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bortleman
01-28-2011, 12:35 AM
Jacob lived far disposed from anything civilized. The nearest town with a Wal-Mart was twenty miles away. He didn’t mind living up in the woods, he actually preferred it. The interior was decorated with a cabin like motif. Even though the outside revealed that it was paneled with normal housing wood, it didn’t matter. It felt like a cabin to Jacob.

It was New Year’s Eve, and he was forced to spend the night alone. A recent slashed tire left him confined to his burrow. He would have liked to chase women around the small bar scene, but the weather displayed its contempt for this behavior. The howling wind echoed down his chimney and caused his metal flue to give a rusty whine with every gust. He decided it was better to be at home.

He was the only resident, besides two Labradors. They spent the majority of their days lounging around the kennel Jacob had built for them. The dogs were nice company, and good for fowling. In addition, they served as early warning for any trouble that was about the scarcely populated area. Coupled with the motion sensor lights Jacob had around the perimeter of the house, they kept the area fairly secure. They never barked at him if he was out at night, and had seldom let a trespasser by.

Jacob would have had cats, if they didn’t have a habit of ritual disappearance. In fact, all three of his cats subsequently vanished each Halloween on their sixth year of occupancy at the house. He had searched for his last cat, which he found staked to the ground dead, in a circle of dark ceremony that he was oddly familiar with. After that, he decided he wasn’t a “cat person”.

This wasn’t the first, or only, incident of ghastly occurences that Jacob had encountered in the woods. Normally, after such a discovery, Jacob would retreat to his home. There he felt safe in his den loaded with firearms. Occasionally the murky timbers would tempt him to venture out, to explore.

At times, he felt like a pioneer. His small fort sitting on the edge of the unknown. Even though the majority of the world, including his forest, had already been mapped out, he believed he was on the precinct. His house was last on the winding dirt road that worked its way up the mountain. It was the last beacon of light midst the endless dark woods.

Jacob was watching a movie on tape. All the lights were off and he watched the green numbers of his VCR creep towards midnight. He could still hear the wind as it blew against his sliding glass door. It led out to a finely crafted deck that Jacob constructed himself. It was like a flat pane of darkness, and he could see the figures of trees swaying with the violent wind.

Jacob yawned as the film struggled on when suddenly the television turned black. He frowned and attempted to work the remote. It refused to respond. The VCR clock numbers flashed to “12:00”. He assumed there must have been some power still left in the house, perhaps a breaker just needed to be switched. He got up from the couch and started to make his way to the garage.

There was a loud “ka clunk ka clunk ka clunk” of something moving quickly across his deck. He rushed to the door and flung it open. The motion sensor lights sprang to life one by one down the length of the house. At the far edge of each light, a non-descript figure ran on all fours out of view. Jacob shut the door and locked it. He moved swiftly down his hall to grab a loaded shotgun. When he returned to living room, he left it propped in the corner.

He was still shaken up and refused to travel to the garage and flip the breaker. So, he sat alone in the dark. Rain began to fall with large drops. The ping of water on his tin roof was comforting. Eventually, his terror couldn’t fight off his need for rest, and he fell asleep on the couch.

Jacob rarely remembered his dreams, but tonight was a different case. He could still hear the rain; it was heavier now. He dreamed that he was still sitting idly in the living room, watching his movie. A glance out his window revealed a pale light emanating from the trees. With morbid curiosity, Jacob got up to investigate.

Only moments after he stepped outside, he was soaked from head to foot. It seemed strangely irrelevant as he moved towards the illumination in a trance. He was without shoes, and the mud squished up between his toes. Still he wove his way through the trees as his destination drew closer. As scene became visible, he took a half step behind a narrow tree.

What he saw brought paralyzing fright to his body. There, crouched in a grove of timber, was a hunched figure. It had long terrible claws and was intently focused on the carcass of a dead feline that it gnawed at. It would stop and look up revealing blood red eyes that flashed out of the darkness before returning to its feeding. Each time it peered around it would gnash its murderous teeth that held the gray meat of its kill.

Jacob didn’t know what to do. He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry with fear. He was struck motionless, forced to watch this ghastly image replay over and over. The thing looked up again eyeing the surroundings slowly. As its gaze turned to Jacob, it stopped and stared.

Jacob could do nothing. He didn’t run for fear of being chased, and he didn’t move for fear of being identified. The twisted figure stood up, holding its gnarled hands in front of itself. The evil claws hung drenched in blood. Still, it stooped. Jacob could see the eyes tilt sideways, like an animal attempting to make sense of something new. It moved cautiously moved forward. Jacob was restrained to watching the creature creep closer. He was almost certain he was seen. In a flash, it was gone, and Jacob was alone in the rain.

His body seemed to loosen. Immediately he fled towards his home. The limbs of trees pulled at his water logged t-shirt. He broke through them all with out any consideration for the gouges he would receive. When he finally reached his house, he double locked every door before rushing to his bed and pulling the covers up over his face. He sat there, still shaking, before falling asleep again.

When Jacob woke up the next day, it was sunny. He recounted the nightmare from the previous night. He assured himself any assumption his mind made about the woods was completely false. Running his hands through his hair, he let out a sigh of relief. There was a stinging feeling on his fore arm. He looked down and saw a fresh laceration.

His heart thumped louder, and moving his feet around, he could feel the cold muck that covered his white sheets. He threw linens off and saw a mess of earth, sticks and leaves. Shooting out of bed, he looked around his bedroom. Muddy foot prints lead him out of his room.

The terror began to rise up from his stomach as he followed them. The house was quiet and his heartbeat seemed to fill his head. His eyes grew wider as he continued along the fearsome path. Jacob neared the large window pain that his tracks lead to. As his horror seemed to boil over, he fell to his knees screaming with insanity, clawing at his face. There lay on the porch beyond the glass, the dead masticated corpse of his last cat.

Jack of Hearts
01-28-2011, 04:09 AM
Bortleman-

Ultimately an effective tale that shows off much of what you have taught yourself about writing. It is mostly clear. It is not overly verbose. It conveys a true, genuine aspect of horror at parts. This endeavor is to be commended but you cannot rest on your laurels yet; there are a few things that this reader will point out that affected him.

The real plot of this story is this: Jacob's power goes out while he's watching a movie. He looks outside and sees the figure running into the darkness. Jacob has a dream about finding the creature in the woods. He wakes up and realizes he may very well be the creature himself.

You are not a beginning writer (as this story demonstrates). To further your skills and your talent, there has to be more advanced consideration- pointing out basic grammar rules and structure problems is too simple.

Firstly, this reader would urge you to consider the voice. This piece is being narrated but what is the voice? It is colloquial enough imply that a 'town with a Wal-Mart' is a point of interest in the boondocks, but uses an often unnecessarily sophisticated vocabularly. This reader does not feel this to be an artistic decision, but rather just the way the story came out. There was just a comment here on LitNet a little while ago- somebody said something like "I hate it when the writer tries to sound like a writer." That's exactly the case. The way the narrative uses word choice and how it uses devices is a decision the writer has to consciously make and style toward. This reader is not sure if that's entirely clear- try imagining reading your story like it was being told by an Englishman, or a 'Nor Cal Bro', or a man with a very thick mustache (Friedrich Nietzsche?). One of these people would say 'dude' a lot and not have a very big vocabulary. That's what this reader means by voice.

Secondly comes the idea of economy. Elegance is simply the idea that in few words you can make your meaning very clear. This piece is not overly verbose and it's readable for it. But one wonders if all those lines before the story actually begins (when Jacob's power goes out) are necessary. If most of them were cut you could probably still get your point across that he loved and lived in solitude and the reader could get to the 'good stuff' sooner. The reader also wonders if it was necessary to include the ghost-storyish precursor of a repeating event ("Every Halloween, when the moon is full...").

It's ironic that your best written scene (the encounter with the monster) is the one this writer feels squelched most of the tenses. Directly and completely revealing it cost you a bit in the horror aspect- when it comes to horror, this reader feels... everything but complete revelation.

Whatever tension is lost, more is built when Jacob wakes up and we are shown there's cold mud on his bed. As the reader approaches the climax at the end, the tension is quite effectively built. The climax itself, not so much... he's been eating his own cats is the assertion this reader draws from it (he may be incorrect?). What's so scary about that? Real horror comes from concepts much held in one's own humanity (crying out for help but not receiving an answer, inexplicable and sudden loss that one cannot put in context, etc). 'I am a man who transforms into a monster and sometimes eats my own pets' is more like a Craigslist personal ad that something that shivers the reader to the core.

But when the horror, when the tension does work it's so genuine it cannot be denied that you have a talent. Unfortunately you can no longer cultivate it the way you used to, this reader suspects... it's time to start reaching for the fruit in the higher branches because you can and because you owe it to your writing.



J

hillwalker
01-28-2011, 07:00 AM
As Jack said, you are getting better with every posting but there's always room for improvement.

What struck me was that you do a better job of conveying terror through describing atmosphere and scene than in the specific depictions of horrible events (like the creature poised over the corpse). Perhaps it's because you switch from a story teller to a news reporter - and that doesn't really work particularly well.

Also the style was a little reminiscent of Poe - the unidentified narrator, rather sophisticated yet in this particular story given to wearing a t-shirt. The 'voice' and the scenario did not quite gel.

And the hocus pocus regarding the midnight hour and New Year's Eve - why complicate matters with such B-movie cliches?
Similarly you refer to signs of ritualistic killing - then mention other ghastly happenings before choosing not to disclose any further details. It seemed a rather distracting device that neither adds to the tension nor increases the reader's curiosity. The way you describe it made it about as exciting as the 'cabin like motif'.

It's a valiant effort - but the style needs a make-over and the pace could definitely be readjusted to make for a much punchier build-up and finale.

H

everyadventure
01-28-2011, 12:11 PM
When he hears the sound on the deck, where are his trusty Labradors?

And, if the cats always disappear on Halloween, why does this one meet its fate on New Year's?

Many of your beginning details are wonderful; they lend to the scene and atmosphere and are carefully selected (I like the phrases "burrow," "rusty whine," and "ritual disappearance.") But I feel that as the story progresses, word selection becomes a bit trite ("blood red eyes," "gnash its... teeth," "evil claws"). Surprise us!

Horror is a tricky genre (one I'm not confident enough to try!), but I think this story could have a lot of impact if you give it some more concentrated thought.

Thanks for sharing!