The pseudo-script to a never illustrated Horror Comic.
A white space. A sheet of Paper.
NARRATION: In the beginning, there was a formless void.
The tip of a pencil touches paper.
NARRATION: And then God created.
The Pencil begins to carve a curved line into the perfect white void of Paper.
NARRATION: What do you think inspired God? What gave him the idea to create something?
The Pencil curves a line in the opposite direction, a limb is being formed.
NARRATION: Not that I’m comparing myself to God. I’m not God. But….
The form of a torso is visible on the paper. The Pencil is still moving.
NARRATION: ….isn’t all art an act of creation, really? And if both God and I create….
A Man sits at a desk, hunched over his work. His body is thin but not disgustingly, his hair is messy and unkempt, but not too long and not too dirty. His clothes are wrinkled and mismatched. This is a Man who forgets to do simple things. He forgets to eat sometimes, he forgets to sleep, to cut his hair frequently, to bathe daily. He is a man obsessed.
NARRATION: ….then where did God get his ideas? And perhaps, a more distressing question…..
The full scope of the picture is revealed. The body being shaped is a hideous beast; it’s body is malnourished and bone-thin, but muscled and powerful looking. It’s head is misshapen and swollen, it’s eyes milky white and wide, but clearly it is not blind. Strands of hairs, long and dirty, spiral and twist out of it’s scalp- sores align it’s skull, like craters on a some misshapen moon., scattered amongst the hideous web-like strands of it’s remaining hair- a telltale sign of a creature that tears at it’s own scalp and body. His cavernous mouth, wide and horrid with twisted, sharp and cracked teeth, is twisted into the smile of a madman, the smile of satisfaction only made by hunters and lovers. It’s hands and feet twist into long, sharp claws- more suitable on a bird of prey than this mockery of the humanoid form. Most horrifying is it’s nightmarish penis- standing up, attentive, beastial. It looks up at us from it’s hairless nest, like a leering, eyeless monster, bloated at it’s own importance and it’s blood-filled(and yet bloodlusty) lumpy form. At this hairless horrors feet is the body of a Woman, her form savaged and mutilated. Her head remains untouched, staring up sightlessly at us, as if begging us to save her. The expression is one of absoloute horror- it is clear she was not only killed. Her stomach has been torn over, penetrated and torn asunder.
NARRATION: …..where do I get my ideas?
NARRATION: Dreaming. Almost all of this comes to me in dreams.
The writer is standing in a cavern. There is a red light emanating from further up above, illuminating him with red light. His hair is even messier, like he’s been sleeping. He if shirtless, his skinny body bared outward, vulnerable. He is not well-muscled, or even handsome. His face is covered with stubble. It is a worn face, weathered, experienced and haggard. His eyes are sunken, bags puffing out below. He is dressed only in a pair of grey sweatpants. His feet are bare.
He looks around, confused.
NARRATION: Is this…am I in Hell?
He begins to look around more intensely, now, looking for a way out. He hears a noise behind him( SCREEE!) and begins to run away from the light, into the darkness. The sounds of footsteps scratching on the ground echo around him, hideous scraping sounds. Mixed in are the continued SCREEE and now is mixed in with what may be the sounds of humans screaming. A woman, by the sound of it.
Around his feet are bones, and not all of them are bare. He stops and looks down, seeing pooled blood beneath his feet. The noises are louder now, coming closer and closer. He begins to whirl around as the red light begins to illuminate the area around him again. He looks forward, and is horrified to see one of the creatures, this one almost female looking, with hideous sagging breasts hanging from it’s twisted and pale chest. Purple veins spider-web through them, into the chest and up it’s neck to it’s hideous, gaunt face. This ones eyes are golden, and around it’s pencil-like neck is a necklace of fingers, teeth and ears- ghastly trophies of it’s former victims.
The female is crouched, and is chewing on the arm of a fallen woman. It’s sharp teeth rend into her arm. He sees that this victim is also nude, though there are some tatters of clothes around her. Her hair is short and dark, now matted with blood. He can see she had been beautiful, before these things had found her, before his imagination had it’s way with her. She has a nose-ring.
Shadows move behind him, he turns his head slightly, unwilling or unable to take his eyes completely off this hideous feeding, and he sees them, sillouetted against the red. They are moving, but not closer. Not yet.
The creature feeding upon this once radiant woman looks up at him, chewing, it’s yellow eyes gleaming at him like car headlights in the dark.
FEMALE CREATURE: Father…
And then the shadows behind him close on him, and they have him.
He wakes up, then, in his bed with a scream. He puts a single hand to his forehead and closes his eyes.
NARRATION: Just another dream…just another dream.
Our man, James Lunt, sits at a table. Behind him is a poster, depicting a group of the hideous monsters chasing a woman in a white dress. Her hair is tied back in a bun, the dress looks like a Wedding dress. Above the image is the words THE HORROR in big, black letters. There is a line of people standing in front of him on his right, lined up to the back of the store.
NARRATION: A signing. A Nightmare. For the comic inspired by a nightmare.
There are various comic books on the wracks on the walls. A fanboy approaches him. He is overweight and wears glasses that make his face look even more bulbous. His eyes are tiny beneath the small frames, but they widen as his excitement over meeting James slowly becomes more and more overt.
FANBOY 1: I love your work, Mister Lunt.
In quick succession, more and more people come to Lunt to get his autograph.
The first is a short, impossibly skinny punk boy with a Mohawk.
FANBOY 2: Dude, killer work.
Another young man, this one slightly better dressed, and very shy looking.
FANBOY 3: I…uh…I mean….
A nearly bald girl with a nose ring.
FANGIRL: Your work is so dark, y’know? Like…wow. Total classic.
As James sits there, looking more and more disconnected, words continue to fly by him at a rapid rate, washing over him and sticking to him like sewage. He is discomforted and disinterested in his fame. He is also clearly preoccupied by thoughts.
VOICES: ….Amazing, really… so totally classic horror… influences of Barker?... killing the uptight bitches… sexist?... pro-male, I love it!...
Suddenly there is seeming silence as a young boy, perhaps about thirteen, walks up to the table.
BOY: Where do you get your ideas?
James starts and looks down at him.
JAMES: I…well, I don’t know.
JAMES: I don’t know where they come from. Somewhere else, I guess.
The Boy looks confused, and is about to say more, when suddenly from off-panel comes a scream:
OLDER LADY: Thomas!
An older woman in conservative clothing rushes to the boys side, suddenly and with little warning, like a Hawk swopping down upon it’s prey. She grabs hold of his arm, perhaps harder than she should.
OLDER LADY: Thomas Arthur Mcshay you come away from there this instant! She looks down at the issue of THE HORROR he is holding. What….what are you doing with this FILTH!? She tears the comic away from his hand. The people in line behind the boy look uncomfortable. ‘The Horror’? This…this is disgusting! You! She leans over the table toward James, who looks back at her darkly, unmoved. You wrote this?
JAMES: I, uh, did the artwork, too.
OLDER LADY: Disgusting! You should be ashamed! This boy is only thirteen!
JAMES: It’s just fiction, Ma’am.
OLDER LADY: Is it? She begins to flip through the pages with righteous fury, stopping to show him pieces of art, like someone would rub soiled linen into the face of a Dog who has had an accident. Look at THIS! These things are….are….oh, god, they’re RAPING HER! THEY ARE EATING HER INTESTINES! The store owner, a pleasant looking heavyset man, attempts to calm her.
STORE OWNER: Ma’am, please…I’m not sure how the boy got a copy of this magazine, because it’s for mature readers only. I apologise for any inconvenience, but I am going to have to ask you to calm down and please leave.
The woman glares at him, her rage intensifying by the minute.
OLDER LADY: That. Is. Not. The. Point! She begins to stab a long, bony finger into the owner’s chest. This is filth you’re selling. This is filth YOU’RE making! She turns the finger to James, who is still sitting motionless, watching her with slightly distracted eyes. He almost looks sad, as if he understands her, perhaps? As we can see, children read this! And what message is this sending them, huh? That women should be raped and eaten?!
THOMAS(Taking her hand and looking dreadfully embarrassed) Grandma, please…I’m sorry I wandered off and I’m sorry I picked up this book. I’ll put it back.
GRANDMA: Thomas! I am TALKING!
FANBOY 1(to Fanboy 2, quietly): Jeez, what a bitch…
GRANDMA: You write and draw stories about these horrifying things eating people. Eating Women! And killing them!
JAMES: Ma’am, I understand your concerns, but I promise you these books are very strictfully for adult readers…
GRANDMA: You UNDERSTAND?! My grandson read this! And now his little mind is warped for life!
THOMAS(quietly): Am not…
GRANDMA: No! Don’t you Ma’am me!
OWNER: Ma’am, I will call security. He gets between her and James. I promise you, I will. Now. For the last time. PLEASE leave the store. The Grandma looks at The Owner, and stares him down. He crosses his arms across his chest. She breathes in deep and nods.
GRANDMA(Now quietly, looks towards James as she turns towards the door) What kind of a mind thinks of something like this? She roughly pulls Thomas towards the door. She stops and turns for her last word. You’re SICK, do you hear me? You’re a Monster! Get help, freak! She leaves, trailing Thomas behind. He looks at the store owner and James, with a look of grave apology. The look is returned by the two men, and then they are gone.
OWNER(Turning to James): I’m so sorry, that usually doesn’t happen around here, Jimmy.
JAMES(His distracted look of thought has returned to his face): I know, Carl. He tries to smile. I’ve been buying funny books for years from you, haven’t I? Not your fault. Carl, the owner, comes close to James.
CARL(Quietly): Look, I’ll understand if you don’t want to finish the signing? I’ll call it an early day…
James shakes his head.
JAMES: Nah. The show must go on, right…? Louder, to the slightly diminished crowd. Okay…who’s next?
James steps out a back door into an alleyway and lights a cigarette. He inhales deeply and exhales twice as hard.
NARRATION: It’s not that I’m offended. I’m not.
Close up of his eyes, dull and glazed, looking alarmed to his right.
NARRATION: In fact, the problem is…
Over his shoulder, we see one of his creatures, slouching at the end of the alley. It’s partially obscured by shadow, ghostly. Blood drips subtly from it’s long right claw.
NARRATION: …I think she may be right.
James stares at the creature, inhaling on his cigarette, which is clutched in one trembling hand. He takes a step into the alley, facing the beast.
JAMES: For the record, I don’t think you’re real. I’m very tired, and I’m a little upset. But…let’s say you are real. What is it that you want?
Close up of the creature, still obscured in shadow. It’s shoulders heave with long, deep breaths- it’s body moves almost rhythmically. One milky eye stares sightlessly out at James from beneath it’s dark mask.
THE CREATURE(Speaking softly and with a rattling sound, almost as if it’s underwater. James can barely hear it over the wind and traffic, but he hears it all the same): W-we waaaaaant you. Set Free.
James is now spooked, and backs away towards the door he came from. He grips the handle, but finds the door locked from the inside. The Creature moves towards him, slowly, methodically, like a hunter stalks a deer.
NARRATION: I know this isn’t happening. But why does it feel like this is happening?
James grunts with fear and exertion as he attempts to pull the door open, his hands dripping with sweat. His hands slip, then, suddenly and without warning, and he hears himself begin to make the beginning of a scream in the bottom of his throat, leaping upwards from the deep parts of him, like a drowning swimmer trying desperately to surface.
The creature moves closer, still making slow, laborious steps.
THE CREATURE(Chanting dispassionately): Set Free. Set Free. Set Free.
It’s almost on him now, so close he imagines he can feel it’s stinking, fetid breath upon his neck, it’s claws dangerously close to his back. He closes his eyes, sweat is dripping into them now.
JAMES: Please, God…!
A single, pale claw touches his shoulder as the chant abruptly stops with one last disembodied Set Free and then as he begins to scream…
The door opens, sending James sprawling into a pile of garbage.
OWNER(standing in the doorway with a cigarette): Um…you okay, Jimmy?
James lies in the garbage pile, breathing heavily. He shuts his eyes and draws his knees to his chest.
JAMES: I really hope so.