Demons vs. Ghosts

Earlier in his writing career, Stephen King released a nonfiction book titled Danse Macabre that analyzed, explained, and ultimately celebrated the horror story. He even divided horror stories into three subcategories: The Vampire, the Werewolf, and The Thing Without a Name (p 61 of the 1982 Berkley Paperback edition). After reading this, Jim and I spent some time naming off horror movies and deciding which subcategory owned each of them. 

But King deliberately left out the entire subcategory of ghosts, simply stating that "The archetype of the ghost is, after all, the Mississippi of supernatural fiction..." (ibid, p 61). Seeing as how Mr. King has written two of my all-time favorite ghost stories, The Shining and Bag of Bones, he should know. And I agree with him for the reasons he states. (If you want to know those, go peruse Danse Macabre. It's an amazing work.)

So now I am going to steal a little bit of the great man's model of analysis and divide ghost stories into two areas, not because I think they are both in that particular sub-genre, but because they always seem to be placed together: ghost stories, and tales of demons/demonic possession.

Ghost stories are my true romance. I read all the ghost stories I can find, from juvenile fiction to the adult stuff written by King and other writers like Noel Hynd. Ghost stories are my cup of tea. You all know about me and my ghost tours and my paranormal reality shows. But here is where that division starts to rear its supernatural head. I watch The Haunted Collector. I tend to avoid Paranormal State. Why? Because the latter focuses a great deal on cases of demonic possession. I avoid those like the plague. I read and saw The Exorcist when I was young and impressionable (both were released in the early '70's, so I'm giving away my age, here) and I was so traumatized by them that I do not find stories of possession enjoyable. Anyone remember The Entity? My, that was a fun one wasn't it? I still freak out if I think about it too much. 

My nephew, Dash, talked me into watching The Conjuring and I did, taking the precaution of watching it in broad daylight with Jim, whether he wanted to see it or not. And that movie was disturbing. I have yet to see Dash's latest recommendation, The Taking of Deborah Logan (Guess what, folks, she doesn't have Alzheimer's after all!). I don't think I'm quite recovered from The Conjuring yet.

My good friend, esteemed paranormal mystery writer Terri Reid, has recently wandered into demon territory and I both applaud her and await her next book with my heart in my throat. There is no doubt that I will read it. There is doubt that I will handle it very well. I have a solid Catholic background. Demons worry me.

So as I wrestle my way through plot lines and story ideas for gifted Cassie Valentine and equally gifted -but totally reluctant- Michael Penfield, I am shying away from things that include any kind of demonic possession. I do not choose to dance with the devil, in pale moonlight or anywhere else. My house coming alive from time to time as I labor over my stories is enough without throwing nonhuman entities of pure evil into the mix, thanks.

I don't know if any of you reading this will agree with me. Probably most people wander from ghost stories to demons and back again without so much as batting an eyelash, and I admire that. I'm a coward! However, I admit that I over recent years I have found a fun coping strategy for things that frighten me too much. Here's a picture of them - enjoy!

The Dead Crowd

Some time last October or November, exactly the right time of year, someone put up an Internet article about old-fashioned family portraits where at least one of the people in the picture was dead. Being as morbidly curious as the next person, I immediately clicked through the slide show (all 17 or so pictures) and played "spot-the-dead-person" in each of the pictures. That's not necessarily as easy as it sounds, by the way. For one thing, the dead person frequently had his or her eyes open. Also, the article went on to explain how the photographers at that time used any variety of braces and supports so that the deceased person could be posed in a sitting or even standing position. They even showed some behind-the-scenes shots of a no-longer-living person being propped up in a brace before the portrait was taken. YIKES! TMI! TMI! my brain was screaming.

But I kept on reading and looking anyway.

And being maybe more morbid than the next person, I finished the article and bookmarked it. I even went back to it a few times to look at the pictures. I mean, by this time, everyone in those pictures is dead and gone, but gazing on the face of the one who had already departed at the time of the photo shoot was fascinating to me. I have no idea why.

It wasn't until I decided to share the article with Jim that it began to bother me. Now, my husband has a master's degree in structural engineering. This is a man who LIVES applied physics and converses knowledgeably and unfailingly about things like shear loads and core borings with the use of free-body diagrams and all sorts of views and elevations. In other words, he spends probably most of his waking hours in a world of hard-core science. Also, he just thinks like that. I mean, who else would  bother to tell his date how much actual money she spent on each individual Lifesaver in the roll she just purchased? I didn't ask, he just volunteered that off the cuff in case I wanted to know the price I had paid per unit. 

So about a week after I had bookmarked that article and told him about it, probably ad nauseum, I finally dragged him into my office and showed him what I was talking about. And my husband, man of science, looked at the first three pictures and said "I don't want to see anymore." And clicked out of the article.

I did not see that coming. "Really?" I asked. "This is bothering you? Why?" I was totally surprised by his reaction.

He really didn't get any further than telling me that the whole thing was basically weirding him out. 

About two days later, I began to wish I had never showed the pictures to him. I know I have a hyperactive imagination. It's part of my mental make-up and also necessary to my profession. But a couple of days after my husband's unexpected reaction, I began to feel those dead people in my office. Now, I know how silly that may sound, but when I would be home alone, even during the day, and at the opposite end of our little ranch house, --for instance standing in the kitchen in front of the refrigerator-- I would feel them reaching out to me from my office. I could feel them reaching out to me, looking for me, maybe just short of coming for me.

I tried to ignore that, of course. Just being silly, I'd think. Just my imagination working overtime, and not in a good way (which is often the case.)  But I began to dread entering my own office to get any work done. When I did, I felt like there was a crowd of them around me. I began to think about deleting the bookmark, but also felt like they really didn't want me to do that.

So for about a week, I had this little cloud, maybe all in my head, maybe not?, hanging around me. And with it came a confusion of possible choices: delete the article? Keep it? Stay out of my office? Work with that crowd hovering around me? Worst of all, random images of some of the pictures kept popping into my head at odd moments. (Like now, while I'm writing this, for instance.) After having my own private, little freak-out about it, I finally found it in me to open my list of bookmarks, highlight the article, and punch the delete key. And almost immediately my office lightened up.

I shared the story with my nephew the following Thanksgiving (the nephew who recommends movies like The Conjuring or The Taking of Deborah Logan: you know, cheerful things like that) and he just nodded his head and remarked how he could see that happening.

The whole event left me more than unsettled. I won't soon forget those pictures; those dead faces.

And I'll bet neither will Cassie Valentine when something along this line happens to her. Stay tuned!