by Heather Hein—
Valentine’s Day: A holiday for some, a horror story of isolation, a pageant of overpriced, soon-to-be-deceased flowery foliage, kissing couples whose shameless acts of public passion inspire everything from the ironic eyeroll to expectorating spite. For those whom the Fates have favored with a best friend or lover…well, I hope you received something good. Because, Hell Hath No Fury, right? (Side fact, my father once gave my mother clothes baskets for Valentine’s Day. After that tragic choice, she drew upon the wisdom of ages gone past and turned him into a newt.) Perhaps this could give rise to a story about love’s vengeance?
In horror, as in life, society tends to relegate female and female-identifying individuals into one of two categories. The Nymphomaniac oozes with sex appeal and might, if one is unlucky (or perhaps lucky depending on your personal proclivities) lure a potential partner into a dark alley for the purpose of strangulation or exsanguination depending on her mood. She is a challenge to be conquered and once claimed, shall be cursed to serve as arm candy. As a matter of fact, in Catlyn Ladd’s recent novel, As Those Above Fall, there is an alley scene, but I’ll let you read it for yourself to find out the results of that little encounter. I love alleys. They’re creepy and secret and smell nasty. What a great place to commit write a crime scene!
Think of the sexy women (barely out of their teens) in horror films. They are dripping with desire and whether they are the baddy (Jennifer’s Body—as if a male horror movie would ever be successful with that title) or the victim (never the final girl—we all know she’s not that hot, and she’s definitely a virgin despite the slobbering attempts by her male counterparts to change this), they’re so ripe they’re practically falling off the vine. These loose women dance naked before the fire and may or may not cast a spell on your significant other. They’re apt to be wearing short skirts even when it’s five below zero and snowing. They have the audacity to expose their “dirty pillows” (Thanks to Stephen King and Carrie White’s mom, Margaret, and for that particular term, which has remained lodged in my mind since approximately 1987 or so) and merrily throw their youth in the face of the old crones who used to be them. This woman rarely exists, and if she does, she’s probably an Elizabeth Bathory disciple who bathes in the blood of innocents. Perhaps with the brand name Oil of Olay. Now, wouldn’t that be a gas? A supernatural beauty products line.
The Nurturer is a transformation that the Nymphomaniac is societally required to undergo once she agrees to allow a parasite to grow inside her womb. She will be revered and described as “glowing.” She will be celebrated with an unnecessary number of newborn onesies and diapers and nipple cream and belly butter, and everyone will adore her until such time as said offspring is able to exist in the world without sucking away her life force. Once that tiny squalling human is evicted, her transformation is complete. Now she is a mother. There can be no trace of that once-hot honey strumpet mentality left while she works on getting her pre-baby figure back, the one that everyone’s been commenting about in voices just audible enough to hear saying…“When does the other one come out?” Of course, this is a perfect justification to mess with someone in the most psychological, pathological way possible, isn’t it?
Consider poor Rosemary Woodhouse, the nearly virginal vision of purity in Rosemary’s Baby, whose only purpose is to first incubate, then serve as a fierce defender of the evil forces which might come in the night to snatch away baby Adrian. This mother would never seduce a man with love potions, she would never curse another woman, would never stay out late, and would never, ever slide back into her thigh-highs and patent leather boots. It’s as if Snow White’s nasty step-mom sneaks in and steals her youth and sex appeal, creating a ring of salt and hexes around the sassy young lady she used to be, just forty weeks ago. Talk about a horror story!
My devoted followers, this is the genesis of Mommy Horror.
Mommy Horror shines the mirror (on those who are able to cast a reflection) on this duality that continues to plague society like a virulent strain of chronic dysentery refusing to cease the attack no matter how many spells or potions or Imodium one offers as a bum balm.
For those of you who have not walked around in a feminine body since puberty, you might not know that we have all been under the spell of an ancient, timeless curse so foul that it simply is known as THE CURSE. Women are born into blood and made mothers by way of blood. So much bleeding. We seal bleeding wounds with a kiss (and a Sponge Bob Band-Aid) and for those of you not privy to the messy business of birth, there’s an actual event known as the bloody show,which is not another phrase for Tales from the Crypt. Feel free to use that as your next Mommy horror story.
Mommy Horror looks at the parent/child relationship in all its disappointments, misconceptions, and false promises women have failed their coven-sisters by not talking about it. (Most likely because those who have had the temerity to express any dissatisfaction with their role as The Sexless Nurturer have been offered up to elder gods as a sacrifice while the rest exercise their right to remain silent, for fear that they may be the next one who gets a big letter painted on their dowdy dress and then made to stomp around the village disgruntled while a nun walks behind them shouting “Shame!” The Scarlet Letter has already been done, but why not write it in blood?)
Mommy Horror takes those common fears or disappointments—kids who talk back, kids who get into fights, kids who are generally evil—and turns them into a metaphor. This way, we never have to actually come out and say that our kids are terrible, just hint at it. An opportunity for therapy? Maybe!
One of my favorite masters of the genre is Zoje Stage. Her book, Baby Teeth, was absolutely terrifying. Harried mom, Suzette, has some serious gastrointestinal issues and Hanna, her seven-year-old sadist-child, is literally out to get her. She puts on an angelic face any time her father is around. She even fills her mom’s medication capsules with gluten—something she isn’t supposed to have. Yes, even kids can be evil. Even kids can be experts at gas lighting. Any normal coven would believe poor Suzette and attempt some corrective spells, and if these weren’t successful, a community of spellcasters would do whatever it took to get things under control. A little sacrifice every now and then isn’t a bad thing. To make my fascination with this story even more compelling, my daughter’s name is Hannah (with the palindromic “H”), and I am on a strict Gluten Free diet. Furthermore, she was seven years old when I read the book. Luckily, she is not possessed by evil and is a very loving kid. Celiac disease is a monster in autoimmune form. Just think of all the microbe stories one could write.
On the other side of things are stories about terrible mothers, which I imagine are disgruntled children’s way of working through the inevitable traumas of childhood. Black Swan, a movie about a neurotic ballerina controlled by a very bizarre, very manipulative mother, shows how a lifetime of trying to escape a smothering mother can result in some pretty maladaptive, neurotic behaviors. And then, of course, the most famous example is Mommy Dearest, a movie I watched one time and though it was good, I decided that once was quite enough for me. Smother mothers? There was a recent anthology completely devoted to the subject.
To complete the sacred triquetra of relationships, we must include stories of fraught relationships between moms and their kids where no one—or perhaps both are to blame. I think of The Babadook. Seriously, when I watched that I was nearly cheering for the awful, annoying kid to get his come-uppance no matter what form that would take. His temper tantrums and barnacle-like clinginess would probably push me over the edge, making me seriously consider the benefits of offering something to the monster: a finger, an arm, a head, take your pick. And don’t judge me because that kid would have deserved it. At least during the first half of the movie. I felt sorry for his mom; newly widowed, overworked, underappreciated, and trying to raise a child who is potentially the spawn of the damned, but I also developed some serious doubts about her disciplinary methods. Her decision to read a book with a spooky cover that mysteriously arrived on his bookshelf is just one of her questionable calls. The other, of course, is feeding the same monster from the book which resides in the basement. Surprise! The horrible kid was right. It actually was because of demons. Cue the mommy guilt. Cue the grief. Cue the anger she harbors toward her husband for dying and leaving her alone to deal with it all. Kinda like when your kid overreacts about all their aches and pains, then when they actually do break their arm, you put off taking them in for an x-ray until the following week. (That’s a pretty specific example; I’m sure you can guess the rest. In my defense, there was no additional harm caused by waiting.) Guilt syndrome is ripe ground—sour soil from one particular Semetary in Lewiston, Maine perhaps—for growing all sorts of monstrous things.
Dudes out there may be hollering, “Hey! Where’s my daddy horror?” Maybe we’ll talk about that another time, but according to my ancient tomes written by ancient crones from druidic times to now, the reason Mommy horror is so effective is because they come from inside us. They change the way we are perceived and once you are implanted, suddenly the world is allowed to weigh in on their opinions until the day you die, which might just be the first time you get a real break from the most thankless job in the world. So, take a seat and listen to your momma, your sister, your significant other. They’ll tell you everything. Probably more than you want to hear, but people who’ve experienced birth will tell you everything.
Where does this leave us, my most dedicated adherents? Where is the craft in all of this? Simply put, if you’re putting women in your horror stories, please consider treating the characters as more than procreators or prostitutionary sex dolls. Should you choose to include a character who meets one of the aforementioned criteria, please give us a reason, a metaphor, a purpose, and show how this is…well, ya know…bad.
Until next time, I remain, as always,
Your Friendly Neighborhood Word Witch
HWA Colorado 