Telling scary stories is as American as time itself. We have compelling evidence that amoebas were the first creatures to exchange scary stories, around three billion years ago, and even a couple years before that (we don’t know what these primordial pearl-clutchers were about, only that they usually featured “evil twins”). In modern times, the multicellular Brothers Grimm revolutionized the scary story, transforming it into one of the most cost-effective parenting tools ever invented. Maladaptive behaviors met their match in tales as terrifying as The Pork Chop’s Screaming Attack and The Hundred Foot Carrot, while human rights groups praised scary stories as a humane alternative to the then-ubiquitous practice of parents exiling the offspring of their loins into the Black Forest. Some 1000 years later, however, our society is still rife with bad behavior, from school superintendents who vaporize students’ lunch money at the craps table to anthrax superbombers and toll-free insurance salesmen. Humanity, it appears, has not been scared straight, which begs the question: if scary stories don’t make the world any less scary, why do we still tell them?
That’s because being scared is our American birthright: the Continentals merely tip-toed up to the Problem of Fear, but we grabbed it head-on, throttling it by its rubber chicken-neck. Noted fearmongers Washington Irving, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Edgar Allan Poe first brought fright to America, partly because of their writings—and partly because Poe once threatened to blow up the Erie Canal using only his mind. The in-group dynamics between these New World monster masters were nothing if not complex: Irving disliked Hawthorne, Poe disliked Irving, and Hawthorne tolerated Irving but famously never wanted to hang out one-on-one. This is a true shame since the three writers could have been good friends, sharing not only a fascination for the macabre but a passion for dance. Irving won several flamenco contests towards the end of his life, Hawthorne once got arrested for doing the worm in the town square, and an Edgar Allan Poe is listed on the roster for Intermediate Tap Dancing at Emmanuel Studios in inner-city Baltimore from the spring of ’81 to the summer of ’85, although literary historians have yet to authenticate this man as the real Poe, who died thirty-six years earlier. One point in favor of the dancing Poes being the same guy, however, is a line from Poe’s notebooks that reads “I do not suffer from insanity, only from the thought that I may never master the pirouette.”
But that’s enough about the Ghoulish Greats. The Lemur has assembled here, for the first time in North America, a collection of forgotten favorites of American Horror—unpublished and grossly underappreciated works by a host of zeroes, no-names, and non-entities. The Lemur is proud to make these amateurish accidents available to an English reading audience for the first time. We hope you enjoy.
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THE BURIAL GROUND
by Ronald Nimby
The town knew the truth, but nobody wanted to admit it: they never should’ve bulldozed the mall and built an Indian burial ground in its place. They were building it for the community, they all told themselves. Still, that couldn’t wash away the violence undergirding the operation: twenty-four shops—eateries, boutiques, and smart phone repair kiosks—all blasted to bits and jackhammered beyond recognition.
Though locals now strolled through the beautifully manicured grounds, eagerly awaiting the process of restorative interment, the thought lingered: no amount of UNESCO certification could change the fact that they had paved paradise and buried it six feet under.
Soon after groundbreaking, the outlets—JC Penney, Zales, Sephora, GameStop—started looking for outlets. For revenge, that is. Spirits embodying these once-beloved retailers embarked on a violent, sprawling campaign of vengeance, leading to the wholesale (er, retail) destruction of the town.
First, the Mayor was asphyxiated by Forever 21 denims so tight that the fire department needed a diamond saw to get him out in time for the funeral. The coroner noted in his autopsy report: “Muffin-top Mayor.”
Next, people’s Apple devices began malfunctioning, dropping service here and turning into horrible mechanical spiders there. There was no Genius Bar to save them.
Wetzel was perhaps the angriest ghost of them all, turning teenaged truants into knots so cubistic that even Picasso would have been left scratching his head. That sassy coroner fought every urge to sample their salty remains.
The town wondered in horror: What ghastly fates awaited them when they got rid of the Top Golf, to make way for rent-controlled housing?
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THE GIANT SLUCKER
by Ygor Sorensen
Trans. by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky
Little Fyodor Martín jumped and screamed. Inside his locker was a GIANT SLUCKER!!!! This one had the body of a lion, the head of a rhino, and the floppy ears of Boris Kovanych, the town baker. Martín snapped his fingers. “Hey! I’ve seen those ears!” Unfortunately for Martín, this was not the slucker that slucked exclusively giant victims. No, this was the largest slucker there has ever been. Before he could even contemplate the difference, he was slucked in the most gruesome way imaginable.
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WHO’S IN MY HOUSE?
by Monty Wiretrap
Trans. by Monty Wiretrap Jr.
There was an old man who lived alone in the country. It was rumored that his house stood on Choctaw burial ground.
It was also rumored that the house stood on the edge of an active volcano. The old man looked out the window, his face turning orange from the glow of the magma below. Well, at least that rumor was true…
There was a third rumor (one the old man himself had started): that the house was built on the site of two of the bloodiest battles in world history. Maybe you’ve heard of them—the First and Second Great Volcano Battles. The old man was adamant that he had served both sides honorably in each of these battles and was now the only living survivor.
That man, of course, was Zach Galifianakis, the American actor who once won an MTV movie award for his role as Alan in The Hangover Trilogy.
But one day, as he was pouring his morning cup of coffee and looking over old battle plans, Zach heard a creak from the attic. Suddenly, with a horrible splintering sound, Jennifer Aniston fell through the ceiling, impaling Zach through the eyeball (and, therefore, also the brain) with her stiletto.
LIBRARIAN’S GUIDE: When telling this one try shouting the last word and pouncing on your listener. Then, holding your listener in a kind of forward-facing head lock, stamp your foot and make loud screeching noises. When done right, this can be rather frightening for small children.
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THE BLACKEST PHONE
by J.T Lipton
In the dark, dank basement where the kidnapper kept his victims, there was a magical phone. Unfortunately, it could only be used to order pizzas.
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THE BUS WINDOW
by Charles Reiss-Pilaf
In middle school, the teachers told Christopher he had a great head on his shoulders. Well, one day while riding the bus home from school, Christopher stuck that great head of his out the window. He thought it was funny when he saw a dog doing the same thing down the road. But then the vehicles passed each other going 50 mph and the dog’s snout knocked Christopher’s head off. For the rest of his life, the dog was careful not to stick its head out the window.
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THE RAT PACK
By Krim Cuzko
The rats crawled all over him, demanding an autograph.
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THE SNEEZING SURGEON
by Keon LaForce
Moffy Thompkins never imagined he’d enter a prison infirmary, least of all as a patient. Anyone who truly knew him would use one word to describe him: blameless. The eldest son of seven, his simple, Sunday School-teaching parents always reminded him that doing good was its own reward. While his siblings would shirk their chores to horseplay in the fields, Moffy did everything he could to keep the family farm afloat. And when his siblings inevitably got themselves into more than they could handle, well, it was no one other than Bubba Moffy who could shield them from the consequences. Leaving Thompkins farm, therefore, was the toughest decision Moffy ever made.
No one was prepared to deal with the allegations levied against him: Timothy “Moffy” Thompkins IV, once the proudest son of the Cornflower State, found himself facing thirty years for a crime he didn’t commit. To give you an idea of just how selfless Moffy was, he spent his last week before trial nursing a litter of cats, despite his severe allergy to the longhair breed. The result of the purely altruistic act was that his throat constricted and his voice became rather feeble.
The country he loved seemed eager to lock him away forever, the job he loved had sapped him of all his strength, and now the family he loved would have to find someone else to fill his giant shoes. Never, he thought to himself, I can never let this happen to them. So he kept his figure intact, he kept his mind sharp, and began the process of restoring his voice. Even now, in the prison infirmary, the nurse remarks that his vital signs are superb, that his reaction time remains 99th percentile, and he should be looking at a two week recovery window. As soon as his microlaryngoscopy was completed, he’d be before the Kansas Supreme Court, where surely he’d win his freedom once and for all. But that’s when she brought him into the room: the Sneezing Surgeon…
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Excerpt from THE SCREWED UP THING
By Wilhelmina Pilar-Kilogram
“Man!” Johnny thought, “that thing is screwed up!” And then it ate him.
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BAD WAYS TO GO: HOW FAMOUS HORROR MASTERS DIED
From How They Croaked, omnibus edition
STEPHEN KING: Ground into chicken feed in competitive geocaching incident.
AGATHA CHRISTIE: Meth lab explosion.
IRA LEVIN: Jumped into shallow end.
R.L STINE: Murdered by a jilted lover.
H.P LOVECRAFT: Murdered by R.L Stine.
SHIRLEY JACKSON: Schizophrenic outburst on live television.
ARI ASTER: Gunned down by Alec Baldwin.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON: Auto-erotic asphyxiation.
WES CRAVEN: World War II reenactment.
PETER BENCHLEY: Chum in Sea World feeding frenzy.
DAVID CRONENBERG: Fatal error.
ROD SERLING: Mowed down in a turf war drive-by.
TIM BURTON: Mad cow disease.
ELI ROTH: Marooned on broken escalator.
GUILLERMO DEL TORO: Love.
JOHN CARPENTER: Blown up by RPG-wielding killstreak chimp.
JORDAN PEELE: Sneezing surgeon.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
