Haunted Hamilton, Ghostly Encounters, and the Anatomy of Scary Scenes

On Saturday evening, the night of the supermoon, Dave and I took a tour of the Customs House here in Hamilton, courtesy of a group called Haunted Hamilton. This building, built in 1858, first housed the federal centre controlling the flow of trade through our town. Now the building houses the Workers Arts and Heritage Centre, and I suppose you could go in there during the daytime to take a look at the building and the labour-related artwork that hangs in the galleries, but I suspect the only way to see the creepy third attic level and the weird little rooms in the basement is to go with a ghost tour.

I am a fan of local architecture and of old buildings in general, of which Hamilton has oodles. I couldn't resist the chance to traipse through the Customs House guided by someone in period costume who had lots of spooky stories to share.

There's a third story in this building that you can't see from the outside...spooky.

I have written before about my love of the paranormal and how I am really, really susceptible to anything scary, which is why I love horror as a genre. For me, a good scary story or spooky experience is as good as skydiving or climbing Mount Everest. I studied theatre and drama extensively in school, so any live performance or live storytelling is fun for me.

I loved this ghost walk because it wrapped all of these elements up in black silk with a big, shiny bow on top.  In the gallery, our guide, Lady Elizabeth, and her fellow ghost guides talked about the history of the building, its onetime status as a macaroni factory, as a school, as an abandoned, decrepit ruin, and its refurbishment as a martial arts studio. The story of the building underwrote all the other tales we heard that night.

The guides all talked about watching the large metal latches on the windows in the gallery swing of their own accord. Lady Elizabeth talked about people hearing the footsteps and laughter of children in the second floor hallway, of gruesome murders and dark deeds performed in and around the Customs House, and also of accidental deaths.

In one room, as we clustered around the dim light of Lady Elizabeth's kerosene lantern, I felt a light but persistent touch on my right leg just at my knee. The energies of the House shifted from downright oppressive in the main gallery to rich with history in the attic to almost explosive in the basement, especially in the one room with the creepy staircase that now goes nowhere, cut off in a renovation. The weight of history weighs heavy in the vault, the location of the burial of the Dark Lady, the Customs House's most famous ghost, and also the accidental burial of fifteen men, hobos who died in a cave-in as they tried to warm themselves in the tunnel that once led from the harbour to the house.

I was shit scared the entire time. It was awesome. So I'm writing this post with a double agenda: one, I want each and every one of you reading this to come visit Hamilton so I can take you on this ghost tour. Seriously, it will be a blast.

Two, I have been thinking about how to capture the spooky essence of ghost stories in fiction.

The thing about ghost stories is that they are basically just fragments of experience. All they tell you is that something weird happened to someone. The main character is always "a woman" or "a man." If you're lucky, you might get to hear the experiencer tell his or her own story, but you don't need to know anything specific about him or her to be scared, because the story is really about everyman / everywoman - i.e. you or someone like you. The context of the story is always "this really happened," even if the account has become fictionalized over time. The idea that regular reality could go suddenly off-kilter is, I think, why these tales are scary.



My question is, how can we get the same spook effect in our fiction? I find that a lot of horror produces gross-outs and takes me outside of the terms of polite society quite reliably (it's hard to teach zombies table manners), but it's a rare book that really haunts me, in the sense that it makes me feel scared to walk down the dark hallway between my bedroom and the bathroom in the middle of the night.

I remember some passages in Stephen King's It that did the trick. It's been a million years since I've read it, and I think I borrowed a library copy, so I don't have it on hand, but there was a scene where one of the kids (or more?) was looking through a photo album and one of the pictures changed. I think Pennywise, the evil clown antagonist showed up in the photo? Or something? (I know...it doesn't sound that scary, but believe me, it was!) Much more strongly than the scene itself, I remember where I was when I read it: it was a summer during high school. I had stayed up super late to read. As events unfolded in the scene, I felt the world around me turning inside out. Even though I was sitting comfortably in my room in the warm glow of my cosy reading lamp, I remember feeling paralyzed, like I couldn't and shouldn't move, and I remember wishing that my bedroom window wasn't open - I suddenly felt totally vulnerable. I most definitely wished I hadn't chosen to stay up reading that book.

That was twenty-five years ago, probably. That's a long time to remember something so vividly. That's powerful stuff. I want to have that kind of effect on people, don't you?

There are some ways that a scene like that resembles the spine-chilling ghost stories told at the Customs House. King is great at building characters that are generic, everyman / everywoman sorts of people (without being boring - that's the real trick). Even if you don't feel a strong connection with that specific character, in a good scary scene, the character is often doing something totally normal that you have probably done, like looking through a photo album. The sudden swerve of reality into unfamiliar, potentially threatening territory is what creates, I think, the most powerful spook factor. Leaving aside the gah! clown! factor and the specific trappings of that scene from It, I'm thinking that maybe this is a workable formula: 1) establish a strong sense of normal, plain, everyday reality and 2) take the character out of that reality into somewhere else that has negative implications for his / her safety and wellbeing.

Maybe this is a good place to start. I'd love it if you all would share your scary stories / favourite scary moments from fiction. What do you think is scary? More importantly, why do you think it scares you?

Developing Likable Characters: How Weird Can They Be?

Meet Mark Moffett:

Looks like a nice enough fellow, doesn't he? In fact, based on what I've gathered from his YouTube video, Mark Moffett is a lovely man. He's got a variety of traits that you might include if you wanted to build a likable fictional character. He's intelligent - in fact he's got a PhD. He's interested in communicating his experiences to a larger audience, so you could say he's generous. He's got a sense of adventure: He has travelled widely and studied abroad. He has a community of friends and colleagues willing to cheer him on through his achievements. He's an ecologist by profession - so he's trying to save the earth! And he cares about animals. You could say he really cares about animals.

Ever since I listened to this interview with screenwriting and video game consultant David Freeman, I've been thinking about the importance of building likable characters in my fiction. Freeman has created a system called "Emotioneering," designed to allow a film audience or a video game player to become immersed in the story through an emotional bond formed with the main or point-of-view character. In that interview, Freeman discusses some of the traits of bond-worthy characters: loyalty, independence and longing are a few. He's written a book that includes many more techniques.

I struggle with this concept, frankly. I like writing characters who are difficult, and not in a cute way. I like thinking about people who think differently, who are outside the pale of what's commonly considered "normal." In one short story that I vetted with an online group, my main character was a gay man who had been mercilessly bullied through his high school years. He still bore the scars and resentment from that time. He was a wounded guy, and not a nice guy, but he was no villain - in itself a miracle of sorts, and a testament to his strength. The story was about how he got a chance to see exactly where the habit of bullying took his high school enemy (not a nice place).

To my way of thinking, the story was about cycles of abuse and taking on the pain that others inflict on you. It was also about the infectious nature of prejudice and hatred, and the insidious qualities of anger - most especially hard-won, righteous anger.

Most of the people who critiqued that story found my MC too bitter, too weird, too alienating. To me, he was a hero.

But back to Dr. Mark Moffett. There are a few things about him that I failed to mention, that to my way of thinking would make him an excellent MC, but some people might find alienating. It has to do with entomology. Specifically, a botfly. (Read only the intro on that wikipedia page and do not scroll down if you are easily grossed out. For the sake of those of you who are new here, I have put the details below the fold. For those who like being grossed out, carry on.

A Car Theft for Christmas

As a longtime driver of extremely used cars, I've never been in a position to gracefully resell a car or (heaven forbid) turn one in to a dealer against the purchase of a new car. The two cars I've owned by my very own self have gone melodramatically.

The first, a 1965 Ford Meteor, rusted out. My mechanic told me to sell it, but I just couldn't let it go.

The frame broke in half when they tried to put it on the hoist to check the brakes.

I cried for an evening, and stayed up all night drinking a bottle of wine all by myself as a tribute to that fine, extremely large vehicle. I remembered the good times: the time her muffler fell off in the alley and I had to drive to the mechanic hearing the mighty eight-cylinder engine's full roar, the muffler on the passenger seat beside me. It was extraordinary.

Then there was the time my friends and I drove her all the way to St. Louis and back.

I was still driving the Meteor when I met Dave. Let me tell you, a giant green vintage car that looks like it was used on the set of Mad Max for a while is a great thing to have if you're trying to meet a guy like Dave. I won't say what kind of guy that is, because Dave is many things, but let's just say he was greatly impressed by that car, and that greatly impressed me.

When the Meteor died, I would have been really stuck for a car if my dad hadn't given me his old Dodge Spirit. I know, right? From super sexy vintage badass car to...mom and dad car. The Spirit wasn't exactly my dream car, but I was super poor and in no position to complain at all. And you know, that circa 1994, burgundy wonder with its matchy-matchy interior was not so bad. Six cylinders gave her a lot of pep. And I didn't care if the dog gucked up the interior with his muddy feet. We've gotten along well enough for the last four years or so.

A couple of Saturdays ago, I went out to get into the car and take the dog to some remote hiking trails for a good, solid walk.

Someone had broken into the Spirit over night. They'd tried to drill through the driver side door and failed, apparently, then drilled through the passenger side door (the street light was shining on that side - better visibility), and gotten into the car.

At that point, my neighbour, who happened to be awake at 4:30 in the morning, looked out her window and saw the guy enter my car. She woke her husband up and told him to go out and check out what was happening.

In getting dressed, he turned on a light. I guess the guy saw it and ran away.

He'd already pulled the ignition out. As I understand it, he was about five seconds away from starting the engine and driving away.

Long story short, because of my fabulous neighbour, there was still a car to send to the garage and be assessed for the insurance claim. The insurance company called it a total - a little bit too bad, since the car was still in running order. At the same time, the payout was more than I could possibly have gotten if I'd tried to sell the car.

So today, Dave and I bit the bullet and bought a new car. Well - new to us, and newer than any other car I've owned. It's a 2009, previously used by a rental agency. We're happy with it. It's fun to drive.

In some ways, that would be car thief did us a favour. Not as big a favour as our neighbour, though, which is why we gave her and her husband cookies. Mister car thief, you'll just have to settle for an internet shout-out.

Merry Christmas, everyone. But an extra special Happy New Year to the car thieves out there.

Danse Macabre

Try not to cut yourself on idarem's cheekbones while you watch this.

Art Under Pressure

Five months ago, I took a vow of going-into-debt, and allowed myself space and time to get back in touch with my inner writer. I highly recommend doing something similar if you're at all able to. This time has been absolutely invaluable to me. I've remembered all the reasons why I wanted to do creative work in the first place. My bank account has a bit of a rash on it, but my shadow is in much better shape than it's been for a long, long time - maybe ever.

Now the six months is almost over, and I've got bills to pay. Although I was willing to play daredevil with my finances, it isn't fair to my partner to continue to draw on our mutual resources as heavily as I've been doing. And yeah, without him, I'd have had to place much stricter limits on the duration of this experiment.

Reality sux, my friends.

The nice thing, though, is that I now have some solid writing time under my belt. I feel much more legitimate in my claim on the name: I'm a writer. I have three short stories out on the market right now, and half a novel draft. And even though I'm looking at taking another teaching contract for the summer, I'm not giving up my dream for anything.

Now that I've fastened on it, I won't let go.

That's what five months of space and time have given me. Was it worth it? Hell yeah. Now I can move forward with some good, solid tools at my disposal. The ability to think more creatively about my life. The idea that there are options. A much better sense of how the craft of writing intersects with who I am right now, and my experience. And a solid plan for building a writing career: build portfolio, complete novel, find agent.

I couldn't have asked for more out of this time.

Good to know

56%

NaNoWriMo Day Eight

Saturdays are not good writing days because of general busy-ness. I've determined to not try to write on Saturday - if it doesn' t happen, it's no big deal. So zero words added yesterday to my 12102.

Major resolution to a problem with our fourteen-year-old car yesterday. I've been feeling kind of loony because I've been convinced (due to evidence on the road where I park) that the car's been leaking something or other for a year now. Drips here and there. I guessed oil. The last three times I've taken it in for oil changes or whatevs, I've asked the guys to check for leaks; they couldn't find anything drippy at all. So I decided to live with the phantom leak, knowing that eventually, it would probably get way worse and all would become obvious. That day was yesterday.

Last week the car started smelling extra gassy. Super gassy, in fact.

Yesterday, on my way back from morning tai chi, I pulled into my spot, and there was a big puddle-o-something where the car had been sitting earlier. I looked behind me, and there was a trail, all the way down the street, and another big puddle where I had turned into the spot. I touched my fingers to the puddle and sniffed.

Gas.

Drove the car to the garage, two and a half clicks from our house, trailing gas all the way. We lost a quarter of a tank to the road - probably about 8 litres.

Cheap repair - $10 in parts.

I'll be extra nice to nature today to make up for drizzling gas all over the place.

The Magic Flute

So one procrastination point on Saturday was taking the evening to go see Opera Hamilton's awesome production of The Magic Flute. A previous production of this opera had left me impressed by the Queen of the Night's famous aria ("Hell's vengeance boileth in my heart"), but basically thinking that Magic Flute was a weird and cute crowd-pleaser. Not so with tonight's production. It was a deeply weird and ritualistic production, rich with quasi-Masonic (or possibly seriously Masonic) imagery, techniques from German expressionist theatre, and some incredible casting of children as the three spirits who help out the protagonists with handy interventions as they undergo their trials.

It was also hilarious. As with many productions of this opera, they translated the recitative into English and spoke rather than sang it. But this wasn't dumbed down dialogue - it was often smart and smartass, too. Way to take a risk, Opera Hamilton!

During the show, I had a flashback to a vinyl record that was in my parents' collection. I think it was just an "opera lite" selection of Mozart pieces, but it had a picture of Papageno on the front.

Papageno is one messed up character.

He's a man; he's part bird; and his job is collecting birds for the Queen of the Night. What they do with the birds, I don't know. But there's something of the weird cannibal in Papageno.

As a kid, I just could not figure out the picture on the album cover, which was much freakier than any of the images I could find of Papageno online. But watching the production at Opera Hamilton tonight, I had moments where that frisson of disorientation came back to me.
Image by Kay Konrad.

Thanks for the memories, guys.

Wanna see something really scary?

Joshua Hoffine makes the most amazing photo art. Staged like movie stills, his photos certainly invoke many of my favourite childhood nightmares. Bonus: Mr. Hoffine is really thoughtful and articulate about why he does what he does. Multiple interview excerpts can be found in his blog.

http://www.joshuahoffine.com/