Incredibly, two months have passed and it's time for the WEP October Halloween challenge!
Part A:
share a favorite frightening tale, movie, novel, photograph or painting that will leave us quaking in our boots, then in a short paragraph describe how it scared you, and why it did and or still does today
Well, I like my creepiness subtle, so Edgar Allan Poe's poem (to his dead young bride), always creeps me out as the image of the broken-heated lover laying with her in her tomb by the sea is so strong. The atmospherics are to me, completely awesome. And if you read it aloud, the rhythm sounds like those 'highborn kinsman' galloping by. Not to mention the beautiful language and the fairy tale feel created by the first line...
Well, I like my creepiness subtle, so Edgar Allan Poe's poem (to his dead young bride), always creeps me out as the image of the broken-heated lover laying with her in her tomb by the sea is so strong. The atmospherics are to me, completely awesome. And if you read it aloud, the rhythm sounds like those 'highborn kinsman' galloping by. Not to mention the beautiful language and the fairy tale feel created by the first line...
Annabel Lee
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea—
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Now Part B is my own creepy tale...not exactly subtle. You'll see it's full of questions as promised in a previous post, How to Boost our Creativity by Asking Questions.
Beauty and
the Beast
Once upon a time there lived a man with a beauty fetish.
Each day he asked God why some people were born so blessed physically, while
others had faces that looked as if they had been savaged
by a beast. He oft-times pondered the
expression: ‘kissed by an angel.’ He’d been kissed by the Devil when he tore, kicking and screaming, from his
mother’s womb.
His life lacked beauty from that moment. Many years later he learned the truth from the birthing
attendant, Marjorie. “Take this Devil’s spawn from me!” his mother had
screamed. “Leave him on an anthill far inside the forest. I hereby name him ‘Beast’.
Let him be ravaged by his fellows.”
Marjorie saved his life, but his mother’s rejection turned him into a beast. Every time he saw his monster face--eyes black as the pitch he
collected from the bog lands, his hands grossly stained with inky sludge--he hated.
As Beast clumped along the muddy laneways delivering his
pitch to the rich men’s fires, he studied his features in the
smudgy glass shop windows. He was thankful that his
hair had been overlooked by the same Devil who had seared his face with a pitchfork. His hair was long, curled and glossy, washed by the rain and snow
which fell upon him as he huddled by night in the abandoned garden near
Grimwade Bridge.
***
Beast wakes to another day. Without rising from his
damp bed, he knows the state of the weather. Real books are denied him, but
these are his books, free for the taking--the colour of the sky as day dawns,
the cries of seabirds as they call each other over the icy river, the
noisy crackle of waves in the tide’s ebb and flow.
He runs his work-wrecked fingers through his hair and leaves his bed. He shrugs into his black leather greatcoat, stolen
from some toff who lurched in a drunken dance beside the river before plunging
into its icy depths. It protects him against the
night freeze, but does nothing to warm his soul.
Will he ever
know warmth?
Will he ever know the sweetness of a pure woman?
The whores of
Grimwade aside, what woman would ever welcome his cracked hands on her
soft body? He needs a sweet woman to release him from the prison to which his
witch of a mother sentenced him thirty years hence.
Beast shakes snowflakes from his hair and shoulders, kicks a
dead rose, then walks the icy path to the door. He salivates at the vision of hot
gruel and bread from the kind mistress's hand.
He lifts gnarled fingers to the gold lion’s head and raps the bright yellow door. Clump,
clump, clump.
The vapour from the warm kitchen embraces him. However,
the kind mistress is not standing at the doorway. Instead…a vision…Beauty…stands before him,
dressed from head to toe in silk spun from sunshine. He beholds a wondrous face wreathed in
smiles, laughing eyes and perfect white teeth. But he asks himself what lies beyond that perfect face. Sweetness?
Cruelty?
He steps closer, all the better to inhale her feminine
sweetness--a memory of summer strawberries in an abandoned garden.
“Good morning, kind sir.” She addresses him in a voice that transports
him to the Opera House where he eavesdrops on the melodies, well
hidden in the cobwebbed rafters. “My mother did speak of you, but is currently abed.
I greet you in her stead.” She takes his hand and hers is soft within his rough stiff claw. Beauty blesses him with a sweet
smile, one dimple dancing in her cheek as if her face itself winks at him.
Perchance she is confusing him with another. He looks behind,
but sees nothing but the violent wind-tossed leaves rustling along the path, slapping around his legs. He speaks in a voice raspy with
longing. “I have but pitch for sale, Mistress.”
“Yes, indeed. Our supply is low, but my mother has waited on
you. She said you would return and that you never steal from us.”
She misinterprets his extended silence as he imagines by
what trickery he will steal Beauty from her mother.
“Oh dear sir, do come in. Shelter inside awhile. You must be
chilled to the bone in this snowstorm, while our furnace rages day and night. When I
lie in my warm bed it is like I have died and gone to heaven; I’m in a
fairytale world. I never want to wake up.” She looks upon his hair. “I am too
enraptured by my dreams.”
He watches as thoughts dance beneath the surface of her
skin, wondering at her dreams of fashionable gentlemen astride black stallions.
He flicks his long tresses so they cover the lower half of his face, hoping she
will be enraptured by his glossy mane.
He follows her into the grand foyer, his hungry eyes
ravished by alluring sights--tall ceilings trimmed in gold leaf; walls of green silk,
the hue of the forest; furniture of the deepest mahogany, like tree branches. He
wonders at the single yellow rose in a crystal vase on the windowsill. Fury
rises within him at the thought of a suitor.
He drops his load beside the crackling fire while thinking--how can people live like this while I, the Devil’s spawn, live with no walls to
enclose me? His ceilings are the underbelly of Grimwade Bridge,
his furniture crafted from scraps of timber he rescues from the river. Why
does God choose to give all to some and nothing to others?
“Please, kind sir, stand against the fire. Warm yourself. I will bring coffee and food.” She holds out an apple. He snatches it from her and crunches
it with his sharp teeth.
Soon Beast feels uncomfortably hot. He is not accustomed to a roaring fire, within or without. It becomes just another ordeal he must suffer. But, be damned, he is done with
suffering. He deserves to live. He deserves to wear splendid clothes. To sleep
with a full belly each night. To bed this sweet woman.
He strokes his hair, capturing a curl with a thick finger
and tugging it in anticipation. Beauty will know the Beast.
He will teach her.
Life is no fairy tale.
©DeniseCCovey2015
©DeniseCCovey2015
FULL CRITIQUE WELCOME
WORD COUNT: 1,000
This story was written for the WEP Halloween challenge. You are welcome to post something creepy and link up in my sidebar or go to the WEP site. Click on the link on my sidebar or the WEP site to see other entries...
And on Sunday night, I became a self-published author when my 15,000 word novella, a paranormal romance, hit the Amazon shelves worldwide. If you like Dracula-ish stories with a soft touch, you may well enjoy it. To bring this book together I had a lot of blogger-love help. More on that later. So, if you're in the market for a Halloween tale, here are some links:
