating, spine straightening but head remaining slightly crooked. The slant of her chin was more like a slash, severing shadows and cutting the glare of the studio lights on her skin into pieces, creating a jagged corona around her face. It seemed like the image of that bloodstained boy was embedded in her eyes, her gaze taking on a reddish hue as the camera continued to role.

Ashamed, she said at last. Is that what I should be? 

The camera closed in on the woman. Her red-dyed eyes appeared to glow bright in their sockets, their glare alight and alive. Scorching. 

That’s an interesting observation, Mr. Hands-On. But, She leaned in then, close enough her co-host must’ve been able to hear the click-clack of tooth against tooth as she asked, If I should be ashamed, then what should you be?

The man fell back from her and onto the floor as if shoved out of his seat, shocked and sputtering. His scornful gaze was now considerably softened, almost pleading. Rather than address the man groveling at her heels though, the woman turned her attention to the camera. There was something almost dreamy about her expression, transcendent even. Now, her eyes definitely gleamed, a shiny sharp red. The studio lights made her incandescent, blazing. Her lips twitched, the beginnings of a grin taking form.

If I were you, She stared straight into the eyes of her viewers. I’d be afraid.

On the floor, her co-host followed their former boss’s example for the last time. He twisted like a corkscrew, joints wrenched from their sockets, blood spewing and flesh flying. An arterial spray painted the brazen woman in jagged strokes of crimson, turning her into a living stained glass window. A lone, agonized screech escaped the man before he burst into a pool of bloody sludge, bits of bone and teeth soaring towards the camera. A full smile split across the woman’s face. Her tongue flicked out, licking at a drop of blood caught on the corner of her mouth. For a second, her eyes closed as if savoring the tang. 

Telling the truth never tasted so satisfying.

Very afraid. She rose and started forward. You should be very afraid.

A scream sounded and another spray of blood sliced across the set. And another. And another. Till the camera finally cut out. 

The woman never stopped smiling.


Hey~ I hope you enjoyed my little horror story ^.^ This week’s writing prompt was Censorship. I decided to explore the ways in which women who come forward against their abusers are often not only censured but censured. Women often have their lives ripped apart, everything they’ve ever done dissected. People are looking for reasons for why they deserved what happened to them or for why they may be lying. It’s almost more horrifying than anything I could write because it’s real life. To respond to that censure in some way, I decided to write a story where there are actually consequences for the men who hurt women. I decided to rip mens’ lives apart for a change. I think it came out terribly well. But, let me know your thoughts~

Far Too Many Teeth

They come. They always do. The sea brings them to me. Swallows them up and swishes them from cheek to cheek before spitting them just shy of my shore. The only haven in sight for miles. Mama used to say with a smile. Any port in a storm, my little minnow.

I didn’t understand, at the time, why she smiled so widely nor why it prickled me so. There was an…edge, to her grin. Something cutting in its curl. Sharp. It wouldn’t occur to me why until many years later and many more ships spat ashore. Too much teeth.

I have always called this lonely speck of misbegotten rock in the middle of this surly grey sea home. The only watchful gaze I knew better than Mama’s was that of the storm’s. Mama hated when those stormy eyes found us. Hated that moment of calm that would fall when an eye settled on us. It’s the only time she ever spit back at the sea. 

Any port only works if there’s a storm, after all. 

Even many years after her death, Mama’s teeth still gleam in my mind. Too much. Too many. Like those odd fish that sometimes washed up with the ships and sailors, dragged up from the darkest depths, jaws jagged with needle-point teeth. Yes, just like those fish. They were almost always dead by the time their broken bodies caught on our craggy shore, not made to thrive in the unforgiving world above. 

Mama died on a stormy night like this one. Wind howling across the isle, rain biting skin, battering this sliver of world we call home. A ship skid on the horizon, sails slanted, desperately trying to prevail and failing. 

Sailors are so foolish. Mama chuckled, her smile starting it’s upward slice. They always underestimate the storm. Her power. They think they can make her theirs, my dear minnow. They think they can own her.

On the sea, a strong gale tears through the ship’s sails and its bow sinks low, probably taking on water, same as every other ship lured from its course into our waters. Overheard, thunder beats the sky from blue to black. The faintest of screams begins to join the clamor. Those sailors will be screaming on my shore before the candle in my cabin has the chance to burn halfway. They will die before the light does.

In my memory, Mama’s eyes burn. More like lightning than any candle, so striking and yet so fleeting. They only burned like that when she reeled in the night’s catch. When she gutted bellies, pulled out innards, dyed the sands of our little shore and the long hems of our pilfered muslin dresses a deep, dark red. Anything we couldn’t use, she’d toss back into the sea. Like those odd fish. An offering, she called it.

I guess she believed us blessed.

Foolish, she said that night, licking her teeth clean. To think they can own her. Control her. Storms belong to no one, my little minnow. Remember.

She was right.

The wave that swallowed her flopped over the rocky lip of our shore like a large, languid tongue. It slammed her almost casually into the rocks, jagged edges tearing through fabric and flesh, red bleeding in between the points. She screamed, I remember. A piercing sound. My little minnow! But, I wasn’t so little anymore. Neither were my teeth. Or, my appetite. 

Saliva flooded my mouth and blood thundered in my ears and I remember wondering at the storm brewing inside me.

My little minnow!

I caught the eye of the storm. It was nearly overhead. Mama never liked her gaze. Mama spat in her face and threw her our leftovers. Foolish.

I let the sea have her, the last leftover.

Now, I watch as the ship sinks even lower, draws ever nearer my shore. Once faint screams now overtake the winds’ howling. Thunder and blood thump in my ears. A smile with far too many teeth cuts across my face. 

Storms belong to no one.

©Kelli Hayes


Inspiration Work ~ En La Lejania by Adriana Madrid


I joined the Writers Circle at my library! This week, the group write stories based upon this picture prompt! I thought is was a very inspiring work and I wrote a story that I am quite happy with! I hope you enjoyed this little taste of horror! Definitely look forward to more!

I Don’t Hide From God: Exploring Horror in Hannibal (Season 2)

(Check out my thoughts on season 1 here~)

*As usual, some spoilers ahead…

Usually, every series has seasons that are decidedly better than others. For example, I think it would be hard to argue that season 2 of Arrow (2012-2020) was not a head above the rest or that season 3 of Legend of Korra (2012-2014) did not bounce back hard from the epic failure of its almost unmentionable prior season. It seems to be the natural course of television. When it comes to Hannibal (2013), though, I find it hard to sever one season from the whole. It is such a fluid show, each season bleeding effortlessly into the next. It seems almost discourteous to single any one season out from the rest of this body of work. In regards to horror, though, I think that the second season of the show really emphasizes and articulates the horrific and profane themes introduced in the first season. The second season of Hannibal (2013) is arguably much darker and more dreadful than the first with a strong undercurrent of rage and vengeance propelling much of its plot. The question of “What is evil?” dwells just below the surface of the mind. We wonder just how similar the faces of God and Satan are and, more, how similar their resemblance may be to that of Dr. Hannibal Lecter or, as the series progresses, that of Will Graham. Season two of Hannibal (2013) realizes the bloody consequences of the actions perpetrated in the first season as well as complicates the answers to the moral questions posed throughout the series. This makes for a season that is both physically and psychologically gruesome.

What stands out to me most about this season is the interplay between perception and belief, between knowing and unknowing, believing and disbelieving, light and dark. In this way, the whole season feels like a kind of back-and-forth game. There’s an almost dark playfulness to the interchanges that occur throughout the season. We know more lies below the surface of these exchanges. The figures of Hannibal and Will become representative of these binaries, weaving together and apart, each character a foil and complement of the other. This puts them in symbolic conflict, something noted through the series through visual cues and their positioning within scenes. For example, Hannibal is often shadowed, his face like an idol, a symbolic godhead, the only thing visible which is representative of his almost Luciferian role throughout the show. Shadows also creep and bleed over scenes and characters, symbolizing Hannibal’s influence. When Will is receiving “therapy” from Hannibal, scenes often grow darker, leaving Will shadowed. Other characters such as Randall Tier (“Shiizakana”), a former patient of Hannibal’s, also appear in swaths of shadow to seemingly demonstrate Hannibal’s influence upon their actions. In contrast, Will is often shown in brighter spaces, his cell at the asylum and his cell-box in the visiting room both appearing under starker lighting. The labs where crimes are laid bare for observation also exist under unapologetic and unforgiving light. This lighting can fluctuate, though, such as when Will and the orderly attending him conspire to murder Hannibal or when Beverly Katz discovers a clue that implicates Hannibal in the Chesapeake Ripper’s crimes. In those scenes, the lighting is considerably dimmer and darkening, seemingly implying his influence and how Hannibal is always in control of the situation, even when you think he’s not. Especially when you think he’s not. 

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me break down a bit more of the season and the aspects of it that I believe serve to construct it’s creeping sense of dread and horror. 

When the second season opens, we are with Will in the cell that Hannibal ensured he would call home at the end of last season. Will’s fear from last season of not being let out of Dr. Chilton’s asylum for the criminally insane has been realized. Will appears to us in a state of constraint. We quickly realize how tenuous that constraint is, in more ways than one. Unlike in the last season where Will’s consciousness was compromised by Hannibal choosing not to treat his encephalitis which was causing lost time and mini seizures, in this season Will is terribly sane from the start. Almost cold and calculating. More, he is clearly and rightfully (righteously?) angry. It is a bitter and vindictive anger but also a resigned one? Will is being accused of the Chesapeake Ripper’s crimes after being framed by Hannibal — who actually is the killer. It is something Will knows for sure, can finally see. Unfortunately, Hannibal has “backed Will into a corner”, so to speak. This is where we first begin to feel that this season will be a game, one of perceptions and persuasions, ebb and flow. Hannibal made his moves last season and now it is Will’s turn to make his moves — and he does.

Even being confined as he is, Will is able to sow the seed of doubt in Dr. Chilton’s mind about Hannibal’s culpability (with the help of Gideon, the formerly accused Chesapeake Ripper) and conspire with an orderly (sympathetic enough to his plight to kill a bailiff in his trial) to kill Hannibal. While neither move is successful, it does demonstrate Will’s own growing moral ambiguity as well as his increasing willingness to kill someone who he believes is guilty and deserving. We see Will developing his own sense of justice in this unjust world. It is also the first inkling we see of Will’s transformation, his “becoming”.

There is an interesting interplay between confinement and freedom that occurs while Will is locked up that seems to further emphasize the importance of perception. Almost every shot of Will while he is in his cell is shot from his perspective, placing the characters who visit him behind the bars looking out, not so subtly conveying to viewers that those characters are actually the ones being constrained by false beliefs. In this case, their misinformed beliefs in Hannibal’s innocence and Will’s guilt. This perspective also demonstrates Will’s own frame of mind, indicating to viewers that he perceives himself to be free in comparison to those still unknowingly under Hannibal’s influence. The only time we really see Will physically constrained is when he is in the visiting room cell-box. Whenever he is in this box, he is, first, always on display and always being accused of crimes or actions he did not perpetrate. This framing further conveys to viewers how constrained Will feels by Hannibal’s lies. It is interesting that, when Hannibal comes to visit Will and profess that he believes them to be “friends”, Will states that the “light of friendship” will never reach them in “a million years”. The shot is also shadowed and and depicts Will behind bars, further connecting both aspects with Hannibal.

The early emphasis on perspective prepares viewers for the latter half of the series which essentially becomes a battle or game of perceptions, played out almost entirely between Will and Hannibal. That said, there are some interesting plays made by other characters that complicate this central conflict. Personally, I really like how Hannibal (2013) uses its supporting cast to create tension and suspense. All characters have a purpose and none are superfluous. Often, characters in Hannibal are used to reveal and conceal information, knowing or unknowing of their position “on the board”. Much of the horror of this season is generated amongst the supporting cast. In fact, it is while Will is being confined that we come across one of the most truly chilling scenes in this season and the one that I feel really sets the rest of the season’s action into motion. It occurs between Will and Dr. Bedilia Du Maurier, who was Hannibal Lecter’s psychiatrist until she chose to discontinue their therapy this season. No referrals either. Before Dr. Du Maurier, played by the wonderful Gillian Anderson, departs to parts unknown, she visits Will at the asylum. During this visit, she oversteps the safety line directing visitors to stand back from the cells. This triggers a security alarm. Probably, Dr. Du Maurier triggered this alarm on purpose so that Dr. Chilton, who has bugged his asylum with listening devices, will not hear the message she has for Will. This message is a succinct whisper: “I believe you.” It is a chilling line because of what it conveys — that she believes Will’s accusations against Hannibal. She believes Will is not crazy. Not guilty. It vindicates Will. Someone else sees.

For me, this scene not only serves to reinforce the importance of perception this season but also it is the first scene that seemingly addresses the influence over others that Hannibal exercises to maintain control. As mentioned, something quite horrifying about this season in particular is how it portrays the concept of control as this creeping shadowy current, unnoticed and unrecognizable until you are swept up so deeply within it that you cannot possibly escape. Both Will and Dr. Du Maurier are completely aware of this current that is consuming them. This contrasts with characters like Dr. Alana Bloom who begins sleeping with Hannibal and is subsequently depicted as being swallowed whole by dark waters, slithering across her skin and down her throat, drowning her. This depiction is somewhat similar to how in last season Will, suffering from Hannibal’s “treatment”, felt swallowed. Usually, those who become aware of this shadowy current are, well, consumed. Hannibal likes to toy with his prey, to “see what will happen”. Dr. Du Maurier points out later in the series, when she is dragged up from her hiding place by the FBI, that if you think you are ever in control, it is because that is exactly what Hannibal wants you to think.


 Hannibal’s uncanny ability to convince people to unknowingly play his game of “what will happen” is described by Dr. Du Maurier not as manipulation but as influence, persuasion. In this way, Hannibal is set up as a kind of unstoppable force. It’s deeply unsettling and reinforces the idea of Hannibal being this “devil on your shoulder”. But, it’s more insidious because Hannibal doesn’t necessarily care so much that you choose “evil” so much as he cares that he has played a role in controlling or constraining your choices. It’s something akin to godly that he strives for. In this season, Hannibal really becomes this manifestation of destruction — the kind of destruction from which creation sprouts.

This creates an interesting dynamic between the characters of Will and Hannibal who are not so much faithful representatives of two binaries as they are representative of different intentions propelling similar objectives. (Does that make sense?) Will wants to destroy Hannibal because of the chaos Hannibal has created whereas Hannibal wants to destroy Will so that Will can be recreated. The end goal for both characters is destruction but for different purposes. It makes it difficult to really support one character over the other. In fact, it feels increasingly wrong to support either character as the season progresses, especially once Will and Hannibal begin introducing new pawns into their game. Hannibal sends Randall Tier after Will and Will sends Mason Verger (and his pigs) after Hannibal. Tier ends up dead and Verger maimed. Countless casualties build up. Before then, Dr. Chilton is murdered by Miriam Lass (both victims of the Chesapeake Ripper) and Beverly Katz is also murdered by Hannibal when she figures out that Will was right about his accusations of Hannibal being the Chesapeake Ripper.

The scene in which Beverly is killed particularly emphasizes the destructive force that Hannibal represents. On Will’s hunch, she investigates Hannibal’s home (while he is supposed to be away that night) for human remains and ultimately finds evidence in his basement stores (literally in the belly of the beast). In this scene, the basement is swallowed in shadows and from these shadows, we see the outline of Hannibal appear. He stands on the threshold between the stairs and the basement, illuminated from the back. This makes him appear wholly in darkness, the lighting from behind giving him an unholy halo. The scene places his appearance just over Beverly’s left shoulder, now visually making him the devil on your shoulder. Beverly, as if sensing his presence, turns to meet Hannibal’s shadowed profile just as he spurs into action and we cut away. Two gunshots go off, one exiting through the floorboards of Hannibal’s dining room. The next we see Beverly, she has been killed and dissected for Will to find. (“Mukozuke”) It’s deeply disturbing and really makes Hannibal seem like this not only unstoppable destructive force but also an unapologetic and unforgiving one. Hannibal killed and displayed Beverly the way he did to cause maximum pain for those he knew would discover her. This doesn’t feel like a game; it feels personal. The only parallel this scene has is the one in which the orderly Will asked to kill Hannibal almost succeeds in crucifying him, which occurs as a direct consequence of this murder. It’s a brutal and merciless scene, Hannibal turned into a bastardized version of the passion of the Christ. In this way, that scene almost seems like retribution for the indignity of Beverly’s murder. It’s very biblical in that “eye for an eye” way, underlining the focus of this season on the exploration of the nature of good and evil through Will and Hannibal’s relationship.

On that note, I believe it’s time to discuss the Wendigo. The Wendigo appeared at the end of last season, killing and devouring the stag Will had been envisioning. This stag is a fairly clear representation of Will whereas the Wendigo is a representation of Hannibal. The creature can best be described as Hannibal’s avatar, the two often sharing the same placement within Will’s mind. The Wendigo becomes visually aligned with Hannibal, literally appearing in his shadow at the end of last season. Throughout this season, it becomes a devilish motif, it’s antlers like horns and it’s form rather similar to depictions of Satan as a hooved beast. We often see the Wendigo take the place of Hannibal in several shots, the two almost superimposed. In Will’s visions, the Wendigo will often appear out of the shadows whenever Hannibal’s influence is sensed. As the series progresses, the Wendigo also comes to represent Will’s own darkest desires. As he wades deeper into the current, to try to bait and lure Hannibal for capture, Will’s own actions and intentions become more morally questionable. In fact, Will even envisions himself turning into a Wendigo, antlers protruding from his skin and shadows overwhelming him, swallowing him whole. In this way, the Wendigo becomes symbolic of not just consumption and destruction but also creation and transformation. We even see the Wendigo depicted as Shiva at one point, the god of destruction and creation in Hinduism. (“Ko No Mono”) In the last season, we saw the unbecoming of Will. This season, we see the becoming of Will and we come to wonder at whether he will be a monster or not. Will he help Jack Crawford capture Hannibal or will he help Hannibal escape? We have seen with who Hannibal is aligned but with who is Will aligned?

The becoming or, as some might say, the deconstructing of Will is quite compelling. It brings into question whether one must be a monster to capture a monster but also into question whether monstrous actions can be negated if done in pursuit of a just cause. Was it right for Will to kill and mutilate Randall Tier as a means of securing Hannibal’s trust? To manipulate Hannibal into believing that he also murdered and ate tabloid journalist extraordinaire Freddie Lounds? Arguably, that depends on your perception of the word “right”. Throughout this season, Will and Hannibal focus their discussions on the nature of God, necessitating further pondering on both good and evil. Both Will and Hannibal’s actions seem to naturally coincide with these discussions. During a discussion with Hannibal (because of course Will resumed his therapy) about killing, Will reveals that it feels good to hurt bad people. That it makes him feel powerful. It mirrors a discussion he and Hannibal had last season about God wherein Hannibal professed that killing must make God feel powerful. Why else would He drop church roof after church roof on His parishioners? It is understood by viewers that Hannibal believes that killing makes him feel powerful. In this way, like Lucifer, Hannibal deifies himself. He believes that one can become God — through killing. In this way, Hannibal’s cannibalism is a divine act. He is honoring his victims by eating them, devouring them so that they may become part of this transformative process, absorbed into the body of God. 


While I find the the set up of the main conflict as a kind of game of cunning to be engaging and compelling at points, I also find it to be quite disturbing. Hannibal and Will move through the lives of each other with destructive force. I mentioned Beverly Katz and Mason Verger earlier but Margot Verger, Jack Crawford, Alana Bloom, and Abigail (who was presumed dead last season) all become swept up in the carnage. Will and Hannibal become so focused on themselves and their game that nothing else seemingly matters. We, like Will, want to believe that he is doing what he does to apprehend Hannibal but several of his actions do make us question his conviction. Will even calls Hannibal to let him know that “They know.”, a callback to last season when Hannibal called Garrett Jacob Hobbs to alert the killer that the FBI was on the way. This almost completes Will’s transformation into Garrett Jacob Hobbs, into a killer, that Will envisioned last season. It’s tantalizing, yes, but truly horrific to see the transformation and becoming of Will Graham into the very monster he has been hunting. 

In the final “battle royale” of the season, we see Hannibal and Jack Crawford face off in Hannibal’s kitchen. Hannibal corners a seemingly mortally wounded Jack (“In the pantry”) when Alana shows up at the house to confront Hannibal. She finally sees him foe who he is and attempts to flee only for Abigail to appear alive and shove Alana out a window. Will arrives in time to call an EMT before his confrontation with the doctor. Dark clouds unleash pouring rain upon him, foreshadowing what is to come. During this final confrontation, Hannibal cuts Abigail’s throat and slices Will’s abdomen, both physically and psychologically gutting him. Killing people, choosing who lives and dies, is something Hannibal believes makes him God. Consuming people is a way to honor those he kills and a way to assert dominance over those he believes to be no better than pigs. Hannibal tells Will, “I don’t hide from God.” And yet, in this moment, Hannibal takes no part of his victims nor goes to any great lengths to ensure they are dead. This is clearly not about power. “I let you know me.” Hannibal tells Will instead, seeming to imply that the betrayal of that trust is the reason for his anger. That betrayal subsumes any other beliefs. Without “the light of friendship”, there is only darkness. It mirrors Will’s own feelings of betrayal from the end of last season, seemingly confirming that the these two characters have reached a stalemate. Hannibal leaves his home and all the people he once considered “friends” bleeding out, their blood like dark water, a shadowy current creeping across the floor.

Season two of Hannibal (2013) is decidedly more gruesome and gory that its prior season, the brutal and bitter confrontation started in the last season reaching its crescendo. Revenge and rage propel this story forward while betrayal and subterfuge keep it aloft, keep us questioning. Last season we were concerned with seeing but this season we are both afraid and yearning to know. To know the monster beside us. Within us. To look in the face of God and smile at the resemblance. I think what is most horrifying about this season of Hannibal (2013) is not that it compels us to question what we think we know about ourselves but that it makes us question who controls what we think we know about ourselves. Because there is always someone in control and if we think there isn’t, that is exactly what they want us to believe. 


I had so much trouble writing this. Even now, I’m not totally happy with how it has turned out. When it comes down to it, I had far too many ideas about this season of Hannibal and too little time to organize my feelings about these ideas. As soon as I start to think about this show, I find it almost impossible to reduce it to any set of influences or ideas. It overwhelms me, something I believe is apparent in this review. If you take anything from this, I hope that the overwhelming and unstoppable force of this show and its characters comes through. I would love to hear your thoughts and main takeaways on this show, particularly on this season.

The Monster You Know: Why Cujo (1981) is Terrifying

*As always, some spoilers ahead~

Now, I’d like to state for the record that I’ve never been especially afraid of dogs. I’ve always maintained a healthy respect for them and the predators they once were for sure. When it comes to large dogs, I’ve always been cautious of getting too close, of letting them pounce on me. As a little girl, I did have some terrible recurring visions of a large dog knocking me to the ground, scratching or biting my face in the fall. When you’re a child, dogs can be so large, their teeth so potentially sharp. Suffice to say, I never grew up in a house with a dog. (We’ve always been cat people, tbh.) Again, though, I’d like to emphasize that while I may have some anxieties related to man’s best friend, I’d never classify myself as phobic. I know dogs are not inherently violent nor do they have any overtly violent intentions. When a large dog jumps on you, it’s most likely because they are excited. It’s part of how they show affection. If a dog scares you, they probably don’t mean to. Unless that dog belongs in a Stephen King novel and their name is Cujo. Then, they might just want to terrify you.

I went into Cujo (1981) not so much afraid of encountering a rabid dog but afraid I couldn’t handle the violence that would undoubtedly befall this poor, titular dog. The book was written in 1981 and I greatly feared and anticipated what animal abuse I may encounter in its pages. I should’ve feared the dog more. Again, I’m not especially afraid of dogs and yet I found this book scary because of how familiar the monster in it’s pages is. I feared how probable the monster could be. That kind of horror, that fear of the mundane and how easily it can become menacing, is what struck me most about Cujo (1981). It’s horror is not only still prevalent and prescient but so deeply potential. I went into this book prepared to be more sympathetic for its monster and instead I found myself terribly compelled by the potential for what we hold most dear to become that which we fear most. Please, let me tell you why Cujo (1981) is terrifying.

Like most of King’s works, this story opens on a seemingly mundane family in a seemingly mundane Maine town. Castle Rock, in this case. In the past, there was a serial killer named Frank Dodd who operated in the area but that human monster is dead and time moves on. Every town needs a boogie man anyway. A monster to hide in children’s closets and compel them to be good or else.

At the core of this story, there are two families. The up-and-coming Trenton family who moved to Castle Rock from NYC contrasts with the considerably poorer Chambers family, who are clearly living by the skin of their teeth. Vic Trenton has ensured he is able to bring home the bread and then some to his family through an as-of-yet lucrative advertising business. His wife, Donna, doesn’t need to work and their son, Tad, has only one worry: the aforementioned monster in his closet. On the flip side, Joe Chambers is a blue collar, blue blood, mechanic who lives on the outskirts of the outskirts of town. Charity, his wife, has lived an anything but charitable existence unless you count her husband’s charity in not beating her every single night. No, instead he just ensures she can never stray too far from his reach, refusing to allow her the freedom to visit her sister Holly in Connecticut. Chambers’ son, Brett, spends his days helping his father in seeming preparation to follow in his work-boot steps. The only tangible affection that exists between father and son may just be Cujo, a much-desired gift acquired after an auto repair was traded on a fancy car was traded for a dog’s lifetime of discounted food. As Cujo would grow to be a 200-lb St. Bernard, this was a very savvy deal. 

Anyway, if you couldn’t tell, the Trentons and the Chambers couldn’t be more different. Though class conflicts don’t really come to the forefront per say, the different opportunities or lack thereof available to each family +  the qualities of life of each family do ultimately contribute in different ways to the central conflict. The family”s paths cross when Vic Trenton’s fancy jag becomes in need of a repair that could be quite expensive at a town-side mechanic. Vic received a recommendation for Joe Chambers and has his family tag along on the trip out. It is on this initial venture that we meet Cujo. While Tad is entranced and Vic finds the dog harmless, Donna is immediately frightened by Cujo and does not want her son to interact with the large dog. Perhaps she senses the potential for danger, some remnant of women’s intuition spurring her strong aversion? In the 1983 movie, Cujo has already been scratched by the rabies-carrying bat, leaving a nasty wound on his nose which could have been a warning sign to Donna of trouble to come. In the book, though, the Trentons meet Cujo prior to him being infected, leaving the reason for Donna’s initial fear more speculative. Being that Cujo is a 200 lb. St. Bernard, it could just be a remnant of primordial fear for a beast coming too close to her offspring. Regardless, this first meeting goes without issue, making Donna’s reaction seem unnecessary. What is does do though is provide readers the association of fear with the dog. Intangible, illogical fear. We don’t know exactly why, but we’re afraid. Same as with the monster in Tad’s closet. (An association that we will touch on.)

After this meeting, the book walks us through several circumstances that occur between both families that will ultimately culminate in a kind of “perfect storm”. Firstly, Cujo goes chasing after a hare and gets scratched on the nose by a rabid bat. Readers are also let to believe that the subterranean cave Cujo gets his head stuck in and has his fateful meeting with the bat may also be the dumping ground for aforementioned serial killer Fred Dodd. The floor of this subterranean cave is littered with the bones of creatures who could not escape its grasp, both associating the ultimate consequences of what occurs within the cave with death as well as foreshadowing the situation Donna and Tad will find themselves in later in the book.

Additionally, during this time, readers discover that Donna was having an affair with a jerk-off “stripper” (I.e antiques refurbisher) named Kemp. (She breaks it off fairly early on though, much to Kemp’s displeasure.) Vic suspects the affair which adds to the stress he is experiencing from his job — a recent product (Zingers) from the Sharp Cereals company for which his small business does advertising caused a severe reaction in many young consumers. The red dye used to give the newly released cereal a bright, cherry hue is indigestible and causes several children to experience gastrointestinal issues. When they vomit, it looks like blood. Not great. It’s a PR nightmare and the advertising campaign Vic and his business partner Roger created for the product and the company does not help matters. (I.e. A “Nothing wrong here” slogan is a bad one for this situation.) So, Vic is not only (rightly) concerned that his wife is having an affair but he is also worried he will lose a large customer which could tank his business and leave his family in financial turmoil. Tad, meanwhile, is growing increasingly concerned with the monster in his closet, fearing what will happen when it starts creeping further out of the closet, towards his bed. It’s glowing red eyes and sulfurous smell linger in his mind. Even Donna can somewhat feel it’s presence, again sensing something is “off”, catching a whiff of sulfur that shouldn’t be in her son’s closet, a hint of the monster. To ward off his son’s fears, Vic is essentially forced to create a kind of chant/prayer to say with Tad before bed every night, a ritual that seems to keep the monster at bay. These “Monster Words” become something Tad holds onto in times of great fear.

As for the Chambers family, things are also in flux. Charity has won the lottery — $5k and she plans to use this money as leverage to get her possessive husband to let her go visit her sister, Holly. Joe doesn’t like Holly and her lawyer-husband and perfect family seemingly because they reflect everything the Chambers’ blue collar lifestyle lacks. He finds them shallow. Charity, though, thinks they offer Brett a glimpse into a better life, a better life for himself. After much argument, she managed to strike a bargain, allowing herself and Brett to go see her sister the upcoming weekend in exchange for the money. Meanwhile, Cujo is fully succumbing to rabies and the rabid urges flowing through him. He keeps imagining hurting people, tearing them limb from limb. Killing to kill. In the book, he battles these urges but it seems some unseen or supernatural force is slowly consuming him. Based on how Cujo contracted rabies paired with Tad’s recurring red-eyed monster, I believe it’s safe to say that we are meant to believe that Cujo is being possessed, in part, by the evil and murderous spirit of Dodd. At the very least, the rabies is meant to be symbolic of the primordial predator, the beast that has stalked our nightmares since ancient times, the creature that kills to kill. Because of their upcoming escape to her sister’s, though, Charity convinces her son not to alert Joe that Brett suspects anything is wrong with Cujo till they’re safely away. This means that when Brett encounters an almost entirely rabid Cujo on their property the morning they are supposed to leave, he says nothing. So, Cujo is swallowed by the morning fog, free to go fully rabid.


Back at the Trentons’ place, things have also begun going downhill. When Vic confronts Donna about the possibility of an affair, she outright confesses to sleeping with Kemp — stressing, though, that she ended it because she loves her family. As Vic needs to leave on an urgent business trip with Roger to do major damage control and hopefully save his livelihood, he doesn’t really have time to hash things out with Donna, leaving them and us in limbo, uncertain about the future and wondering at how tenuous our futures can be. This also leaves Donna as an interestingly unlikable character (which contrasts with how likable Cujo was at first). We’re placed in this position to almost want something bad to happen to Donna – something I believe makes us feel all the more anxious later on in the story, as though we also contributed to the circumstances that led to Donna’s fate.

Anyway, Charity + Brett Chambers exit left while Vic exits right. 

Donna may have also tried to make an exit if not for one key detail on which the entirety of the plot hinges — her old Pinto is desperately clinging to life. The auto shop in town charges a small fortune (that the Trenton family, in their tenuous position) cannot exactly afford right now while the car dealership is located in New Paris, way too far for the Pinto to even dream of making. While Vic, from the hotel, urges Donna to call the dealership to pick up the car (he’ll find a way to pay for it), Donna doesn’t want to cause anymore hardship. She feels so guilty already. So, she decides she’s going to go out to the Chambers’ property and handle this small thing. They fixed the jag right quick and they can probably do the same for the Pinto. Even though she’s afraid of Cujo and uncomfortable around Joe Chambers, she figures she can suffer that much and have one less thing for Vic to worry about when he comes home. She was going to leave Tad with a babysitter but Tad outright refuses to stay at the home with the monster in his closet. More, he refuses to let his mom go without him. He can see the red eyes coming for them, smell how near the monster is. He’d rather they both stay at the house where Vic tacked up the Monster Words but Donna is determined and so, with the Monster Words Tad untacked from the wall in hand and a small boxed lunch Donna prepared to hold them over for the afternoon this errand was supposed to take, they make the unfortunate trip out to the Chambers’ property in the middle of nowhere, entirely unprepared for and unsuspecting of the doom that awaits them. 

As they go, King makes a point to emphasize how isolated the Chambers property is from civilization. There’s nothing but uncultivated land and unpaved roads. Ramshackle dwellings dot the land with miles between them. Unattended children in dirty diapers remind us of how careless these neighbors are, of how careless nature can be. In the movie, overgrown foliage and a small mound of trash obscured the Pervier property from Donna’s view as she drives by. The Pervier property is the closest to the Chambers’ and is home to uncouth, honorably-discharged-injured-in-the-line-of-duty-and-oh-so-bitter veteran Gary Pervier, seemingly only friend of Joe. Gary had planned to spend the weekend gambling with Joe and Joe’s newfound money. Unfortunately for Gary, Cujo found him first and tore out his throat. More unfortunately, when Joe went looking for Gary that morning, Cujo was still in Gary’s basement, awaiting his next victim. 
This is a particularly chilling scene in the book. Joe is hesitantly creeping through Gary’s shadowed house when he notices a dark blob on the floor in the living room, a dark stain spread out beneath it. Initially, he thinks either Gary is still passed out from drinking the other night or it’s Cujo, who Joe could not locate last night or this morning. Brett and Charity had not called about their concerns over Cujo yet. When Joe discovers Gary’s body and notes the torn throat, he understands instantly that Cujo has gone rabid. He runs for the phone in the kitchen and because it’s the 80’s, begins rapidly thumbing through the phone book for animal control. So rapid is his search and labored his breathing, that he doesn’t hear Cujo nose open the door to the darkened basement behind him until it’s too late. All Joe hears is a rumbling growl and all he sees is a brief glimpse of red eyes before he too becomes another victim, throat torn out. Good riddance.

Perhaps if Donna had been able to see the gaping hole torn into Gary’s screen door on her way to the Chambers’ or any of the blood just beyond the doorway, she may have known something was wrong. But of course she doesn’t. So, unbeknownst to Donna, she drives straight into the beast’s lair, the Pinto dying just as she reaches the Chambers’ property, a smidge away from the garage. She figures Joe can’t ignore the car now that it’s right outside his front door.

Since no one answered the phone all morning, Donna figures Charity + Brett probably went into town and Joe is in the garage. She makes to get out of the car, noting the eerie silence as she does. It’s too quiet. Just as she begins to consider what that could mean, Cujo appears. He’s covered in Gary + Joe’s blood, foaming at the mouth, and his eyes are a murderous blood red. They latch onto Donna, “The Woman” as Cujo thinks of her, and in that moment, the two become mortal enemies. Perhaps Cujo had a kind of preternatural knowledge that Donna was responsible for the incessant, headache-inducing calls at the house all morning or perhaps the spirit of Dodd possessing him saw a vulnerable woman and went ballistic or maybe it was just cruel fate but all of Cujo’s hate and rage are now directed at Donna. 

Cujo rushes the car and Donna frantically climbs inside, shutting the door just before Cujo slams into it. He growls, biting and scratching at the door, the scraping sound almost screaming. Or, maybe that’s just Donna and Tad screaming. Donna pushes a panicking Tad out of the way to roll up the windows as Cujo ferociously tries to get at them. Cujo slams and slams into the car, banging on it with his paws, growling all the while as Donna and Tad curl up inside. The car rocks but holds. Tad clutches the Monster Words in his pocket that he brought from home, hoping they will work now to banish this beast. But they don’t. Donna and Tad are now trapped in a dead car in the middle of nowhere with a 200 lb. rabid dog as their only company and with no way to contact anyone for help. They have little food and, as we learn, this is about to be the hottest summer on record for Maine. Donna hopes the mailman will come soon or that someone will see the quick note she scrawled in the kitchen about going to fix the Pinto but what she doesn’t know is that Joe put a hold on the Chambers’ mail starting THAT day and that the note she scrawled at the house would be erased by a jaded Kemp, who came by to harass her but ultimately ended up trashing the place when he found it empty. More to the point, this property damage paired with Vic’s knowledge of the affair with Kemp would sidetrack the investigation into their disappearance for an additional day once Vic realized something was wrong when no one answered the phone at home after almost 48 hrs. Brett and Charity also drag their feet calling neighbors to check on Cujo, battling their own more domestic demons.

Ultimately, Donna and a quickly deteriorating Tad end up in this mortal conflict with Cujo, a standoff in the sweltering Maine summer in a car that quickly becomes an oven in the heat, for an estimated four fucking days. It’s a nightmare scenario, horribly imagined, perfectly crafted. Every piece of both the Trentons‘ and the Chambers’ separately complex lives unified to create this situation. The trepidation and dread builds with each awful revelation that help is being delayed or sidetracked. It’s horrifyingly satisfying. Donna and Tad are trapped and like those unfortunate creatures in that subterranean cave where Cujo was infected, they will die if they cannot find an opening. Unfortunately, that opening keeps becoming smaller and smaller.


Again, it all comes together is such a satisfying cruel way.

What I find most compelling overall is the central conflict in this story. Though seemingly simple on paper, it speaks to so many of our most deeply human fears. Though we imagine ourselves to be these apex predators, that position is tenuous at best. Any shift could tip the balance at any moment. We are confronted by this realty and the inherently mercurial nature of the universe in the form of a large, rabid dog. In this scenario, we are Donna and we are finding out in the worst way possible that we are not the predators we imagined ourselves to be. We never were. Survival is not a guarantee. It is and has always been something we must fight for — to the death if necessary. For me, this story taps into that most ancient need and the fear that propels it. Cujo (1981) is a compounding of all our most primal fears, this story a microcosm through which to explore what we do if placed in a life-or-death situation against an overwhelming foe — a foe we’ve let inside our lives because we foolishly believed we could tame nature.

I am in that car with Donna and I’m terrified. The world beyond is vicious and blood-thirsty. It wants to harm me and my young. As a reader, I’m thrust into this bitter us-or-them situation, wondering what I’d be willing or able to do under such stressful circumstances. Could I kill to kill? Would I?

And, it’s SO easy to be in that car. As in King’s The Shining (1977), the bare bones of the plot are scary in large part because of their plausibility. In The Shining (1977), it is the very real possibility of isolation turning a man into a monster that leaves us wondering just how much of the threat in the Overlook hotel was supernatural. In Cujo (1981), all of the circumstances that create this “perfect storm” are very real threats today — the obvious being rabid animals, intense heatwaves, car troubles, etc. and the underlying being dysfunctional relationships, abusive partners, bad business breaks, poorly developed infrastructure, wealth inequality, etc. All of these issues appear to some degree in Cujo (1981) and all of them are still present threats that could spiral out of control, becoming our own “red-eyed monster” creeping out of the closet. For me, at least, that is what makes Cujo (1981) so terrifying. Regardless of whether or not there is a supernatural element to the story, the plausible reality of it instills fear. 

The hopeless quality of the book’s (1981) ending, I think, also captures another level of this fear, perhaps the deepest level of this fear. In the book, Tad dies. Not because of Cujo or any other red-eyed monster. He died from heat exhaustion complicated by fatigue and dehydration. Even though Donna finds her courage and her will to survive and does challenge Cujo to a life or death battle that she comes out of victorious, it doesn’t matter. Even though Vic realizes in the midst of the investigation where his wife, son, and the faulty Pinto must be and heads over to the Chambers’ property, he is too late. It’s an unfortunate reality of survival — not everyone can make it. Also, one can do everything right or everything possible and still lose. It’s the horrifying reality and I feel like it is demonstrated very well in this novel.

Donna is motivated to survive largely because she wants to protect her son. Even though she feels guilty about betraying Vic and definitely feels like she’s being deservedly punished (she’snot – this is clearly overkill and if you think otherwise, you can fight me), she adamantly refuses to die before she can save Tad. In the movie, her efforts pay off and she is able to revive and save Tad (for some reason this was decided to be the more impactful ending????). The book, I believe, more closely mirrors reality though in that it is cruel and unforgiving. There is no bargaining with the universe, with a rabid dog, with an unrelenting heatwave. No amount of Monster Words can assuage such horrors. It’s a brutal realization and I think it hits it’s mark in this story.

Cujo (1981) draws a great deal of power from taking everyday horrors and cranking them up to an eleven. It emphasizes how tenuous our safety truly is at any given moment and how easily it can be put in jeopardy. We are all one bad relationship, one bad car day, one rabid dog away from crisis. We take the assurance of our survival for granted, not realizing we could so easily become another animal trapped at the bottom of a subterranean cave or within the confines of a powerless car, as the case may be. We place chairs in front of closet doors and write prayers, hoping they will  be enough to hold the monsters back. We make promises to never cheat again, promises to be grateful for the lives we have. We hope that all these actions are not pointless. That survival is not pointless. We try not to be afraid that, in spite of these precautions, it is. That’s all we can do and maybe, we believe, maybe it’ll be enough. We hope never have to find out either way.


Hey~ I hope you enjoyed that brief walk through my thoughts on Cujo (1981). I recently read this book and it left quite an impression on me. I thought nothing of King’s could scare me as much as The Shining (1977) or Pet Sematary (1983) but I was delightfully and horrifyingly wrong. I hope I captured even the slightest bit of the terror I experienced while reading this novel. If you enjoyed this analysis, do look forward to more reviews of King’s works in the near future~

HACKSAW: Exploring Horror in Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile (2019)

*As always, some spoilers ahead….

I was not planning on writing a review for this movie. I wasn’t planning on watching this movie. While I love true crime, I don’t usually love any adaptations of it (Mindhunters clearly excluded). I find most media adaptations of true crime to be either wildly inaccurate or to miss “the point” entirely. While I do enjoy the mental exercise of exploring a serial killer’s mindset or ethos, I find that most media adaptions do not capture a serial killer’s ethos so much as they serve to glorify or idolize the killers and/or their crimes. More often than not, a serial killer is positioned as if they were a rock-star rather than a brutal murderer, their crimes portrayed as these jewels in a bloody crown. Victims are also often entirely dehumanized by being treated as secondary characters in their own murders if acknowledged at all which greatly troubles me. For me (and probably many others), I don’t like true crime because I worship perpetrators of violence and pain as being a “step above the rest”. I treat my interest in true crime as an act of bearing witness, a continuing observance for victims, ensuring that they are not forgotten and the crimes their perpetrators committed against them are not forgotten. True crime reminds me of the value of every individual life. For that reason, I find most adaptions of true crime stories to be shallow pantomimes or shameless cash-grabs, profiting off of the pain and suffering of victims and their communities. In many ways, I find Extremely Wicked, Shockingly Evil and Vile (2019) to be as guilty of these sins as Ted Bundy was of brutally killing 30+ women. As far as a true crime tribute movie goes, this was a dud for me. In terms of horror, though, this movie does create some truly horrifying moments I’d like to discuss.

In this review, I’m going to try to tread lightly. My focus is mainly going to be on how the film creates these tense, dread-inducing moments for viewers. Again, I do not think the movie itself is horrifying nor are the portrayals of Ted Bundy by Zac Efron or Liz Kendall by Lily Collins particularly note-worthy but I do think the film crafted some deeply unsettling scenes. Much of the horror in these scenes I want to discuss does rely on viewers having some background knowledge in Bundy’s crimes so, fair warning, I will briefly discuss those crimes throughout as respectfully as possible. 


“As we all binge The Bundy Tapes on @Netflix and share the trailer for the Zac Efron movie, please remember the victims. These women all had hopes and dreams. They should all have movies made about them. I always try to remember what these monsters took away.” Known Victims of Ted Bundy from Billy Jensen

Here we go~

This movie mainly revolves around the “relationship” between Ted Bundy and Liz Kendall, a divorcee and a woman Bundy dated briefly during his time as an active serial killer. (The name Liz Kendall appears to be one of a number of aliases for Elizabeth Kloepfer.) Liz has a young daughter that Bundy also interacts with, acting as a pseudo-father figure. For context, prior to meeting Liz, Bundy is already suspected of having murdered anywhere from a couple – several women. To this day, it’s a bit uncertain but we can confirm that he had already murdered women by 1974 and he started seeing Liz in ‘69. Being that Bundy has confessed to 30+ murders, it seems relatively safe to assume that he was murdering and assaulting women throughout his relationship with Liz. I’m pointing this out because the movie dies not focus on Bundy’s crimes. In fact, the movie is almost entirely told from Liz’s perspective. And, seemingly, she has no knowledge of Bundy’s criminality. We are only afforded brief glimpses into Bundy’s perspective and, even then, we are still mostly on the outside looking in. The unsettling nature of many of the scenes in this movie comes from the interesting juxtaposition between what we know of Bundy and what we see through Liz’s eyes. 

Regardless of whether you as a viewer know exactly how many women Bundy brutally murdered and then mutilated after the fact, I would say most viewers know Bundy was a prolific murderer. So, when the camera focuses on Efron’s hands caressing Collins’ neck during an intimate scene, there is this inherent tension. His hands wrapping around her neck are seen through Liz’s eyes as this gentle, intimate gesture but we as viewers know what those hands are capable of. It’s a gesture of trust that we know is misplaced and misguided. So, even though the camera only pauses on his hands on her neck for a brief moment and even though it’s early in the film and we haven’t even seen a glimpse of violence, there is this menace in this gesture made by this man named Bundy. It’s foreshadowing in the film, yes, but it’s also a kind of hindsight? The foreshadowing angle works here only because of viewers’ inside knowledge of and insight from real-life, historical events. We are terrified for not only Liz but of what has happened and what is going to become.

Something I will give credit to Efron for in this film is his attention to micro-expressions and posturing. I think a lot of the power in the unsettling scenes I’m discussing comes from Efron’s ability to subtly convey that something is “off” with his character. He stares just a little too intently at his hands around Liz’s neck. When he’s pulled over by a cop shortly after that scene, we get to see this glimpse into how Bundy perfects his composure for the world. Right before the cop approached Bundy’s signature VW Beetle, Efron looks dead-eyed at the camera, closes his eyes, and then slips on the grin. The charismatic grin, the genteel and unassuming mask he used to talk several unfortunately kind women to their deaths. It doesn’t work with this cop for a variety of external circumstances, but it’s a deeply unsettling moment. It’s like seeing Michael Myers or Jason without their masks on. Flipping that switch, going from empty to full of charm is a known characteristic of many serial killers, especially those who are organized like Bundy. Seeing it in action helps remind viewers that we are not watching a tragic love story. We are watching a movie about a psychopathic killer who does not feel love or other emotions like we do. I wish the movie went further emphasizing this but casting a “heartthrob” like Zac Efron kind of ensures there’s only so far you can take that. I mean, there are still people today who think Bundy’s eyes look soulful instead of empty….

Anyway, Efron flips this switch several times throughout the film with varying degrees of success. For me, no later scenes were as compelling as this first scene. It occurs right before he’s arrested on suspicion of being the man responsible for killing women up at Lake Sammamish as well as for trying to kidnap another woman (who picked him out of a lineup). So, this scene serves as our first introduction to the real Bundy. For me, watching his mask slip puts the idea into our minds that his “relationship” with Liz is a kind of performance, another extension of this performance. Again, I wish they pushed this further but I digress. It still serves its purpose here.

The next scene I found quite disturbing occurs when Bundy is at the library one evening, presumably studying/reviewing law under the pretense of preparing for his upcoming trial (for the kidnapping case; I believe he hasn’t been charged with what happened at Sammamish yet(?)). He takes a seat in a secluded area in the library that is occupied by only three other female patrons. He makes eye contact and smiles at them, catching one girl’s eye at the table next to him. There’s a clear glimmer in his gaze. The girl is also clearly dazzled by Bundy. She’d go with him, if he asked. He know this. We know it. It’s in the crook of Bundy’s smile. It’s so easy — That’s what this scene emphasizes for me. How easy it was for him to bait the lure and make a catch. It was so easy. We saw how easy it was in the scene. That’s what makes it terrifying to me. Again, to some extent, the horror of this scene relies on us having some external knowledge of Bundy’s MO + crimes but I think this scene also conveys how easy it can be for criminals to pervert everyday interactions into something wicked. It emphasizes how unsuspecting we are, how vulnerable. That girl thinks he’s smiling at her but he’s really smiling at the knowledge that he’s “got one”. It’s the difference between a predator and its prey. Had that girl not looked down at the newspaper conveniently placed at her table and seen the picture of Bundy beside the article accusing him of kidnapping and of possibly murder, she’d have gone with him anywhere. That is horrifying. It makes us wonder would we have gone?

One of Bundy’s most notorious tricks relied on exploiting vulnerability and kindness. He would pose as an invalid, usually someone with a broken limb, and ask women for assistance with loading something large into his car “just over there”. He’d lure a woman (who just wanted to do a kind deed) to a secluded area, stuff her in his car, maybe beat her over the head with a tire iron (if he could find it), and then murder her. He infamously and successfully used this trick twice in one day in broad daylight up at the previously mentioned Lake Sammamish. He’d revisit the graves of his victims, too, and engage in necrophilia, further defiling and degrading the victims. You don’t usually hear about that when whatever biopic is going on about how charming and handsome Bundy could be. We still don’t even know who some of these poor women are but we sure know Bundy was handsome and charming. Bundy weaponized not only his charm and good looks but also our own vulnerabilities and kindness. He preyed upon both. Bundy is always characterized as this handsome and charming man, even when referencing his murders, and all I can ever think about is how much insatiable cruelty and ugliness his pretty mask hid. To that end, I think these early scenes in this movie provide a better glimpse into his maniacal character than other adaptions but I also think they still fall terribly short. 

I mention this because in the latter half of the movie, I feel like there is some attempt to address Bundy’s ugliness and cruelty. We see it in these incessant and, really, harassing phone calls made to Liz, who broke up with him after he was convicted of kidnapping and awaiting several murder charges out-of-state. (Good choice.) Though his tone is relatively kind, there’s this unsettling obsessive quality to the calls.  We see how disturbing the calls are in Liz’s reaction to them. Her shoulders hunch and she flinches. She scrunches her eyes closed, holds her breath till the ringing stops. These calls hurt her and still Bundy persists. Earlier we saw how little Bundy cared about Liz’s time and well-being when he called her several times in a row at her place of work from the courthouse just so he could tell her about this book he likes. It was inconsiderate but harmless then. He was just monopolizing her time. Now, Bundy is monopolizing her headspace. She’s clearly this object of obsession to him, this thing to possess. If he truly loved her like he claims, he’d respect her telling him to leave her alone. But, he doesn’t. Love is about appreciation, not possession and Bundy clearly does not appreciate Liz nor what she wants. He only cares about what he wants. He’s like that horrible “nice guy” ex we’ve all had who just can’t take “No” for an answer and doesn’t understand why we’re “being like that” but like multiplied to an eleven…. and also he’s a serial killer of women who looked just like Liz. (You know, usual ex behavior.)

This narcissism, self-centeredness, and complete lack of regard for everyone else is put on display when the final verdict for Bundy is read at the end of the movie. (He was arrested for the kidnapping and being questioned about the Lake Sammamish murders as well as some murders committed in Washington state before a slew of daring escapes derailed that. Clowns and their tricks, yeah?) After a sham/circus of a capital murder trial (the first ever televised trial in America), Bundy is found guilty and sentenced to death by the state of Florida for killing two women in the Chi Omega sorority house and brutalizing two other women in the sorority at Florida State University. The judge feels sorry for punishing such a “bright, young man” so severely but for crimes as “extremely wicked, shockingly evil, and vile” such a punishment must be doled out. Since the movie does not go into it, I would like to elaborate here for a moment on the severity of this attack before discussing Bundy’s reaction.

Bundy broke into the Chi Omega sorority house in the early hours of January 15th, 1978 and brutally raped, bludgeoned, and murdered Margaret Bowman (21) and Lisa Levy (20). He beat Bowman with a fire log while she was sleeping and then garroted her with a nylon stocking. Next, he beat and strangled Levy, biting off one of her nipples and leaving a deep bite mark on her buttocks. She was raped with a hairspray bottle. Kathy Kleiner and Karen Chandler were also brutally beaten by Bundy during this attack but they survived. Both suffered broken jaws and severe lacerations. Chandler, a dancer, suffered a concussion that left her with a permanent case of vertigo and unable to dance again. He probably would’ve killed them too had he not been scared off by an approaching vehicle’s headlights. This whole siege lasted fifteen minutes for him, lifetimes for the victims who survived.

It was a savage attack. Now, we call this kind of attack a spree kill, indicative of a chaotic and disorganized killer. Or, an enraged one on the verge of being caught. If you did not know the details of this attack or only knew what the movie depicted of the crime, Bundy’s reaction may have been slightly more palatable. There’s more plausibility about whether or not he committed the crimes. (Later DNA evidence would confirm his responsibility.) Bundy’s response to the guilty verdict he receives though is essentially, “Why are you doing this to me?” It’s been his spiel through the whole movie. Why are you doing this to me? Me. It’s all about him. Whenever Bundy addresses any of the charges against him, he always deflects in this way. It speaks to a deep sense of narcissism, of self-centeredness, and to a singular worldview. When the verdict is read, Bundy even cuts a glance to the jury he had a hand in selecting for his trial, clearly confused by how they didn’t see things from his perspective. How could he have been so wrong in his selections? How could they not see? But, they did see. They say the moments we as viewers did, where the mask slipped. They saw what Liz saw when she called the tip line and gave them Bundy’s name as a possibly suspect in the Lake Sammamish murders. What’s horrifying about this moment is how detached and inhuman Bundy appears. He’s more concerned about his own perceived persecution (for crimes he very much did commit) than he is about the victims of these crimes. He can’t even come up with convincing tears. I don’t know if Efron was purposefully being unconvincing or if it’s just bad acting, but it’s fantastically unsettling.

Now, all this said, the last piece of Bundy’s mask does not shatter until the very end of the movie. This last scene is arguably the most horrifying in the movie and is what convinced me to write a review of this movie at all. After fifteen years, Liz, now a successful businesswoman and married to a man who loves her, decides to finally visit Bundy on death row. He’s going to be executed shortly but he’s been staving off the execution by confessing to any and all unsolved murders he can. The end is closing in though. So, Liz decides to pay a final visit. It’s more for herself than for him. She wants to confess to Bundy that she gave his name to the tip line all those years ago (which ultimately led to his capture) and she wants to confront Bundy about his crimes one last time. He’s yet to truly confess them — to Liz, at least. This whole time he’s maintained his innocence. He tells Liz he’s only confessing to unsolved murder cases to bide time on death row to reopen his case. But, we know and Liz knows that all his appeals have been used up and, ultimately, the right man is going to be held accountable for the crimes in question. But, Liz wants to hear him say so.

The camera cuts back and forth from Liz to Bundy during this scene. There’s only a clear pane of glass between the two. A transparent barrier. A two-way phone, a thread, is all that connects the two. Liz produces pictures from one of the murders and asks Ted where the woman’s head is located. Bundy denies her, gives a barely perceivable shake of his head. Why are you doing this to me? Liz presses him. Their heavy breathing fogs up the glass between them. Bundy continues to refuse and refute. Why are you doing this to me? Liz was honest with him and now she wants him to be honest with her. This is his last chance. “Where’s her head, Ted?” How… how did you do it? He’s not going to answer. How can he control her if he can’t control her perception of him? He can’t answer. Not to her. Not to himself. He won’t…. until he does. In the fogged glass between them that blurred line, Bundy slowly scrawls the word HACKSAW. It’s similar to how Danny writes REDRUM  in The Shining (1977). The effect is also similar.

Liz’s expression just drops. The only way to describe how she looks in this moment is utterly, bone-chillingly horrified. Everything she feared is true and the man she once thought she loved is a monster. HACKSAW is a confession — the confession that every detective lined up in the hallway to come in after Liz is hoping to receive. It’s the confession none of them will get. Liz flees the room, finally and horribly free, and Bundy wipes the glass and his expression clear, ready for the next performance. 

It’s not the most horrifying scene I’ve ever seen but it’s in my current top ten. This scene almost makes the rest of this considerably boring and “meh” movie worth it. I don’t even think the brief flashback to Efron chasing a woman with the hacksaw and hitting her over the head is necessary, to be honest. Though I’ve been very critical thus far of the lack of violence that this film touched upon in their portrayal of Bundy, I think HACKSAW conveys so much horror and violence in and of itself that a visual representation becomes unnecessary. Like Liz, I feel like we should be left to imagine what we missed and review what we thought we knew with new eyes. This scenes makes the movie being told from Liz’s perspective make sense. Even though we as viewers know what Bundy did, we are as horrified as Liz. 


Hey~ Hope you enjoyed this true crime/horror-esque review. I’m a bit hesitant to blend the two but I hope I did both aspects of this film justice. I didn’t particularly like this movie or want to promote it but there were some scenes from it that I just couldn’t get out of my head. If you saw this movie and have any thoughts on it or on Bundy, I would love to hear from you.

*Some of the info I got on Bundy’s crimes came from The Last Podcast on the Left‘s episodes (99 & 100, respectively) on Bundy which you can catch on Spotify. Hail yourselves~



The Shape of Horror

Halloween (1978) is a pillar of the horror genre, the slasher flick that paved the ways for such predecessors as Friday the 13th (1980) and Nightmare on Elm Street (1984). In many ways, Halloween is the blueprint for the quintessential slasher flick. Teenage promiscuity, inattentive authority figures, a “blank-slate” of a killer on the loose, bloodshed and gore, an ambiguously ominous ending…. It’s everything you could want in an 80’s slasher flicker. Though not well-received at the time of its release, Halloween has since gained cult status and a pervasive presence in pop culture. In many ways, Michael Myers, our antagonist, is an exploration of what Leatherface (1974) could have been. Attempts to replicate Michael Myers extend across mediums with varying degrees of success. (I.e somehow the Halloween sequels are the worst offenders????) There is something about the looming, stoic “shape” that Michael Myers occupies in the movie and in our imaginations that is profoundly unsettling even decades later. Is it the “pure evil” of him as Dr. Loomis would have us believe? Or, is it something more sinister? Something so normal and ubiquitous that it’s horror is ignored until dragged to the surface?

In Halloween (1978), Michael Myers is a menacing and silent figure, most often appearing in short bursts and in peripheral glimpses when he is on screen. The camera will pan for a length of time before settling on a shirt sleeve, the rest of the body out of frame. We see more of Michael’s perspective of the world than we see of his place within the world. Figuratively and visually, Michael Myers exists on the fringes of society, occupying empty spaces as if he himself is nothing more than a person-shaped vacancy/ blank himself. Though quite a physically imposing and otherwise arresting figure, Michael all but drifts through the everyday lives of his victims, rarely acknowledged. When a glimpse is caught of him by another character, it’s almost immediately dismissed because he shouldn’t be possible within the setting he is seen. He is able to walk across perfectly polished yards, through upper middle-class suburban homes, and even drive slowly by ranting former-psychiatrists without drawing so much as a glance. It is perhaps his most horrifying quality — his ability to blend into his surroundings. It should not be possible. We would notice somebody like that, a threat like him….right?

halloween 2

In many ways, Michael Myers represents what we fear most about dangers and monsters — that they could be anything or anyone and appear at any moment. They could be one of us. Walk among us. Michael’s blank, non-descript, standard Halloween mask also seems to be representative of how anyone of us could be masking who we truly are, masquerading in a person-suit, pretending to be human. (In Michael’a case and in a very literal sense, it of course helps that he commits his crimes predominantly on Halloween night where a Halloween mask wouldn’t be cause for suspicion.) There’s something inherently unsettling about not being able to see someone’s face and so to not be able to ascertain what they want. Nonverbal cues and facial expressions guide the majority of our interactions with others so withholding that form of communication leaves us uncertain. His very character design, though plain in comparison to many future slasher antagonists, is meant to be unsettling because it is so bland and un-notable. It allows this predator to hide.

There’s also another symbolic level to the mask I’d like to touch upon. I think Michael captures a lot of fears specifically related to serial killers, especially fears that we are growing to realize may actually have some founding to them. (This makes sense considering the time frame in which Halloween was released – the late 70’s. The late 70’s – the 80’s were the height of the “murder years” in the US. Dahmer, Gacy, Bundy, Richard Ramirez, Henry Lee Lucas, The Golden State Killer… all of our monsters were active during this time.) Serial killers are not grotesque or deformed monsters though (like Texas Chainsaw Massacre or The Hills Have Eyes might have had you believe). Often, there is nothing monstrous or very noteworthy about them other than their heinous crimes, which can be “masked” by their otherwise plain appearances. Think H.H. Holmes, Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, or *sigh* BTK (fuck that guy). Fairly un-notable. They don’t look like monsters. They look like us. And, that’s horrifying. It’s horrifying that we might not be able to see the monsters coming.

I think Michael’s character embodies our fears about serial killers rather well. His “mask” is made fairly obvious for us but the lack of notice or reaction from the characters around him as he passes through their world seems to encapsulate that idea that serial killers (I.e monsters) could slide right past all our defenses. I mean, that scene in Halloween (1978) of Michael following the kid Laurie babysits from the other side of the fence (from his perspective) and bumping into the kid, placing a steadying hand on the child’s shoulder, is terrifying. This innocuous gesture is made menacing. I find it interesting how in Halloween 2018 (2018 duh) Michael specifically goes after his mask that the true crime “journalists” have in their possession almost as if he needs it before he can blend in again. He’s going out of his way to get it, makes it his first priority after escaping maximum security prison again, so it must be important. Of course, for viewers of the Halloween franchise, it’s his signature. But, in terms of Michael’s character, it would only make sense that he would go after this item if it was necessary for his primary goals: stalking, hunting, killing, causing general paranoia(???) and harm. If it doesn’t serve that mission in some essential way, it serves no purpose to him. I think the degree of sheer terror expressed by the podcasters upon encountering a Michael unmasked, just the sight of him, also supports the idea that his mask is not just of physical significance but carries metaphorical implications. It’s a very real representation of the masks that serial killers assume in order to walk among us. Otherwise, we’d run screaming from them. It’s a barrier not just between us and them but between them and the world.

halloween 1

Enough on masks though (for now). I’d really like to speak on what I believe the overall character of Michael represents. (A contentious issue, I know. Also, it’s an issue that the Halloween sequels have “muddied” rather than clarified. I really won’t be speaking about those or Satanic cults here — or ever if I can avoid it.) As much as Michael can be representative of our fears around real serial killers, there’s an undeniably supernatural element to Michael, as evidenced by his ability to survive just about every kind of grievous bodily harm and kind of fatality that befalls (ha-ha) him. He’s got that super hero resilience without any scrap of the moral character. Additionally, hiding in plain sight or not, Michael disappears into thin air at an alarmingly high rate. Even if I suspend my disbelief and I am willing to accept that Michael’s disappearing act on-screen is meant to emphasize how easily the monsters among us can be absorbed into our otherwise quotidian lives, Michael’s seeming invisibility is really beyond believing. Unless there is something “other” to this mysterious shape.

I’ve mulled over the idea of Michael Myers for a while now. In large part, I’d say that’s due to my love of true crime and how, barring some extreme abnormalities (noted here), Michael really captures the fear that many serial killers instill in us as well as he represents the blank slate that so many of these killers are when you begin to peel back the layers. There’s just….nothing there. There may be something inside their pasts that explains why they do what they do but nothing excuses who they are and why they exist. Why a psychopath happens. When you get down to the heart of it, some people are just empty side. For whatever reason. I think Michael portrays that and the horror of that well. It’s something I find to be very compelling about his character.

But, all that said, I’ve always felt that there’s more to Michael and what he could represent. I think there is something to be said about the supernatural qualities of Michael. It was while recently watching Ryan Hollinger’s “The Art of Halloween: Making Michael Myers Scary” (2017) in which he discusses Michael as a Reaper-esque character that I began to “see” this other side to the shape of Michael. Beyond our very real fears about serial killers, Michael can be seen as a representation of our fears of not just death but of dying a violent and meaningless death. He is very much this incarnate of violent death. Seeing him as an agent of violent death, as this manifestation of meaningless malice, adds a new dimension to what could be an otherwise 2D character for some viewers. If Michael is this Reaper-like character, it also explains why Michael is able to so easily pass through these neighborhoods undetected—he LIVES there. This kind of fear is one of the underlying reasons that suburbia and it’s sprawl exists. We gathered together in groups to thwart it, keep it from our children, and yet it is implicit in our everyday lives. It is a fear that follows our children, lives in our homes. In this way, Michael is the realization of our worst fears. He bursts our bubble of perceived safety and breaks all of the agreements we made with this primordial fear.

Seeing Michael as more of a Reaper also explains his seeming supernatural invincibility. I mean, how do you kill death? He’s also ruthless and relentless but never overly passionate about his kills (except for Laurie but I guess that’s explained in the franchise?? Personally, I like the idea that Michael chose her because she wasn’t afraid of the old Myers’ house which puts her at odds with him). Michael really acts like he’s an agent for something beyond himself. Is he just “pure evil” as Loomis incessantly suggests or is Michael unmoved for another reason? Similar to how the Joker is perhaps best understood as a manifestation of chaos, Michael may best be understood as a representation of our own fears around dying violently and pointlessly, his looming presence representative of that looming fear.

I don’t like much about Halloween II (1981) but there is a moment towards the end of the film, where Laurie calls out to Michael in the basement of the hospital that I feel speaks volumes. Michael has been relentlessly pursuing Laurie through this–oddly deserted– hospital after a failed attempt to get her earlier in the movie. Now, he is back to finish what he started. Michael ends of cornering Laurie in the hospital’s basement and she, desperately, calls out his name, “Michael” and it’s the only thing thus far that has stopped him in his tracks. Michael pauses and crooks his neck, as if confused by the use of his name in relation to himself. As if it hasn’t occurred to him for a while that he had a name. Now, much could be said about the power of names in traditional lore (specifically in regards to deities, demons, faeries, etc.) but I find it most interesting how this attempt at humanizing Michael only seems to alienate him more. It’s almost as if that name is nothing more than a mask itself, hiding something that is decidedly unsuited for the label of “Michael”. It’s one of the most chilling scenes to me in the franchise. There is so much conveyed in that crook of Michael’s head. So much to question. So much to fear. It’s always emphasized the otherness in Michael to me.  Names are supposed to be humanizing. It’s why you don’t name a pig to slaughter. It’s also why so many of our greatest ideas, our gods, our concepts of the universe, etc. are difficult to capture in words — they are beyond us. In Halloween, rather than being a touchstone of self, Michael’s very name has become an obfuscation, something that doesn’t reveal what we might think it should nor capture what it insinuates. I’m ultimately left wondering who is this shape called Michael and what, if anything, fills this character?

Is he a man or a monster?

Anyway, I’m not going to try and reinvent the wheel here. Much has been said about the catharsis of horror. How the genre allows us to experience a primordial fear we have long since forgotten in our gated cities on the hills. Michael Myers is often cited as an example of this capability of the genre. He is one of the quintessential figures we imagine when asked to conjure a monster. He embodies many our greatest fears, both real and supernatural. He is the Reaper, the killer, and the shape in our peripheral, always watching, waiting.


I hope you enjoyed that brief glimpse into my thoughts on Michael Myers. More, I hope I did the character justice. When it comes to Michael, I find much of my thinking to be jumbled. He represents so much in such a silent and self-contained character. He really is legion. It’s fascinating to consider his character–at least to me! Let me know if you have any ideas yourself! Love to hear ’em~

Who or What Is the Blair Witch?

*Some spoilers ahead (I mean, the movie came out in 1999 though so….)

Though I’ve been aware of the cult classic The Blair Witch Project (1999) for some time, it was only recently that I finally sat down to watch it. Going into the movie, I knew about several of the theories surrounding it’s plot as well as the movie’s acclaim as one of the most prominent works of so-called “found footage” film. (Though not the first work as that honor goes to The Last Broadcast (1998)?) It was the movie that revitalized the horror genre after its decline in the 80’s (in large part due to the over-saturation of endless and often pointless slasher flicks). Also, I knew that there was no “witch” despite the movie’s eponymous name. I knew that and yet I found myself looking for the witch, for vestiges of its presence. This close inspection yielded a theory about the witch and about the supposedly “witch-possessed” hermit and serial killer of children, Rustin Par, who’s influence comes to play a role in the film that I find quite horrifying. 

In Blair Witch, we are introduced to the fairly non-descript Heather, Josh, and Mike. Heather and Josh are film students working on a project for class that Josh ropes his friend Mike into assisting them with. They are going to shoot a documentary student film about the Blair Witch, a local legend. In their preliminary investigation, the three discover that there is a story of a serial killer of children attached to the Blair Witch legend, perhaps even an extension of the lore itself. Par lured pairs of children out to his remote cabin in the woods and killed the children one by one, having one child stand in the corner facing the wall while he killed the other. The second child was presumably killed upon turning around. In total, Par is held responsible for seven murders (an odd number we will return to). Importantly, Par’s cabin was built upon the Blair Witch’s old home, leading many locals to speculate that he was possessed by the Blair Witch.

Heather, Josh, and Mike are fairly non-plussed by this information and take it in stride. They are pretty blasé about the whole matter, in fact, drinking and goofing around the rest of the night. And, to be fair, the information about the high strangeness of the woods they are going to be exploring is not really presented in such a way as to inspire fear. The locals who are interviewed are quirky and odd, one woman possibly suffering from mental illness or disability — things that the trio are quick to make fun of amongst themselves. The Blair Witch and any extensions of the lore are presented as and treated as nothing but a spooky campfire story by the trio. In many ways, the trio is kind of acting like kids. It’s an attitude that I believe contributes heavily to their unfortunate circumstances and eventual demise in the woods.

Once they begin their trek into the woods and, more importantly, once it becomes clear that the trio is lost, that’s when the horror of the movie finally starts to reveal itself to me. Now, I’ve heard that there is some contention over the classification of this movie as horror since we never really “see” anything “horrifying” until the end. Creepy, yes, but scary….? I’ve often heard the movie described as “boring” because of that lack of typical build-up paired with the overall underwhelming performances of the lead cast. I think that latter point is harsh to be honest (the acting left something to be desired at points, sure, but it really wasn’t the worst) while I find the former to be kind of shortsighted??? Sure, looking at the movie as a supernatural horror flick leaves much to be desired (though we will discuss its merits). But, looking at the movie as a psychological horror flick yields something more… compelling.

Now, I know there are already several theories that look at this movie as a a more psychological kind of horror movie. A prominent fringe theory I’ve heard is that Mike and Josh set up Heather to murder her. I’m going to be straight with you – I’m not really interested in that interpretation. Yes, I suppose it’s titillating to a certain extent but upon closer inspection, I don’t really see enough evidence to warrant its prominence. It feels more like the movie is being “squished” and/or reduced and warped to fit that lens. More than that, though, I just don’t find that interpretation to be, well, scary. If that interpretation were the case, I’d say that’s boring and, further, it’s kind of lazy writing? Maybe in 1999 it would’ve been edgy? (Kind of sounds like a an M. Night Shyamalan twist now….>.>) And, I think that’s all I’m going to say on that theory for now. I wanted address it though cause it pops up pretty often.

Anyway, when I say the horror of the Blair Witch is psychological, I am referring to the increasing paranoia and fear the trio experiences as they succumb to their increasingly hopeless circumstances and their mounting frustrations with each other. Watching Mike and Josh become annoyed, frustrated, furious, and then resentful of Heather for getting them lost is horrifying not because the trio is now wandering directionless in the middle of nowhere with a possibly malevolent presence stalking them but because of how easy it is to understand the mounting anger and festering resentment taking root. I am angry at Heather too. But, paradoxically, because of how this film positions me, the viewer, most often from Heather’s perspective, especially once they all get lost in the woods (when Heather becomes the only one really filming), I also feel Heather’s growing sense of panic like my own. I desperately want to get out of this situation I have led us into.

Discovering the “witchy” ephemera hanging from the woods almost comes second to the horror of the growing tension within the group, especially since the discovery comes after the trio has already realized they are well and truly lost. It’s very clever to hide or obscure these troubling, external symbols within the intense conflict building internally within the group. Until encountering them, I kind of forgot why the group was in the woods in the first place. Once I have encountered these symbols though, I am now reminded of the initial plot and I am now considering the possibility that the trio is not just lost but lost with a now potential malevolence. It increases the fear and the paranoia. There is the paranoia that Mike and Josh feel towards Heather, believing she had in some way intentionally got them lost for her documentary. There is the paranoia Josh and Heather feel towards Mike when he confesses that he kicked the map into the river because he believed it was “useless” and “not helping”. There is the panic and fear Heather feels over not only getting the group lost but being accused of purposefully doing it for the documentary. And, now, there is this paranoia and fear over whether or not the group’s actions are being compelled or manipulated in some way by an outside, unseen force that may wish them harm. Here, I begin to question what IS the Blair Witch?

b;air witch 3

Is or was the Blair Witch a physical being? Or, something more ephemeral? Something in the very woods itself? This line of questioning brings me back to Par, the serial killer of children, mentioned so offhandedly at the start of the movie, the serial killer who lived in the woods and killed children in pairs. Except, he’s responsible for 7 deaths, a decidedly odd number. He’s one short. Par also only kills children but, to an ancient witch-like entity, I suppose most people would be considered “kids”, especially if they exhibit immature behavior >.> If the Blair Witch is not so much a single physical being as a kind of possessing presence that inhabits these woods, what then? Through this lens, how can we understand what transpires in the movie? This is what I would like to explore.

If the Blair Witch is more of this insidious, creeping presence, the group’s fairly quick onset of paranoia makes sense. It’s the seed needed for the rest to take root. It lured Heather off the trail, compelled Mike to dispose of the map, and drew Josh out of the tent — deepening their isolation and alienating the three from each other as they quickly begin to throw accusations of blame for their circumstances. The woods are not trying to hurt them. They are trying to get the trio to hurt each other. To turn on each other. (How very Stephen King’s The Shining of them >.>) In this way, it also makes sense why we would never “see” the Blair Witch. It gives a new sense of terror to Heather’s frantic “What the hell is that?” as the trio run through the thicket of woods in the middle of the night after their campsite has been “besieged” by some unseen presence, walls of darkness and shadowy brush closing in on all sides. What the hell IS it indeed. What does Heather see or….not see? What does she feel closing in on them? Their paranoia and panic is only emphasized by the shaky and jagged camera angles and sudden cuts, making us feel as though we are also frantically running through the runs with the trio, throwing our heads from side to side in search of a threat we can feel but cannot find.

blair witch 2

Now, there’s been discussion about the possibility of Josh and Mike being responsible for “setting the stage” in the woods (I.e planting the cairns, the ephemera, “attacking” the campsite, etc.). It mires back to that theory that the whole movie is really being about Mike and Josh planning to do Heather harm. But, in response to the idea that Mike and Josh “set the stage”, I’d like like to point to the actors’ truly terrified performances at this point in the movie. Regardless of their overall acting abilities or lack thereof, they play at panic and terror pretty well. Also, let’s just briefly examine the premise here. If Mike and/or Josh wanted to harm Heather in any way, they could’ve done so ten feet or less into these desolate woods. They didn’t even need to take her to the woods. They could’ve driven her anywhere and dumped her body in the woods if they really wanted to. The pageantry is unnecessary and speaks to a deeply personal need to make sure the victims die afraid. By all accounts Mike and Josh barely know Heather. She’s a classmate, an acquaintance of a friend. It seems highly unlikely they’d go through all this work when there are far simpler ways to kill Heather. Occam’s razor is usually king in regards to murder. I know horror movie plots don’t really abide my logic as a matter of course but I find this theory to be a thorn in my side that I’ve got to point out at every turn. (Sorry.)

That said, it is interesting to consider that one of the guys is possessed by the Blair Witch and is acting as a kind of conduit, thus is the one planting the evidence found within the campsite itself. That’s compelling and scary. Because of Josh’s later disappearance, he seems to be the most likely suspect. It’s also Josh or Josh’s mimicked cries that lure Mike and Heather towards the killer’s presumed cabin later on. Once inside this remote and decrepit cabin, it is there that the pieces of the story assemble themselves into still one of the most unsettling conclusions in possibly all of horror cinema. Heather and Mike desperately search the dilapidated cabin for any traces of Josh. They find rubble and debris and, most disturbingly, what appears to be bloody hand-prints on the cabin’s disintegrating walls. Could it be graffiti? Most definitely, but, as established in the movie, this cabin is pretty remote and way off the beaten trail so it’s possible that it’s something else. As Mike and Heather are searching the cabin for Josh, it is, again, Josh’s cry that leads Mike and then Heather to the basement — where Par is purported to have murdered his victims.

Mike arrives in the basement first, frantic and clearly panicked.  His camera is panning back and forth, barely pausing on any one thing. He’s breathing heavily and calling out desperately for Josh and then…. He drops his camera and goes silent, as if overcome by some unseen force. The camera, though, is not forcefully dropped or flung in a scuffle so much as simply abandoned. No shadows pass by the camera nor does anything else appear on the camera’s screen to indicate what happened to Mike after dropping it. Heather quickly appears with her own camera, calling for the guys. What her camera reveals before cutting to black is that Mike is now standing in the corner of the basement, facing the wall. Just like Par would have one of the children he kidnapped do. Perhaps it is the realization of this similarity or it is another unseen force or the same force that overcame Mike or it is Josh striking or it is her own terror finally hitting a fever pitch but Heather screams and the screen cuts to black for the last time.

Again, it’s deeply unsettling and maybe especially upsetting after making it through an entire “horror” movie where nothing extraordinarily horrific has really happened. (Barring the far-too-large-for-a-human bloody tooth and the flannel scrap of Josh’s t-shirt it is wrapped in. That definitely falls within “F*ck that” territory. This doesn’t occur till close to the end of the film, though.) I struggled with this ending for a while, trying to make sense of it. Because, yes, it’s unsettling but what does it mean? And, more, what does this mean I’m regards to what is the Blair Witch?

For me, this speaks to a deeper lore than was presented initially. If the Blair Witch is a possessive presence more than a physical being and if Par was an incarnation or manifestation of that presence and if that presence was tainted by its last incarnation that wanted to cause harm and if that incarnation had unfinished business (say, it was “one short” in regards to its murder spree), I think it is entirely possible that Josh was possessed by the Blair Witch and Mike and Heather became his victims.

For me, this works in one of two ways. In the first way, the trio helps “even out” the set. 3 + 7 = 10 meaning everything has balanced out now. It’s whatever the reverse of a zero sum game is. That’s one way to look at the situation if we accept that the Blair Witch isn’t a specter so much as a possessive presence. It’s intriguing and also provides closure in that the “score” is leveled with the presumed deaths of our trio.

The second way of looking at the movie from this perspective though is far more compelling to me. In the original story about Par, there are supposed to be two victims and one perpetrator. 7 victims in the last cycle died meaning that the perpetrator was one short. If Josh is possessed by the Blair Witch, he is acting as the perpetrator and would not be considered a victim meaning that killing Mike and Heather would still leave the count uneven (9). Still one short. To me, this provides a motive for the Blair Witch’s continued presence in the woods. The witch is always looking for that one last victim to complete the cycle but, because it is acting like the last person (Par) that was possessed, a pair of victims must always be selected. Ergo, the cycle can never be completed and so the Blair Witch cannot rest. It’s the opposite of closure and arguably a more interesting narrative because of the complexity.

Of course, this theory really only works if you consider one of the trio possessed at all by the Blair Witch. It’s very possible that Josh was not the one possessed and he was just killed. If at least one of the trio is possessed though then Josh’s death could still count. Josh and Heather could very well be considered the victims and Mike the “possessed”, especially considering where the movie leaves off. Because of the early mention of possession and because of how the movie ends with a reference to Par’s killings, I’m inclined as a viewer to believe that there has to be some connection to our main characters or else why bother? Also, I’m not really sure how this interpretation would connect to the witchy ephemera found in the woods unless the possession is tied back to the Blair Witch. It’s very possible that this stuff is just present to make the woods “spookier”, I suppose, but I think it’s presence paired with whatever is “attacking” the camp at night does call into question the nature of the force that is possessing people in these woods. 

Anyway, that’s my hot take on The Blair Witch Project (1999). Obviously, there are many interpretations of this media and there will continue to be new interpretations as time goes on. This is one of many out there. I touched on only a brief selection of many moments from the movie and presented a case for one interpretation. I’m interested in hearing other interpretations, though! Please, let me know what you think about the movie and how you perceived its plot and meaning!