Out There Screaming: An Anthology of New Black Horror

by Jordan Peele

an oubliette was a dungeon shaped like a bottle with only a small covered opening at the top that barely let in any light.

The elegant name for this horrifically simple contraption comes from the French word oublier, which means “to forget.” This became, in many ways, the foundation for the Sunken Place in Get Out, where, through pre-operation hypnosis and neurosurgery, Black people were sent to these psychological oubliettes. A place where you were stripped of all agency and left alone with your struggle. Where you could see life going on around you, but you were essentially a bystander—forgotten.

But I always imagined that everyone’s Sunken Place would look different, a manifestation of our own personal horrors.

I view horror as catharsis through entertainment. It’s a way to work through your deepest pain and fear—but for Black people that isn’t possible, and for many decades wasn’t possible, without the stories being told in the first place.

Probably better to shoot than arrest her, really; dead women file no lawsuits.

He needs women with a certain…maturity? Detachment? Awareness of their own insignificance? He also dates only white women, mostly because this pisses off Kinsey and the good ol’ boys. All the women really want from him is the chance to say they screwed Black, anyway, and maybe to smirk at any nearby Black women in the process. Carl likes fucking them, so it’s mutually beneficial manipulation.

Middle Eastern woman in hijab, middle-aged, nice rack. Made the mistake of mouthing off when Carl pulled her over for speeding. He’d been having a bad day. Got better after he shoved his collapsible baton into her mouth. She lost a few teeth and spent a night in jail; got off lucky as far as he’s concerned. Could’ve been a lot worse. Now she’s suing him for—get this—sexual assault. Because the baton was phallic, Carl guesses, but sometimes a baton is just a baton, damn.

(Men don’t really do friendship, Carl believes, even if that’s what they call it for civility’s sake. What they really have is friendly rivalry.

He brings his personal baton, though. Technically illegal to concealed-carry, but Bo’s mouth might need loosening up.

Bo must be seeing the eyes. That, or he’s got his own related power—because Carl’s dreams were never true and Bo’s are. No wonder he’s scared of Carl now, if Justice’s blindfold has slipped a little.

Justice is blind and Jesus Is Watching

“Living ain’t free,” Atticus says. “Neither is dying.”

Zelda knows he’s not happy, but he won’t make a fuss, because he understands, just like Zelda, that sometimes the best monster hunters are monsters themselves.

He knew the same thing that was in her was in him, knew it so bone-deep he had never found it in himself to hate her. But he wanted to be better than she was. Only the truly evil would build a life they knew they would abandon.

I swear, there must be some genetic well of low self-esteem that makes humans look for something, anything, to worship.

They’re preparing for something the human body won’t sur-vive.

I know where his apartment is. Already, I know it by heart. Sometimes I go by there, just in case we might cross paths. Leave it up to fate. It’d be pathetic if I were waiting for him or seeking him out, but if I happen to go by his apartment on my way to the train or the library or the coffee shop I like, and if I happen to see him, that’s just fate. If he didn’t want to see me around the neighborhood, he should’ve moved farther away. I know, I know. I know I’m not coming off as the hero of this story. This is, at the very best, loser behavior, if not actual creep behavior.

if you ever tell anyone about this they’ll send you back inside the cuckoo clock i could call 911 right now and tell them how my boyfriend’s ex has been stalking us hanging around outside and now sending crazy texts how many days would they keep you inside

He’d never done anything like that before, but people often never do things right before they always do them.

I have a condition with an ugly name. One of the symptoms of this ugly condition is that I am afraid, profoundly, that I will be abandoned. The doctor says this fear is irrational, even though I have been abandoned before. I knew that Oglethorpe would think I was being irrational and silly and ugly. Untrusting. Jealous. Clingy. The sorts of traits that would make him actually fall out of love with me.

The phone continues to buzz, and I try again, more gently this time. The crack has opened up, but inside the crack isn’t electronics and circuit boards. It’s a mouth, a wet and bloody mouth.

“I wanted to see what you look like,” the monster says, after a long pause. “He still talks about you.” “And then what? When I actually came you got scared?” It doesn’t say anything, but I know the answer is yes. And suddenly I see. I see. Untrusting. Jealous. Clingy. This thing, whatever it is, it’s just like me. Everything about me that is wrong, putrid, and disgusting. Just a bunch of grasping hands, taking, taking, taking.

He’s alive. He can definitely live without it. And it strikes me, if I have his heart, then he has to love me, right?

Our love will never die, and so I have conquered death itself. “Forever.”

When I try to wrap my lips around a story I’m not supposed to tell, it sours on my tongue. The only way to sweeten it? Name some truths before the lie.

Never trust a woman alone in the water.

She will have dark skin like ours and straight hair like theirs. Us and them. Those born on this island and those who crowned it the jewel of an empire. If she calls to you, run before she can speak. If you are fool enough to hear, you must do as she says. She always grabbed my hand at this part. Listen! Or she’ll snatch you and leave a shell in your place.

Not-Marie longed for land the way I did the sea. She told us to give her one or she’d take all three. The answer was in the ache.

“I’ll give.” I latched on to her slippery palm. “So you don’t have to take? If you save Lovelie, I’ll give you me.”

Fear made my mother weave a lie about my disappearance.

I never missed my home because the memory was all I needed. That’s the lie.

Gone are the days When tradition had its say Now is the time for the South to integrate. We will march on To a better land we know For the Constitution tells us so March on, march on.

Looked wrong. Smelled wrong. All of him was wrong. The driver too.

“You’ll see them in a minute, little missy,” the driver said with that same unnatural voice. “Justice comes in time, like all things.”

even though he wouldn’t have lifted a finger for us if he’d watched us set on fire

The end isn’t a fade to black. It’s a scalding flash of white.

Every white man was sir. Every Black man was boy.

White people’s moods dictated Black people’s lives. They all understood that, most especially the white people.

Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction. —Thirteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution

“This isn’t our first dance, Martin. Once, you even killed me, stabbed me with a letter opener after I told you the truth. At least it was faster than a trial.” He chuckled, as if it were a fond memory. “You’ve made me into a villain, a clown, and everything in between, but we always end up here.”

“Whatever you remember, you know the dream is better,” said Wexler in his head. “I offer you a taste of heaven in this Hell, but you throw it away every time. You’re the only subject who created a fantasy of The Process designed for you to escape it. I need to know why.”

Spoken like a true White Boy.