Horror

• He was a ghost all along.
• Her “parents” had actually kidnapped her as a child.
• The monster had been protecting her all this time.
• Poor little Billy died a gruesome death but didn’t stay dead.
• The secret behind old lady Gertrude’s meat pies are a healthy portion of human fetuses.
• You’re not safe because it’s right behind you!

I’m tired of these stories.  None of you know how to write a good twist anymore. You know how to recycle old ideas, but you don’t do it well. When I can predict your twist by the end of your first paragraph, that’s a problem.

It’s time we changed this and teach you all how to make a proper twist in horror. Let’s run through some scenarios:

1. I’m a charming, good-looking man who has wooed a woman over the course of three dinner dates. I take interest in her hobbies, express concern about her troubles, and “get” her. By all accounts, I’m the perfect man. In reality, I’m a serial killer, and she’s my next target.

This isn’t a twist; it’s a cliché. Let’s take it a step further:

2. She invites me back to her home for sex. We’re reaching the height of our passionate dance, and I’m ready to crush her throat. True to the horror genre, her vagina suddenly opens up into this toothy maw and devours me in the most painful, emasculating way possible.

This is unsettling—and tragic— but not a solid twist. Would-be murderer killed by seemingly innocent victim? Done a hundred times. I can even think of at least three other times a vagina has killed a man. I can think of several thousand more examples if we’re talking figuratively.

3. What if I don’t die once I’m eaten? What if my consciousness takes control of the woman? I become her; I learn how to live as she does. All the while, a primal need grows within, hungering for human flesh.

Some writers would call this a twist, claiming that the story can end satisfactorily because they implied the murderous cycle would continue. This is just lazy writing. This should be the meat of the story, not the butt end.

4. Now let’s imagine I become aware of three other states of consciousness in my brain. There is another man, and I know of his life just as well as I do mine. He was a womanizer who picked the wrong woman. He “ate” me. Another consciousness exists “below” him, that of a lesbian lover who hoped things would go right this time. Her life is fuzzy, almost like a worn VHS tape. The guy below her feels only like a silhouette of a man. I can barely understand any events of his life. Just raw emotions. We can add that they are all crying, pleading for me to not kill anyone. The lowest state of consciousness is stuck on a constant, low scream.

At this point, we’ve finally reached some level of creepiness, the hook which allows for a later twist. Let’s add something more absurd to build the suspense.

5. Below all of these consciousnesses is an empty pit, a void. I could confuse it for the edge of my awareness, but it’s something else. Some entity exists in there, and I can feel its pull. Sometimes the others warn me about it.

Ready your pencils: is this a twist? If you’ve paid attention this far, you know it isn’t. We have the hook and now a conflict. We need a climax, and the twist could fill that role.

6. Now, allow time to pass. I succumb to the urge and consume another human. My consciousness is “pushed down” a layer, and the screaming guy disappears into the void. Now the woman has descended into incoherent babbling, and I find my personality blurring with the others, specifically the new dominant personality.

The answer to scenario six is the same as the ones before it. There be no twist here. It’s important to understand this next part because I will add a minor twist. This twist is meant to add spice to the story, not be the main flavor. A little salt improves a meal. Too much ruins it.

7. Through sheer willpower, I wrangle control of the body from the dominant consciousness. I still exist on the second layer of awareness, but I get to control the girl. I get to live as a functioning human a little longer. However, I cannot stave off my urge to feed, and soon enough, after two more helpings, I find myself as the lowest state of being. I still control the girl, but one more feeding and to the void I go.

Again, this is all exposition, allowing a twist to fester and grow. We haven’t fully prepared for the twist yet because we don’t fully understand the void. We must look into it for a bit.

How much description do we need? We need to capture the atmosphere at least. We could say that looking into the maw might initially create a feeling of warmth, almost like you belong in there. Your consciousness slips ever so slightly into the void’s pull, allowing the warmth to recreate your physical body. This warmth then turns sickly as you feel it wriggle within your veins, burrowing into your nerves and wrapping around your brain. Centipede legs march along the back of your eyes, and its body chokes you as it extends up and out of your throat. 8. Vertigo sets in, causing your vision to become jagged swirls of shadowy creatures with branching limbs, gnashing teeth, decaying flesh, oozing tumors, millions of eyes. Everyone is screaming but their mouths are fused shut, they have no eyes, and they have stretched into the walls and floors of this place. My consciousness slips 9. stretches sucked into the vortex. The air reeks of vomit I vomit my body melts with other flesh GET OUT OF MY THOUGHTS I’m burning and10. they’re eating us it hurts and they won’t stop stop it it hurts stop 11.

That’s about all you need describe the atmosphere. Add more if you’d like, but this is enough to get me going.

This leaves us with the twist. I’ll give you three options and see if you can identify the good one:

1. This void exists in all of us. Only my character is distinctly aware of it.
2. Channeling his own murderous energies, my character devours the void and becomes the true monster.
3. In my character’s attempt to push the other states of consciousness below him, he shatters the mental bonds which trapped the void, thus unleashing its apocalyptic being upon the world.

Have your answer yet?

If you chose option 1, you’ve learned nothing. “It’s in all of us” is one of the most stereotypical twists out there. If you said option 2, you selected an “unrealistic” twist which the audience will reject. How can a mortal “eat” an ancient, intangible monster? Lastly, if you picked option 3, you fell for a more complex version of “it’s right behind you.” By “endangering” the reader, you have given up on creating a twist by yourself and relied on scared teenagers up past their bedtime to “fill in the blanks” for you.

What’s the true answer? I don’t know. I believe I have been crafty in developing the story this far, but I’ll acknowledge I can’t create a satisfactory twist for it either. I’ve set myself up without thinking it through. I’m only good enough to be the writing teacher, not the writer.

The story could finish here, with my character suspended above everlasting doom. It could still be considered good horror. Not all stories need a twist, especially not a bad one. Some end just as everyone predicted it would, and sometimes the horror comes from the fact that the ending was inevitable.

I find such a conclusion unsatisfactory. I believe our lovable serial killer deserves a more unexpected ending, one that does not see him fall prey to the void. Because I can’t create it, myself, I challenge you all of prove your writing ability and make it for me. Show me what you have learned. With all of your minds working together, maybe one of you will strike a fountain of creativity. Clichés will not be tolerated.

I’ll be the first to admit this is not an easy task. Personally, it’s been driving me insane for weeks. Any longer, and I don’t know what I’ll do.

The Livyatan civilization emerged from a contest, one of two brothers—identical twins—equal in all traits.  Beauty, athleticism, intellect, and luck blessed them both, and all people came to love them.  The brothers, however, grew discontent in their equality, their arrogance unwilling to see each other eye-to-eye. They pursued any contest to prove their superiority over the other, be it of wit, skill, or accomplishment.  No matter the challenge, all ended in draws.

The priests tell of an ancient sea god who took interest in their rivalry. One day, the brothers came upon the god’s cove as they bickered over their next feat. The god revealed itself from its waters and posed them a challenge, one to end their squabbles.  The first to swim to the other shore would be crowned ruler of a new nation, a prosperous land of fertile fields and fertile women.

The men eagerly entered the contest, diving into the god’s waters.  The priests do not speak of the details of the race, only that it was close.  As the god promised, one brother won, becoming the First King of Livyata. It is said the other brother, ashamed of his loss, cast himself into exile.

The Livyatans commemorate the centuries-old birth of their society with a week of celebration. They gather at the fabled cove, bringing with them the fruits of the year’s harvest.  Each family erects a tent, and a singular rope connect them all, representing the sea god who brought together their people.  The current king welcomes the festivities, offering his wealth to his nation.  Carts spill forth with fresh produce, smoked meats, and flowers.  Wine flows like water, drowning all pain until the people know not from where they came or where they will be.

From sunrise to well past sundown, the nation celebrates. On the final day of their festivities, they arrange a coming-of-age ceremony, an event for all boys who had reached 14 years of age. All citizens would serve as audience to the rite of passage, an act to recall the original race between the brothers.  The boys would swim across the cove, and those who reached the other side would rejoin the community as men.

Fifty-four boys gathered at the banks this year.  Some stretched; others spoke amongst themselves.  Anticipation coursed through them.  Each had prepared for this event since they could tread water, conditioning their bodies for the long swim ahead of them.  Their teacher instructed them to stand shoulder-to-shoulder along the cove. Their muscles tensed, waiting for the signal.

Across the cove, the previous year’s challengers sat under a canopy of gold and red.  They lounged on royal carpets, picking at sweet breads. The royal harem had doted on them for six days, and the boys had tired of luxury.  Disinterest weighed on their eyelids.

Ripples broke the reflective surface of the water.  An attendant to the priests called out, signaling that the Failed had prepared themselves.  Just as the previous year’s winners stood center in the celebrations, those who had not crossed the cove became the challenge for this year’s cohort.  These “Failed” surfaced for moments—piercing blue eyes under mats of dark hair—before plunging below.  The Livyatan rite of passage was not a contest but a show of strength and determination.  The Failed served to hold back those who lacked both.

The audience trailed into silence as the king appeared from his pavilion.  He held his right hand toward the cove and swung it before him.  A horn blared, reverberating across the water.  The challengers raced from the shore, wading in until the water reached their hips and they could swim. The audience roared, deafening the low rumble from the cove.

The Failed swarmed the challengers.  From below the surface, they clutched at legs and arms.  One challenger dropped into the water before emerging again, his arms batting around him as he choked and shouted.  Three other boys approached, latching onto their comrade and kicking at the Failed’s face until he let go. The boys dragged their peer forward until he regained his pace. 

The rest of the challengers split into teams of four, following similar strategies to repel the Failed.  The boys shouted directions to each other, pointing out the locations of their would-be interlopers.  They had planned this system for months.  Unlike previous years, this cohort intended to win with as many as possible.

The crowd along the bank turned to each other and laughed, pointing at the formations.  To them, this change was a welcome delight, and they crowed to one another.  The priests took notice. 

The boys pushed forward.  The water swelled and rolled, rising into waves along the shore.  A dark pit formed within the center of the water, and a serpentine shadow slithered from its heart.  The Failed doubled their efforts, forming into packs of their own. 

One of the challengers looked upon the shadow below him and yelped.  Water spilled into his mouth, and he gasped and flailed, allowing a Failed to secure both his legs.  The other team members converged to protect their friend, but as they did so, so did the other Failed.  One boy was tackled from behind.  Another was wrestled below, sinking with the weight of the Failed.  The other two were dragged away by their legs. 

The other teams called to one another, and the challengers joined into one mass.  Their pace quickened, arms wind-milling along the surface.  The crowd continued to cheer, and the cove matched their intensity, a deep growl spreading across the beach.  The priests felt the land and rose from their seats, shuffling to the king. 

The huddle was effective. The Failed clamored for the fringes of the group, but as the weak swimmers were identified, the challengers pushed them toward the center to be guarded.  With this strategy, the children had closed the gap to the shore, leaving a few hundred feet. The shadow—several hundred feet longer—wrapped around itself, curling toward the center void. The boys paled and gritted their teeth, their muscles strained with exertion.  The shore seemed so close, and they had only lost two others.

A muffled roar thundered beneath them, roughening the waters and shaking the tents along the shore.  The cheering turned to gasps, and when the roar returned, the people broke into a confused frenzy.  The priests ran along the beach, gesturing and yelling at the citizens.  A few boys watched the commotion as the crowd dispersed into a blur of colors.  The rest focused on matching the rhythm of their neighbors.  They could not afford to lose their focus. 

As such, they did not notice the first rock.  It rose high before falling into the middle of the formation.  A swimmer had resurfaced for air as the stone connected with his right eye, shattering the socket with an echoing crack.  His body went limp.  Before his cohort could react, the child was pulled into the water.

It was not enough.

A torrent of rocks arced from the shore, their shadows sending pockmarks upon the water. The audience had fallen into a screaming horde, scrambling along the beach for more stones.  All of them—king, priest, peasant, man, woman, child—frantically pelted rocks at the boys. 

The boys—stirred into a panic—broke formation and struggled to evade the stone rain.  Water erupted around them with each miss.  Blood mixed with the spray when the projectiles hit their targets.  Skulls caved in, and the children sank into the depths.  Some struggled forward with one arm, the other shoulder smashed by a stone.  They did not have the strength to fend off the Failed and were pulled away.  Below the surface, the serpent twisted and seized.

The first child thrashed onto the shore, and the rest clawed out of the water behind him.  Twenty stumbled from the cove, breathless, bloodied, and crying. From the crowd, parents, siblings, and friends rushed them, dropping their rocks as they embraced the boys.  They wept together.

The Failed dipped below the water, pulling the few remaining challengers and bodies with them.  The priests, with stones held in limp hands, looked on the water, their faces creased with worry.

The cove trembled.  The people held still, and the waves grew more violent.  The sea god erupted from the center of the water.  It towered above the people, its eel-like head held a hundred feet above them.  Thin bristled teeth clashed along the length of its mouth, and the black slits of its yellowed eyes observed the people.  Its hiss pierced through the air.  A rolling din of moans met the hiss, deafening the land.

Centuries of failed souls screamed from the skin of the god, forming its rotting, pale hide. They strained to escape, but their flesh had long since fused with the monster’s body.  They had grown wrinkled and transparent, becoming little more than a film molding of their past selves.  The oldest of the souls had melded with the beast’s body, leaving only eyeless sockets and an imprint of a mouth, still wailing from its prison. 

Tendrils curled out from the god’s body, dipping into the water.  As these retracted into the creature’s flesh, a new din grew from the shore as families cried out the names of their loved ones.  The newly Failed ascended from the water, held by their puppet captors.  The fortunate had not yet risen from their death; the others jerked against their restraints and cried for their mothers.  They shrieked as their skin connected with the god’s, melting together as they became fresh scales on the rotting carcass.  

The god bellowed, and the people cowered, falling back into a silence.  It held itself before them, holding their collective gaze.  The people knew not what had happened.  They knew only that they had almost failed.  They could not fathom what would have happened if they had.  Their ears rang as the god’s writhing body engulfed the land with screams of suffering. 

The people fell prostrate before their god, and it was satisfied.

*

Livyatan legend does not recount how the sea god threatened eternal servitude if the twins tied.  The priests do not recall the one brother’s sacrifice.  The annual sacrifices that followed are not included in the Livyatan creation narrative.

Cows do not tell tales of their slaughterer. They chew their cud, sleep, and procreate.  Neither Livyatans nor cows recognize servitude in their prosperity. 

Neither creature does much of anything, really.

The children hunched over their scraps of paper. They scribbled crude hearts and balloon letters with pencil nubs. Those with colored pencils splashed their drawings with reds, pinks, and purples. Others made contrast with charcoal.

Valentine’s Day had come, and Ms. Dita celebrated it like any other holiday, a ceremony to shower her love on the youth. Every holiday brought them together, and she cherished her children, especially the one in most need of her compassion.

They were hers because they were unwanted. Although they recognized this—recognized their abandonment left them with nothing—they all knew how Ms. Dita adored them.

Danny, their self-proclaimed leader, instructed everyone to exchange Valentines.  Each child had enough paper to make five, one for each of their favorite friends.  Paul’s fingers trembled around his cards as he wondered if Sandra and Manny liked him, too.  Anna and Danny sauntered as they delivered their Valentines, confident of their popularity.  Veronica stared at the plastic bags lining the wall, hoping her cards would make others happy.

Very few of them enjoyed the holiday popularity contests.  They seldom felt love from their cohort.  They were, however, familiar with the fickle nature of relationships.  Only Ms. Dita’s love was unconditional, but no one wanted the pain of being the social outcast and the target of her full compassion.  Phillip trudged as he delivered his Valentines, knowing his social ineptness made him a candidate.

After everyone had finished, Danny instructed them to grab their bags.  He winked at Phillip who sneered back.

Tense and jittery, the children dove into their bags.  Anna squealed in a pile of paper.  Paul exhaled in relief to see his pull.  Standing by himself, Phillip gasped to see a single card for him.  Tearful, he unsteadily opened it.

“We’ll miss you.”  -Danny

Phillip’s smile disappeared as he looked at the others.  They stared back.  Everyone had at least two cards. 

He roared, stomping his feet on the stone floor.  He accused his cohort of ostracizing him.  He screamed at their cruelty.

Danny stifled a laugh. Phillip, enraged, lunged at the boy.

Ms. Dita’s tentacled arm surged from the cave’s bowels, embracing Phillip’s neck.  She reeled him towards her.  He snarled profanities as five other arms slithered from the darkness and hugged his torso and legs.   He ignored the spines on her chest as they caressed into his back.  His fury at the apathy of his cohort overrode his pain and fear.

Under the tender gaze of Ms. Dita’s yellowed irises, the children turned away.  They ignored Phillip’s gurgled insults and began redistributing the boy’s belongings amongst themselves.  They had one more year of holidays with Ms. Dita, and the previous year had numbed them.   

They stole glances at Ms. Dita, her carapace now enveloping Phillip.  The boy’s eyes bled hatred.  His broken hands tore at the tentacles around him. 

As Ms. Dita’s mandibles kissed Phillip’s face, the other children silently agreed he had needed her love more than any of them.