Living Dead Girl, Part One

I often get asked how I got into horror. I'm one of those cutesy, pinch-your-cheeks type of girl (to my everlasting bane), so I suppose my predilections for guts and monsters come as a bit of a shock.

I wrote this for a class, in explanation to the prompt, "What are you afraid of?" Thought you'd might enjoy it. It's kind of long, so I'll post it in segments, kind of like those old hero movies, "Come back next week to see the thrilling conclusion!"

They shamble towards me, their hands claw at my shirt. I whirl, see them everywhere. Their mouths, deep black holes, spill bile. A low moan fills the air. They come closer, dragging their limbs and twitching their stiffened muscles, leaving a path of blood behind them. The breath is cold on my neck, I smell the rot and my stomach recoils. Nails scratch at my arms, teeth rip into my flesh, tearing out the tender bits: cheeks, voice box, liver, intestine. My mouth opens and closes, as my eyes roll into my head. They will get you, Oh God, Oh God, they’ve gotten me, and I am powerless. Blood sprays everywhere, leaches into the ground. The rage, the terror, rise up in my throat and I scream and scream, soundless, the echo burning inside my brain.

I wake. I throw my head up, take assessment. I am in my room, in my apartment, in Whitewater. The cats patter in the kitchen, playing their late night games. Everything else is quiet, the witching hour. I peek out the window, into the dark, squinting. I wish I had my glasses, I can’t see a damn thing. Through the crack in the drapes, all is quiet and still. The undead zombie horde has not materialized outside my window, scraping at the glass, leaving trails of gore along the smooth surface. I order my heart to calm itself, but my brain reels with images from my nightmare: my family slaughtered before my eyes, only to reanimate as walking dead, my family home invaded, the world turned into a battleground as humanity is slowly turned into a horde of stumbling ghouls, eager for flesh. The zombie apocalypse has not happened, I tell myself, you’re safe, you’re safe.

My favorite zombie movie of all time is Evil Dead. Zombie purists will tell you that it is not a true zombie movie, as the ghouls are often not actually dead before they start terrorizing the living protagonist. I, however, am not so picky (or snobby) as others might be. Evil Dead is a great splatter film, filled with gut-twisting gross-outs, comedy, and chainsaws. I was not always so enamored by the film. Sitting in a dorm four years ago, I only got about fifteen minutes (with my hands covering my face, of course, a skill all true scaredy-cats perfect at a young age) until I had to shut it off or risk yakking all over the floor. I blame my sheltered upbringing. An only child until I was seven, my parents wrapped me in the proverbial cotton wool. Fast forward about fifteen years, and I am just as coddled.

I moved out of my parent’s house when I turned twenty two. I was alone for a week with the zombies until my boyfriend moved in. Every night, as the dark slithered through the windows, I could hear them shuffling, waiting until dark to bully my dreams. I began to dread the night, sleep. This pissed me off. The world sees me as quiet, unassuming. This may be true. But I also possess a raging – if slow-fused - temper and these damn zombies were on the top of my list. Something had to be done; I was an adult for Pete’s sake and I was letting myself be terrorized by the crappiest cultural monsters the horror world had to offer.

I went to sleep feeling like Hemingway, Kipling, The Great White Hunter. I could conquer anything. I had a psychological machete tied to my belt, a bandana across my brow, raw gut courage in my heart. I would slash and burn, decapitate and disembowel; I would napalm the hell outta those zombies.

More to come later....