Kevin Lucia's Blog, page 11

How a Christian Fell in Love With the Horror Genre #3

Anecdote:

My Worst Reoccurring Childhood Nightmare Took Place in a Church

Older, empty churches have always inspired a sense of Otherness in me. I don't know why. I don't feel this when walking through our present church when it's empty, because it doesn't feel like an empty church when it's empty (if that makes any sense). It feels – and looks – more like an empty hotel convention hall. It's too modern to inspire that sense of Otherness, or, as German theologian Rudolpho Otto liked to put it, a sense of the “numinous.”

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Text and Subtext #25

This is one of those incidents in which the movie poster is way cooler than the actual movie itself. A cursed TV brings to life zombies which wander around the countryside and do what zombies do. Filled with illogical, nonsensical choices and awful acting and dialogue - as well as a soundtrack that’s like, only three notes different from Halloween’s soundtrack, and some REALLY bad hair - it offers some a low-budget charm that’s just able to cover over the sound of the bottom of the barrel being scraped. Check it out on Tubi.

How A Christian Fell in Love With the Horror Genre #2

Anecdote:

Churches Are Creepy Places, Part 2

We had a cemetery next to our church. I don't remember a whole lot about it. I remember it being very very small, and that's about it. What I do remember is – along with other kids in our youth group – always feeling drawn to it. Like the creepy storeroom in the back of Kids' Church, I was always sneaking over to the cemetery next to the church, and other kids in the youth group were, too.

I mean, c'mon. Dead bodies were there. Underground. Folks dead and buried for hundreds of years or more. I vaguely remember making up stories about the people buried there. Honestly, I can't remember if it was the cemetery for the church, or it was one of those little, preserved cemeteries you see next to country roads all the time, and our church ended up being built next to it. But regardless, it was there, and the church kids, predictably, liked to hang out there.

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Wednesday Writer's Update

Text and Subtext #27: Last Kind Words

If you stop and think about what’s actually happening here - a good bit of Southern incest, y’all - this movie becomes profoundly disturbing on a definitely ICK level. Somehow, however, it’s still extremely watchable. The mood of this Southern Gothic ghost story is pitch perfect, right down to the soundtrack and musical score, and Brad Dourif is great, as always. Check it out on TUBI.

An Update

A much belated update. A new job and new schedule set me reeling for a bit, but I’m going to fight to get back on track. My sincerest apologies to my subscribers. I’m looking at a slightly new schedule, and it will look like this:

Monday Morning Review - free

Wednesday Update - free

Friday: How A Christian Fell in Love With the Horror Genre - paid

Unfortunately, I have to suspend Friday Free Fiction for the time being, because I’m a bit too tapped on several different ends, at the moment. Also - enjoy this cover for my forthcoming collection of CD and Lamplight columns/essays, REVELATIONS.

Wednesday Writing Update

No video today, because I had to go out of town, but I offer you this, instead: a book TWELVE YEARS IN THE MAKING! Next Wednesday, I’ll offer the full backstory. Coming from Crossroads Digital/Macabre Ink, November 2023.

"The Lincoln County Wars are over. Billy Bonney - "The Scourge of the Midwest" - and his band of Regulators have lost, and are on the run. When a job offer to "hunt a big cat" menacing a mining operation in the small town of Tascosa, Texas, comes their way, it seems like the perfect chance to flee the law and earn a big stake. Maybe a big enough stake for everyone to make a clean break and go straight for good.

It's not a big cat killing the miners in Tascosa, however. It's something ancient and evil, with an unquenchable thirst for human flesh. Even worse, Billy and his pals find themselves in the midst of one man's obsessive search for the Lazarus Stone, a mythical gem purported to possess uncanny healing powers. According to legend, the last knight` of the Templars hid the stone in Cottonwood Mountain, just outside Tascosa. The mining operation was nothing but a sham to find the stone; because Wagner Rutherford III - a wealthy plantation owner and amateur archeologist - believes the stone can resurrect his dead son. Even more - the monsters are drawn to the stone's power like moths to a flame, and stand between them and the stone.

Since the end of the Lincoln County Wars, Billy the Kid has been without purpose. A gun pointed nowhere. Now, with the help of a former priest-turned occult scholar, a small town sheriff, and an itinerant and adventuring frontier doctor, Billy the Kid will find his new purpose - and destiny - or he'll finally feel the taste of death on his tongue."

How a Christian Fell In Love With the Horror Genre

Anecdote: Churches Are Creepy Places

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Text and Subtext 24: The Ice Cream Man

Remember last week how I said there’s subtext in almost every movie, even if there’s no intention? That lots of time subtext is just a thematic by-product of characterization?

Forgot about that, with The Ice Cream Man. It’s just…glorious 90s WTF IS HAPPENING CHEESY HORROR.

The story is this: the local ice cream man is killed right in front of a kid, in a…mob hit? Anyhoo, the kid sits down on the curb, grabs the ice cream cone dropped by the now gut-shot ice cream man, eats it, and goes away into his Happy Place in his head. Ergo, he goes nuts.

Fast-forward 30 years, and that kid - after spending time in an exceptionally loony loony-bid - is now the local ice cream man, filling in for the ice cream man he’d apparently idolized back in the day. Played by schlock icon Clint Howard with his usual enthusiastic madness, our new ice cream man has got a lot more than dairy goodness in his ice cream truck. A lot more.

Maybe there’s something in here about PTSD…but not a whole lot. Basically it’s Clint Howard giving his as-usual entertaining performance, with Jan-Michael Vincent (looking pretty good, so this was probably before cocaine destroyed him and his health), as a detective, walking around scowling like a bargain-rate David Caruso years before CSI: MIAMI.

Anyway. Good for a laugh on a slow day. Watch it on Tubi today.

ZooTown #9

"That's a strange thing for him to say," Father Ward said. "What did he mean by that, do you think?"

A sigh.

"I wasn't sure at first. I mean, all my life, he'd told me she'd been killed by a hit and run driver. So at first, it didn't make much sense, because it sounded like he was blaming his heart or blaming himself for having feelings about...something.

“The only sense I could make of it, though, was thinking about how Dad looked in those pictures. How he'd looked so alive, compared to how he looks now. Was he blaming himself for being too happy? But it still didn't make sense, though. How could being happy lead to Mom getting hit by a car?

"It started making more sense the next day, when I finally decided to hit the library after school."

*

School passed pretty quickly that Monday. School's not that bad, Father. Lots of my friends hate it, but Brian and me, we like it fine. A few classes kinda stink. Math and Biology are two. But I like History, Art Class, and Shop just fine, and I love English. I have all those classes after lunch, so the end of the day goes pretty fast.

Plus, I'm not going to lie. I didn't pay much attention to those classes, Monday. I didn't blow them off, exactly. More like paid attention on the outside, while I worked over some questions on the inside.

Like about the signing I'd heard Saturday night around the stage at Raedeker Park. Whether it had been my imagination, a ghost or, according to Dad...something demonic, something evil trying to lead me astray.

Also, I thought about Mom getting run down by a hit and run driver, and how that made no sense in a town where pretty much everyone drives the speed limit and no one's ever in a hurry to get anywhere.

I also wondered about Mom dying so close to Halloween, and Dad hating Halloween, thinking a freaking holiday is more evil than just about anything else. And then of course, there’s what Dad said the night before: That Mom had died because he'd allowed himself to be led astray by his heart.

Here's what I came up with.

I suppose if I'd known before about the story of a ghost girl singing at Raedeker Park, me imagining it would make a lot of sense. Heck, if I'd ever heard that story, I would've gone to the stage hoping to hear her sing. But I’d never heard the story before - so how could I imagine her singing?

As for whether it was a ghost, or demon? Well, I know the Bible calls Satan 'the prince of lies' and warns that he'll come to you clothed in light and goodness, but I've also heard you can tell just by the feel that something evil's.

Like Bassler Road, or old Bassler House. I stay away from both those places, Father. It didn't feel right at all the one time Brian and I went snooping around, like all the kids in town do, so I stay away from that place.

Also, I get a cold chill whenever I ride by that abandoned old foundry set on Black River, near the Black River Bridge. And honest true? I've never really liked Black Creek Bridge, on the other side of town, out near the lumber mill and the library.

But I sure didn't feel that way Saturday night when I heard that singing. I felt something peaceful, and kind of lonely, but not sad, really. If that makes any sense.

Melancholic? That’s the word, Father, definitely. Melancholic.

Anyway, I couldn't make any headway with the bit about Dad's heart leading him astray, and why that had caused Mom's death. Of course, at that point, I hadn't had all the facts yet. The one thing that stayed with me all day, though, was this: If Clifton Heights was the kind of town where no one ever speeds and is never in a hurry to get anywhere...why was the car that killed Mom speeding?

If someone in town was driving fast because of an emergency, folks would've heard tell about it. But no one had recognized the car, and they never figured out who did it. An unknown car no one recognized speeding around a corner in a town where no one ever broke the speed limit, killing Mom, and then disappearing after? Maybe I'm crazy or just imagining things, Father, but that doesn't sound much like an accident...

Does it?

*

So after school was over I jumped on my bike and pedaled down Main Street to Bassler Memorial Library, on the other end of town. I'm not exactly sure what I was looking for, Father. Newspaper articles, I guess, about the day Mom died. We have recent newspapers at school, but nothing past that. I asked the school librarian, Mrs. Dalpiez, but I guess we don't have room to store them all, and we're waiting on one of those microfiche machines, the ones that have newspapers stored on film cassettes, or something? Anyway, we haven't got the money for one of those, or something, so no newspapers more than a month old at the high school. It was off to Bassler Library, then.

I don't really know what I was looking for. It was a newspaper article, and the The Courier doesn't tell much past the facts, y'know? But Dad had always been so closemouthed about the whole thing, dodging my questions with vague homilies about being "punished for following his heart's folly." So I figured even if the paper didn't say much, it'd sure as hell tell me a whole lot more than my Dad ever had.

Yeah, I know.

Sad, ain't it? That I had to resort to looking up old newspapers to know more about how my own Mom died. But that's how things are, y'know? Some things you just gotta live with.

When I walked through the doors into the library's foyer, I was taken aback - like always - at the silence. I mean, I know that's kind of a rule and all - being quiet in a library - but you never really think about it until you actually step into one. And school library doesn't really count. It's not loud in there, but there are usually too many students working and whispering for it to be completely quiet.

Bassler Library is different. Soon as you walk into its dark wood foyer, it's like all sound hits a wall and stops. By the time you push through the second set of doors into the library's main lobby, if feels like you've gone to a completely different world, like no place on earth, honestly. Doesn't matter how warm it is outside, it's always cool in there. The lights dimmed, not completely dark, but just enough for you to feel this strange sort of reverence or peace settle over you. Always intimidates me a little, to tell the truth, and it did that day as I walked into the lobby and up to the main desk, which is basically a big circle in the middle of the library.

Was Mrs. Bassler the librarian when you were a kid?

She was?

Wow.

Wonder how old she is. Hard to tell, honestly. I mean, she doesn't look too terribly old. Her hair's white, but her face is still pretty smooth with no wrinkles, except maybe some around the corner of her eyes. What they call "crow's feet" I guess. She's probably fifty or sixty, something like that. And I've always wondered if she's related to the Basslers of Bassler Library, Bassler House and Bassler Road. I mean, she'd have to be, right? It's not really a common name, and this is too small a town to have folks with the same last name not be related to each other.

Anyway, that day I walked up to the main desk, Mrs. Bassler was busy working on something at the main desk - reading a book, but I couldn't see what kind - and she didn't look up until I got right up to the desk and was about to say something.

I didn't get a word out of my mouth before she looked up and nailed me with those bright green eyes of hers. I think that's what makes her seem younger than she really is: Those green eyes. They're not scary or anything, or mean or nasty. More like...spooky. Not in a bad way, I guess. Just like she's looking straight through you, or looking down deep inside to all those places where we hide stuff we don't folks to know about.

Kinda funny, thinking that, because I don't believe Dad's ever visited the library, ever.

Anyway, there she was, snapping those green eyes up to meet mine before I could get a word out. For a minute there I was kinda shaking in my sneakers, until she gave me a small smile and said, "Good afternoon. How can I help you today?"

That's another thing about her, Father, and you probably noticed it, too. Her voice. It's always so light. I don't want to say "musical" really, because that sounds sorta dumb and corny, and also it's not quite right. I guess harmonious is a better word. It didn't sound husky, wasn't too soft or too loud, it sounded...just right, if that makes any sense. It balances out how "serious" the library feels, and how creepy her eyes look (all right, I'll admit, they're creepy, though I still don't think they look creepy in a bad way, exactly). Her voice always makes you feel welcome, y'know? Like she's really happy you stopped by.

Of course, she’s probably happy to see anyone. Don't know how it was in your day, Father, but hardly anyone goes into the library, really. Just little kids for story-hour on Saturday morning, the random kid like me - usually working on a school project - and few old-timers who are regulars. Most of the time it's pretty empty in there, so I guess she probably is pretty happy to see folks when they drop by.

Anyway, her voice put me at ease. I licked my lips, swallowed, and managed to get out, "Where do you keep the newspapers? The old ones, I mean. Like over ten years."

Mrs. Bassler pursed her lips and looked slightly displeased, but not at me, I don't think. "Unfortunately, the Town Board hasn't seen fit to allocate the necessary funds for a microfiche yet. If you'd been asking twenty years back, you'd be out of luck. We had an awful rainy season last year, and mold destroyed most of newspapers stored in the basement. However, we keep the last ten years of newspapers in the archive room behind me. Ten years ago, you say?"

"Yes ma'am. Ten years ago, October 15th."

I don't know for sure if Mrs. Bassler knew who I was, and if she did, guessed what I was after...but I kinda wonder if maybe she did know. Soon as I said "October 15th" her eyes got soft, as if she knew why that date was important to me.

Anyway, she didn't say as such. Just the way she looked at me, kind of sorry-like. She nodded, said, "A moment," turned, left the circular desk through a small door and headed toward a door I hadn't seen before now, against the far wall, but what must be the archives room.

She opened the door, went inside, and wasn't in there more than ten minutes before she returned with a slightly yellowed but mostly okay-looking copy of The Courier, carefully folded in half. She walked through the small door in the circular main desk and laid it so the front page was facing the counter (and I think I understood Father, right then, she knew why I wanted that paper, and her own way was trying to soften things, make them easier).

"Archive materials can't be checked out," she said quietly, "nor can they be removed from the front desk, especially not until the Town Board finally ponies up for a microfiche. If, however, you'd like to copy some information down..."

She slid a small pad of paper and a pencil toward me, and then moved a discrete distance around the counter so she was facing away from me, saying, "If you need anything, just ask."

I'm gonna be honest, Father, I didn't move at all at first. Just stood and stared at that newspaper, turned front-page down. Didn't know if I could even turn the thing over, let alone read it and copy stuff down. It was touch and go, honestly. I about turned and walked out there without saying a word.

But I was tired of secrets, Father.

Tired of the way Dad avoided questions about how Mom died, with all this crypic "she died because my heart led me astray" crap. So, I took a deep breath, reached out and gently took both sides of the newspaper and flipped it over so I could see the headline.

It read, in big bold type that seemed to scream: LOCAL WOMAN KILLED IN HIT AND RUN.

Local woman.

my mom

Killed in hit and run.

my mom

Thank God there wasn't a picture. Not sure I could deal with that. Seeing the headline was bad enough. Believe it or not, Father, I hardly remember my Mom. I've lived most my life without her. It's something I've gotten used to, and in a way - I know this sounds bad - I've always known intellectually that my Mom died, but for some reason, I didn't really know it in my heart. It was a story Dad had told me (though not much of one) whenever it occured to me as a kid that I was different than everyone else because they all had mothers and I didn't.

He told me the same story - a bad person had hit Mommy with a car, but there hadn't been any pain, and she was now waiting for us up in Heaven, watching over us.

Anyway, it had become part of my life, right? A familiar part of the surroundings. Mom had been hit by a drunk driver (probably, they'd never caught the guy, which I can't believe I didn't get suspicious about that sooner, in a small town like this), and that was all.

But I don't think I'd ever...felt her being dead, y'know? It was just the way things were. She was dead and wasn't coming back, and was waiting for us in Heaven (that last part, of course, Dad stopped telling me a while ago, maybe sensing I wasn't sure if I bought it anymore.)

But seeing it there, in print - from a slightly yellowed ten year-old newspaper - big and bold as life: LOCAL WOMAN KILLED IN HIT AND RUN.

LOCAL WOMAN.

my mother

KILLED IN HIT AND RUN.

my mother

KILLED

mom

I struggled, I honestly did. My eyes watered and I choked up, but I somehow managed to hold it together. I coughed and cleared my throat, wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.

Mrs. Bassler paid me no mind. Honestly, Father, I'm almost sure she knew who I was and what I was after, and was just trying to give me the space I needed.

With all that out of the way, I pulled the pad and pencil over, and started reading the article. Had no idea what I was looking for, but I held that pencil with its tip poised, just in case.

God, it was hard to read that article, Father. I gotta be honest, it's really hard to remember what it said, actually. Mostly stuff about how the crime happened at 6:00 PM, and witnesses saw a beat-up blue truck come screaming around the corner of Henry Avenue onto Asher Street and didn't even try to stop. He was driving hell-bent for leather - sorry for my mouth, Father - and my Mom was in the middle of the crosswalk, and that car didn't even honk his horn, and one witness even swore the car sped up to hit her...

Yeah, yeah I know.

That doesn't sound much like an accident, does it?

No one managed to get a license plate, no one there said they recognized the car, but here's the thing.

The sheriff and his deputies finally got themselves organized and speeding in the direction that car was driven, over toward Booneville. And they never found him, Father. Not even a trace?

Know what that tells me?

No one may've recognized the car, but reading that article...well, hell, Father (sorry again). Only two ways someone could've gotten away so quick driving on the back roads like that. One: It was a ghost car, which obviously no one believes, and neither do I.

The second option's kinda worse, though, in a way. Even now, it still makes me angry no one mentioned this, or the guy writing the article for The Courier didn't pick it up…

(Of course, that's what I thought at the time, before I actually tracked the guy down who wrote that article, but I'll get to that in a bit).

The second thing is: Only way someone could disappear so quickly on those back roads?

They had to be local.

That's the only option.

You ever go driving out toward Booneville? Ever go biking that way as a kid? Those back roads and service roads crisscross so bad out there, some of them end up as roads between rows in cornfields. There's only one way a fella could hide himself out that way with cracking up his vehicle, and that's if he knew exactly where he was going.

The guy who wrote the article?

Yeah, I'll get to that in just a bit, but here's what I found out, Father. He thought the same thing too. He grew up here - he's probably about the same age as you - and he thought the same thing. Only way a driver could get away so quickly was if they knew the roads.

But apparently his editor at The Courier wasn't having it, Father. Wouldn't let that get to print, because he thought it was "biased and not objective." Turns out there were other reasons to keep it out of the paper, but here's something even more important, for now.

Two more important things, actually. The first tore me up really fierce and I guess it's not all that important, except for how it hurt me. Somewhere in the article it mentioned a "closed casket service" would be held at First Baptist Church, with my Dad presiding - which I don't know how the hell he was able to do that - but it was the closed casket part that really got me, because you know what that means, right?

They usually have closed casket funerals because the...the...body is too messed up to fix. So that means that there wasn't much of my Mom after that guy hit her. She got messed up so bad, they didn't want anyone to see her.

The other thing?

Well, it was another shocker, and it took a minute for me to get it. Dad had always told me Mom had been hit on Main Street, while after she'd done some grocery shopping at The Farmer's Market. But that's a LIE. According to that article, she'd just stepped out of Handy's Pawn and Thrift on Asher Street. Handy's Pawn and Thrift, not The Farmer's Market. Asher Street, not Main.

My Dad lied. He lied to me about where Mom died, and what she'd been doing before she died.

Again, pardon my mouth, Father...but why the hell would he do a thing like that?