‘Mama,’ a Psychological Horror Novel, Chapter Thirteen

Whoa! Look at that huge mushroom cloud in the sky, far off in the distance. No one, other than myself, has even noticed it, much less reacted to it. Now that Mama’s ghost is having me put away, where I can’t do anything to stop her, she can go ahead with her plans to destroy the world and bring us all to Hell, to join her. The people on the streets aren’t reacting to the nuclear blast because her magic is restraining them, hypnotizing them into a state of total apathy!

No one cares. No one will help me. Aunt Jane and…that man everyone says is my father…are just working for Mama’s ghost, to keep me under her control so she can be free to unleash her mayhem on the world. I’m powerless to save everyone from her.

I wanna kill myself so badly, but I can’t, because: I can’t escape from the clutches of the staff taking me back to the mental hospital; I’m too chicken to endure the pain of slashing my wrists, or jumping off of a building, or any other violent form of suicide; I have no pills to OD on; and besides, killing myself will only bring myself further into Hell and under Mama’s control.

There’s nothing I can do to relieve my pain. No…

Oof! What…the…? Did one of those boats on this surreal road just collide with the elephant I’m riding on? Oh! It’s losing balance…I’m falling off!

Aah! I just hit the road on my left side, hurting my upper arm and hip. Now I’m in pain on both sides of my body, after that motorcycle crash I had before.

Hey, I see Aunt Jane and…that man…lying on the road, too. They’re all bloody and unconscious. Are they dead? I’ll check for her pulse: oh, my God, she is dead. She was working for Mama’s ghost, though, helping to ensure that I stay locked away in the mental hospital, so I couldn’t stop Mama from using her magic to make a Hell here on Earth. Why would Mama kill my aunt all of a sudden?

What’s that? Coughing coming from…that man. I’ll go over to him, in spite of my revulsion from him. What does he want from me now?

“Roger…Roger,” he’s saying between gasps and coughs. “I…am your…father. Why…can’t you…just accept me?” More coughing from him–it’s revolting to watch and hear.

Again, though, I must ask myself: why would Mama’s ghost kill off the people who were helping her? I see the hospital worker, the one who was steering the elephant we were on, lying next to ‘Dad,’ dead and covered in his own blood, too.

“I…love…you, Roger,” says ‘Dad,’ then his head falls to the side, and he’s lying there dead, with his eyes wide open. I’m checking his pulse. No, he’s definitely dead.

I don’t understand any of this. Why is Mama doing this?

None of it makes any sense, unless…

…unless it’s all just been figments of my imagination the whole time.

Is that why no one responded to the nuclear blast I saw a few minutes ago? Because there was no nuclear blast?

My seeing boats on the road instead of cars, celery sticks instead of lampposts, animal heads on people’s bodies, mushrooms instead of skyscrapers, fire in the background, blue elephants instead of ambulances to take me back to the mental hospital,…none of these are Mama’s magic, but just my hallucinations going to such an extreme?

All because I can’t accept that this man was my father?

Hey…as I look all around me, I see that the surreal imagery I’d seen before is all gone. Now, everything looks normal: cars and buses on the road, lampposts, tall buildings, pedestrians with human heads, no fire to be seen anywhere at all, not even on the horizon. All there is before me is that car crash–my ambulance lying on its side, with the back door wide open so I could crawl out and look around outside, and my aunt and…my…father…lying here, dead.

The world is just an ordinary place.

And I am just an ordinary man.

I’m no hero. My life isn’t the great melodrama that I imagined it to be, with a demonic mother persecuting me. I probably didn’t even kill her; as everybody else told me, she just died of a heart attack, and I was just a fool sticking pins into a doll that had no effect on her at all. I’m nothing special; I’m just a deluded idiot.

And because of my resistance from them, I just lost the only two people in the whole world who actually cared about me. I’m mediocre, and alone.

This existence is worse than any fiery Hell I could imagine…and it’s all of my own creation.

People are crowding around the ambulance. I’ve got to get away from them, or else I’ll be put in that mental institution for the rest of my life, and I don’t want the rest of my life to be a long one.

Since there’s no mother-demon trying to get me, suicide is still a viable option for me. I’m getting out of here, now, before another ambulance arrives!

Umph! Oh, getting this crowd of onlookers to open up a path for me is annoyingly difficult!

“C’mon, you people! Out of my way!” I shout.

“Hey, don’t be so pushy!” a man says.

“You’re injured,” a woman says. “You need to go to the hospital, Sir.”

“Mind your own business!” I shout, then get free.

I’m running away from the crash scene and down the street. I see an alley between two tall buildings, and I’m running towards it.

A voice whispers in my ear, “Yes, Roger, go in there.”

That was another hallucination, of course, the voice of ‘Mama.’ I don’t believe any of that’s real anymore, but I’m still going into the alley. Piles of garbage bags and boxes are lying against the walls on both sides. Is this where I was before, when I crashed the bike? It smells just as bad.

Looking back, I can see a few people running after me. I’d better hide.

Behind these boxes here will be good. Yeah, those people just ran past. I can hear them running farther and farther away, their footsteps getting softer and softer. I hear nothing at all now.

Good. I’m all alone now. No one to bother me. Absolute peace.

…except for the war going on in my heart.

I hate my life. I never amounted to anything. The only way I could make my life have any meaning was to make up a melodramatic, hallucinatory story about my mother being a witch and a demon from Hell bent on destroying the world, so I could fancy myself a hero about to save everyone. What a load of ridiculous nonsense, all fabricated to hide the truth from myself, that I’m just a pathetic loser! I couldn’t have an average man as a father, because I’m below average.

If only I could have just accepted that man as my father! I could have grown to love him, to receive his love, and then finally learn to love myself! And now he’s dead.

Now I have nobody to value me in any way.

I hate myself, and I want to die. But I’m too scared to kill myself, as much as I hate living.

If only I could kill myself quickly and painlessly. I have no sleeping pills or other drugs to OD on. I have no access to a bathtub and razors so I can do it the old Roman way. And I don’t have the guts to jump off of a tall building.

What am I going to do? I don’t want to be in a mental institution for the rest of my worthless life.

I want to die…now…but I can’t do it.

If only there were somebody out there who could do it for me. Any murderers out there?

Is there anything in these boxes or garbage bags that I could use? Any bottles I could break, and use the jagged edge to cut myself? Let me take a look…

Hey, what’s that over there, by the opposite wall? Another hallucination? Very well–bring it on. Nothing else is helping.

‘Mama,’ a Psychological Horror Novel, Chapter Twelve

Now, let’s see if I can remember any of those ancient verses, the ones I used to put a circle of protection around myself, to keep Mama’s ghost out.

Bide larma…No, that doesn’t sound right.

Bide lirma oda kaitan…Was that it? No.

How about Bidi lirma oda kaitan…? I think that’s closer to it, but how does the rest of the verse go?

The fact that I don’t have the materials to make the circle–the chalk to draw it, the ruler to draw straight lines for the pentacle, and the candles to light up–isn’t exactly helping me here.

I’ll try again: Bidi lirma ota kaitan…

Wait a minute: was that even from the right verse?

No! That was from the verses meant to send Mama to Hell and lock her up there. I’ve already done that, and she’s brought me here with her, too. By saying that verse, if I’m even saying it right, I’m only reinforcing my problem!

I need to remember the verse I used to say to create a zone of protection that she can’t enter. What I said when I went to the store to buy the amulet and sachet. What was it? She’s making me forget, that’s for sure.

Still, I have to try to remember it. It’s my only hope.

Oh, God, it’s so dark here. Endlessly black, all around me.

I can still hear the thumping of the elephants’ feet. Aunt Jane, that man, and the staff from the mental hospital are still trying to find me in this stinky rectum of a hiding place. It’s only a matter of time before they find me and take me back to the nut house.

Oh, what are those words I have to chant?

Wana…bagga…waiko? Is that how it begins?

Wana bagga waiko, Inan suchi zdago…I think.

Kala bodi gana, Sibako wuli…zulu? No, at least one or two of the words are wrong, because I don’t feel any safer. I’m still in the smelly black pit. But which words am I saying wrong?

I can’t give up. I’ve got to keep trying–not just for myself, but for the sake of the world, which I have to save from Mama’s magic! Now, what were those words?

Maybe if I try different combinations of vowels and consonants, I’ll eventually luck out and say the right combination, like monkeys typing forever and ever until they finally compose a novel. It’s a ridiculous thing to do, but I’m so desperate here, I can’t think of any other way to get the words right. Here goes:

Wana baka waigo,
Inan kushi zdega,
Kala bodi gana.
Sibako woli zulu.

No, still no circle of protection. I’m still trapped in infinite black. But I think I’m coming closer to saying the right words. As I do this, altering the words little by little, I think I’m beginning to remember them better.

But maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m wrong.

Still, I’ve got to keep trying.

Wana baka waigo,
Imam kuchi zdega
Kalu bodi gana.
Sibako woli zulu.

Still not right! Every word has to be perfect, or else I get nothing! Oh, how am I going to get this right? Still, I have to try:

Wana baka waigo,
Iman kuchi zdega
Kalu bodi gana.
Sibako woli…zulu.

Still wrong! I have a feeling that this time, I almost got it right. Still, it cannot be even the slightest bit wrong, or else this effort is all in vain. I’ll bet Mama’s ghost is tampering with my memory, making me forget a verse I had committed to memory not so long ago.

Oh, which part am I getting wrong?

This black void enveloping me, with that shitty garbage stink, is driving me crazy!

I’ve got to keep trying, though…every possible combination must be considered!

I’ve got to get protection from Mama…and fast!

AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!…

WabawakabaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizuku…
WanwakabaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizulu…
WanabakawaigoInankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizuku…
WakabakawaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizuku…
WadabakawaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizulu…
WafabakawaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizuku…
WagabakawaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizulu…
WajabakawaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizuku…
WalaBakawaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizulu…
WamabakawaigoInankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizuku…
WanabakawaigoImankuchizdegaKanubodiganaSibakowolizulu…
WapawakabaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizuku…
WarabakawaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodigala Sibakowolizulu…
WasabakawaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizuku…
WatabakawaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizulu…
WavabakawaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizuku…
WawabakawaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizulu…
WayabakowaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizuku…
WazabakawaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizuzu…
WanababawaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizuku…
WanabakawaigoImankuchizdegoKalubodiganaSibakowolizulu…
WanabalawaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizuku…
WanabamawaigoImankuchizdegaKalubodiganaSibakowolizulu…

Oh, my God, I’m never going to get this right!

Surely, Mama’s ghost is making me mispronounce at least one word at a time, to drive me crazy!

My face is soaked in my tears. I’m shaking and sobbing so loudly, surely those elephants will hear me over their thumping feet!

What can I do to save myself from her?

Could I try finding Jesus? No, I tried that years ago. Didn’t work. There’s no Heaven to save me from this Hell.

If only I could kill myself…but that would just plunge my soul–if I even have one–straight into Hell all the more, where she could really torment me…forever.

What if I attempted…a dissolving of my ego? A transcending of my ego…ego death! The merging of my Atman, as it were, with Brahman? What if I adopted selflessness, in the Buddhist sense of the word? She cannot harm me if there’s no me to harm.

Through intense meditation, I can achieve ego death, nirvana. It’s worth a try, at least.

I’ll start by focusing on my breathing…slow, deep breaths…in…and out…I don’t need to close my eyes, because there’s nothing to see but absolute black everywhere.

Oh!…That awful smell! The shit of the asshole I’m trapped in!

No, I don’t want to inhale that so intensely. Bad idea.

I’ll have to try concentrating on something else.

The present moment, and my oneness with my surroundings.

Yes,…I must think about every second that passes by, and think about there being no distinction between myself and everything out there that isn’t me.

Oh, my mind keeps wandering. Roger, concentrate!

Mama, like Mara the tempter, is trying to thwart this Buddha.

I’m at one with everything…I’m aware of every passing second…

My body feels as if it’s beginning to dissolve, to merge with my surroundings…good…

Wait…am I dissolving, or am I…being pulled apart, in all directions?

I still can’t see anything in this black, smelly void, but it feels as though my arms are being pulled to their far left and far right, and it’s like I’m rising from the ground. All of me feels…pulled outwards, everywhere.

Is this a merging, or is it a…melting?

Maybe this is how becoming at one with everything is supposed to feel. I don’t know.

What’s that up ahead? A tiny dot of white light, gradually getting bigger. I feel as though I’m floating towards it. The light at the end of the tunnel? My salvation?

Wait a minute: instead of a growing ball of white light, I’m seeing the city I was riding that motorcycle through the streets of. I’m at the tight sphincter now, coming out like a turd squeezing through…POP!

I’m back out in the city now. Oh, thank God I don’t smell that fecal stink anymore. It’s as surreal out here as it was before: giant mushrooms for buildings, tall celery stalks for lampposts, boats on the roads instead of cars, a glowing basketball for a sun shining in a brown sky, and pedestrians with animals’ heads.

Yes, the magic of Mama’s ghost is as strong as ever.

Hey, wait! What am I riding on? This isn’t that motorbike I stole: I’m riding on a blue elephant! Other blue elephants are walking beside, in front of, and behind mine. I know what they represent: Aunt Jane, the staff of the mental hospital, and…that man.

They’re taking me back to the nut house…that prison!

I have to stop this from happening, but how?

I’ll try jumping off of this elephant…what? There’s some kind of invisible wall, or a force field of some kind, keeping me on the elephant! I can’t get away! Mama’s magic is keeping me here!

“Let me go!” I scream. “I don’t wanna go back to that horrible hospital!”

“Sorry, Roger,” I can hear Aunt Jane’s voice saying from farther off. “But we trusted you the last time, and you violated that trust. Now, I’m afraid we have no choice but to take you back there and keep you there for as long as it takes. Judging by the way you’ve been acting, I’d say you’ll probably have to stay locked up there for the rest of your life. I hate to say it, but it’s true.”

“NOOOO!!!”

“And don’t try that act of sanity again, Roger,” one of the hospital staff says. “We’re wise to your tricks now.”

Mama has won.

She has me locked away forever.

And she’ll be able to destroy the world without me able to stop her.

It was better in that giant asshole. At least I could meditate there, have a hope of dissolving my ego, and end my suffering…of course, I could meditate in the padded cell they’ll most likely incarcerate me in, wearing that straitjacket again. It will be uncomfortable, but I should be able to do it.

No, I can’t! Not with all those people there! I have to be alone. How can I dissolve my ego through meditation if I’m constantly being disturbed by shrinks and nurses determined to make me believe that that man is my father?

I really am in an eternal Hell of other people.

There is no exit for me.

‘Mama,’ a Psychological Horror Novel, Chapter Eleven

What a bizarre cityscape I’m seeing all around me!

As I race down the road on this motorcycle I stole, I’m seeing boats moving on the road instead of cars. The buildings are still giant, polka-dotted mushrooms. Instead of street lamps, I’m seeing giant celery sticks of the same height!

Whoa! I just looked up at the sky, which is a light brown instead of blue. And instead of seeing a bright ball of fiery light for the sun, I’m seeing a glowing…basketball.

The pedestrians all have animals’ heads: dogs, cats, elephants, horses, etc., but all in proportionate size to their human bodies. As I wait at this traffic light, the colours of which are pink (go), orange (slow), and brown (go), I can hear the pedestrians’ conversations as they walk by me: barking, meowing, roaring, neighing, etc. A man with a dog’s head is passing in front of me right now, walking his dog, which is actually speaking: “Who’s this ugly guy on the motorbike?”

Thanks a lot, dog.

The pedestrians have all crossed the street, and the light has turned brown. I can resume my getaway from Aunt Jane, my ‘father,’ and the staff of the mental hospital, who are presumably pursuing me. Off I go!

Anyone else knowing what I’m seeing and hearing would naturally assume that it’s all just a series of hallucinations that I’m having. But I know better. All of these surreal images and sounds are just the magical art of Mama’s ghost. She’d have me believe that I’m delusional.

The real delusion, however, so cleverly set up to look as though it’s normal, was my ‘recovery’ in that hospital, imagining that man to be my father. The peacefulness of that whole situation was staged by Mama, set up to distract me from her real plan, which is to escalate the world’s problems, exacerbating the bad economy and the ecological crisis, and of course, to bring to a head the political tensions between the US and NATO on one side, and Russia and China on the other, to bring about a nuclear World War III and annihilate all life here on the Earth!

Such is the scheming of Mama’s mischievous mind.

This is why I must do what I must do, to save the Earth! I can see now that it’s my destiny to be a hero, and a hero cannot be the son of a mediocre man like that one I left with Aunt Jane. I must be someone better than that, the son of a great man murdered by Mama’s treachery!

She’d have me doubt my senses, memory, and perception. That’s why she’s putting all these bizarre images in front of me and all around me. It’s all an attempt to control me! If I’m under her control, she’ll be free to do whatever she wants to do, to destroy the world. I must stop her!

All my life, from when I was a little kid, right up to her death–her manipulating me into killing her with the voodoo doll–she was making me believe that I never perceived anything correctly, that I was always seeing and hearing things. I now know why. She always knew–secretly, of course!–that I have special, magical gifts, inherited from her. (These gifts of mine were clearly seen when I so quickly learned how to block her magical powers.) She had to trick me into having no confidence in my own abilities, so I wouldn’t be able to stop her in her grand plan to become an all-powerful, disembodied spirit, and destroy the world!

I’ve got to stop her…but how can I do that?

I have to stay away from Aunt Jane and that man, because apart from how repellent I already find both of them, they’ll have the hospital staff drag me back into the nut house, to be imprisoned there indefinitely. Staying away from the two of them means staying away from my apartment, my laptop, and my protective circle and witch bottle.

That means I’m homeless.

I can’t make any more money because Aunt Jane is running the Pet Valu store.

I’m unemployed.

I can see towering columns of flame all around me, in the background, behind the surreal cityscape of giant mushrooms, celery stick street lamps, boats on the road, and animal-headed pedestrians. Everyone is going about his or her business, as if the fiery background wasn’t even there, as if there was nothing strange about boats for cars, mushrooms for apartment buildings, and animal heads instead of human ones.

I, however, continuing my racing about on this stolen motorcycle, know that I cannot find any reference books on magic if the library is now either a mushroom or is on fire. I cannot gain access to my mother’s inheritance money if the local bank is either a mushroom or burned to the ground.

I have no home, no job, no money, and no access to sources that can protect me from Mama’s magic.

What the hell am I going to do?

Aunt Jane, that man, and the hospital staff must be pursuing me…I’ll look behind and see if…oh, no!

A herd of stampeding elephants is right behind me!

Instead of elephants’ roars, I’m hearing the voice of that man: “Roger, come back! We only want to help you!”

I’m giving the bike some more gas.

Mama is really giving it everything she’s got to make me lose my mind and defeat me. I can’t let her do that!

I must keep my head. If I succumb to her surreal tricks, if she succeeds in disorienting me, or in having me caught or killed, there will be no one to stop her from destroying the world!

I can’t believe how well I’ve been able to dodge this traffic of boats, the celery street lamps, the giant mushrooms, and the animal-headed pedestrians so far. I’m flying down the street like a professional motorcycle racer…and I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before in my life…and normally, I’m totally spastic, totally without the most basic coordination.

Could my racing away like this really be happening, or is this one of Mama’s tricks, to give me a false sense of confidence, before she springs her inevitable trap on me? Probably. We’ll see.

What’s that up ahead? I’m seeing eyes and fanged teeth forming on the celery stick street lamps! They’re looking at me with threatening faces, like in a bizarre cartoon. Arms are growing out of their sides, arms that are grabbing at me!

The gripping green hands are missing me, so far. I’ve been able to dodge them. Where did my cycling skill come from so suddenly?

Bumps in the road are popping up like bubbles. I’m managing to dodge them, too…so far.

Those bumps are coming up in the most surprising place…oops!

I just hit a big, bubbling bump, and I’m flying off the bike and into the air. In front of me is a huge, giant, brown, swirling vortex with a black hole in the middle. It looks like a giant…asshole?

…and I’m flying right into it.

…screaming as I go in at top speed.

Inside now, I’ve landed with a painful thud that’s hurt my right elbow and hip. Instead of smelling shit, I smell…garbage, everywhere.

It’s pitch black in this smelly place. I can’t see a thing.

I can hear the elephants trampling their way in here.

The voice of ‘my father’ is saying, “He fell off the bike and landed somewhere in this garbage dump. He can’t have gone far.”

“He found a good hiding place,” my aunt just said, as I’m feeling their thunderous elephant thuds shaking the ground. “This place is like a labyrinth. We’ll never find him.”

That’s encouraging to hear. I can stay where I am, at least for the moment, rub my injuries, which aren’t that bad, and think about all of these crazy things that I’ve seen.

What I’ve been seeing must be much more than mere hallucinations. While it’s true that I’ve seen and heard things my whole life, they’ve never reached a level of surreal intensity anywhere near this! Oh, all these nonsensical images and sounds are Mama’s doing, I’m sure of it. This is all her magic, far more powerful than the magic she’d used when physically alive, since now she’s freed of the limitations of the body and the senses.

As bizarre as the sights and sounds have been, they are explicable, in terms of deliberate choices Mama’s ghost has made, her knowing I’d find them disturbing.

The brown sky is the colour of shit, reminding me of a time when, in PE class in high school, I was playing basketball in the outside basketball court. The ball went out on the grass at one point, and it fell on a lump of dog turds. One of the school bullies found the ball, picked it up, and threw it at my head, calling out my name as it flew in the air so I’d get hit in the face with the shit-smeared part. Everyone laughed at me, of course.

I went home crying about it. I told Mama what happened: she laughed, too, saying I should have worked harder at improving my basketball playing. She obviously had me see a brown sky and a basketball sun to remind me about that day. Her cruelty knows no bounds.

I hate eating celery, and as a kid, I was made by her to eat celery sticks one afternoon. I choked on one because of her continued pressure to finish them: I was six, and I thought I was going to choke to death. Again, street lamps made to look like giant celery sticks, with malevolent faces, was another attempt by Mama to re-traumatize me.

When I was ten, on a summer camping trip, I was in a small boat on a huge lake, deep in the middle of the water. A bully pushed me off, and I, not a good swimmer, almost drowned. Back home, I told Mama about it. She laughed again, blaming me for not working hard enough to improve my swimming. This explains the boats I saw on the road.

I’ve generally been afraid of animals, having been bitten by dogs and scratched by cats as a kid. They seem little different to me from people, who all seem like bullies to me. Hence, pedestrians with animal heads and talking dogs and elephants.

Oh, don’t get me started on elephants!

As a kid, I used to have nightmares about being trampled on by stampeding herds of elephants or horses. I’d feel crushed by the idea of…that man…being my father, hence her associating him with elephants.

…and what about that giant asshole vortex I just flew into?

Well, I don’t want to go into too much detail about this, the reasons of which should become obvious soon enough, but when I was about twelve and in summer camp again, one of the counsellors took an interest in me, and he…

I’ve already said too much.

Again, when I tearfully told Mama about it on my return home, she laughed at me and called me gay.

Are you starting to understand why I wanted her dead?

This darkness everywhere is really enveloping me. I feel like I’m floating in endless, starless space.

This is the hell Mama’s ghost is trapping me in.

Without the library’s or any other magical resources, I’ll have to rely on my faulty memory to think of any of the other magical ideas I researched before. I hope I can use it to put up a decent fight against her.

The odds are not in my favour.

‘Mama,’ a Psychological Horror Novel, Chapter Ten

Several weeks have gone by with me in this…mental hospital, and I have been cooperating with Dr. Sweeney, Aunt Jane, and…my…father, in the hopes that they’ll let me out of here soon enough. Even in my private thoughts, I’m trying to approximate the perception of reality they’re all imposing on me, all of them working for a certain…spirit, in the hopes that she, too, will be fooled. Then I can be freed of all of them.

My subterfuge seems to be working. Sweeney and the staff are pleased with my cooperation and lack of belligerence. I haven’t worn the straitjacket since it had been taken off me; I’m not even in the padded cell anymore. I’m in quite a pleasant-looking, well-furnished room.

They’re letting me take walks outside, where there are trees, there’s grass, and even a pond with ducks I can feed, as long as my…father…accompanies me and I chat with him. I’m going along with all of it; I’m being patient about it. I even smile and call him…Dad…without wincing. I actually entertain the thought of him being my dad in my thoughts, not only to fool that…spirit, but also to test the waters, as it were–to see if I like it.

Not really.

Dad is so lame.

I want a heroic father, not this loser.

Still, I must keep up appearances, even in my thoughts.

After all, it’s quite possible that I’m succeeding in keeping…her…at bay. I haven’t seen anything blatantly surreal over these past few weeks, and I see flames only in the distant horizon when I go outside with…Dad. The…ghost…isn’t fucking with my head as a reward, I surmise, for cooperating with the others.

Still, something’s going to happen, some fresh trap to be sprung on me while I’m here, so I have to be careful and hope I get discharged as soon as possible.

Then I can find my chance to break free and run from them all.

Oh, here he comes–Dr. Sweeney. Time to act like a good little patient. Cue my fake smile.

“Good morning, Roger,” he says with a fake smile of his own.

“Good morning,” I say.

“How are you feeling today?” he asks.

“Oh, fine,” I say. “I had a really good sleep last night.”

“Good. I trust you’re still enjoying your walks with your father, then? You’ve fully accepted that he is your father, haven’t you?”

“Fully.” My acting is so good, I’d fool myself.

“I’m happy to hear that, Roger. In fact, I have some good news for you.”

“Oh?” I’m trying hard to suppress my anticipation of what he’s about to say. If I overreact to what I think he’ll say, I might be exposed as faking my recovery.

“I think you’re well enough to be released from here.”

“Really? Are you sure I’m well enough? This could be premature. I might have a relapse.”

“Well, if so, you know where you’ll return,” he says while writing something down on his notepad. “In any case, I’m confident that you’ve made sufficient progress, to the point where you can be put under the care of your aunt and father. They’ll report back to me on your continuing progress, or any problems you have, and we’ll react accordingly here.”

“Oh, very well, then, Doctor,” I’m still restraining my enthusiasm. “When will I be released?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Oh, OK.”

****************

Now, it’s the early afternoon of the next day, just after lunch, and I’m getting ready to be taken out of here. I’m bracing myself, taking deep breaths, and trying to stay calm. I’m thinking over how I can find an opportunity to break free of my aunt and…father, how to know when it will be safe to do so.

I don’t want to wait until I get home, whether that home is mine, my aunt’s, or…his. Firstly, will either of them be watching me, or having someone watch me, 24/7, so I can’t get away any better than here in this nut house? Secondly, I’m so eager to get away from them that I simply can’t wait any longer. It’s a foolish risk I’ll be taking, but I’ve run out of patience.

Ah, there’s my door being opened!

There they are, the shrink, my aunt, and…him.

“OK, Roger,” Sweeney says. “You’re all set to go.”

“Come on home, Son,” says my…dad, smiling.

“All the paperwork’s been signed, so we can just go,” Aunt Jane says, also smiling.

“OK,” I say, getting up with a sincere smile of my own, and I leave the room with them.

As we’re walking through the front doors, and I can see the streets and buildings out there (as well as the blazing fires all along the city’s horizon), Dr. Sweeney stops me for a moment.

“Now, remember, Roger,” he says in a kind, avuncular attitude. “Your father may not be the great hero you’d always fantasized of him as being, but he’s a good man, and that’s enough. You, too, are good enough, and that’s all you and he need to be, OK?”

“OK,” I say. “And thank you, Doctor, for all your help.”

We all say goodbye to him and walk out of the hospital and on the sidewalk surrounding it, my aunt to my left, and my ‘dad’ to my right. There’s a nearby parking lot, on the other side of the street, that we’re approaching.

My mind is racing, and my eyes are darting all over the place, looking for an opportunity to escape.

I find just such an opportunity.

I see a man parking and getting off of his motorcycle. His keys are still in it, and he’s a short run from where I am. My aunt and…he…are looking away, distracted. Lucky for me.

I suddenly break into a sprint for that bike.

“Roger!” Aunt Jane shouts.

“What are you doing?” he shouts.

I reach the bike, shove the rider to the pavement, and get on it. The keys are still in the ignition switch. I kickstart the bike.

“Hey!” he shouts. “What the fuck you doin’?”

“What does it look like?” I say, then ride off.

“Asshole!” he shouts. “Stop! Thief!”

“Roger!” my aunt and ‘dad’ shout several times.

As I’m distancing myself from them, surprising myself at how well I’m riding the motorcycle without any crashes or much of any obstacles on the road slowing me down, I see the flames quickly return all around me, burning every building in sight. I’m also seeing those giant, brightly-coloured, polka-dotted mushrooms again.

Yes, Mama’s back to her old tricks. But that’s no matter: I’m now free to go back to trying to stop her from destroying the world. My chance to be a hero has returned.

‘Mama,’ a Psychological Horror Novel, Chapter Nine

I feel myself coming out of a daze, a waking-up from what has felt like a dark sleep, the darkness slowly beginning a glow into brighter and brighter light. I’m looking around, my eyes focusing.

What is this place I’ve been taken to? I’m still surrounded in fire, but the fire has become so bright, it’s almost white. I’m still not burning, though it’s very warm all around me. I see walls of near-white fire surrounding me…imprisoning me.

Because I was resisting my persecutors–that man and my aunt, who’s still possessed by Mama’s ghost, no doubt–resisting them with all of my strength, they found me so violent that I can see they’ve put me in a straitjacket. What I don’t have on my person anymore are my amulet and sachet!

My resistance was at its most violent when they were taking those things from me. The last thing I remember was someone sticking a needle in my arm as I saw them take away my amulet and sachet, and I was screaming…then everything slowly faded to black as my struggles grew weaker and weaker.

No longer at home with my magic circle or witch bottle to protect me, I feel completely naked, as it were, totally exposed to Mama’s magic! What am I going to do without any protection?

What were those magical formulas that I used to chant, to ward off her evil spells and apparitions? I’ve gone and forgotten them; in my stress and disorientation from the drug they put in my arm, I find myself unable to utter even one syllable of the ancient, mystical languages. Mama can do anything she wants to me, and I can’t stop her! She schemed to put me in this position, and now she has me right where she wants me. I’m as good as dead.

After I die, after she kills me, I’ll be in hell with her (I already am in hell here, but I’ll be even closer to her when I’m dead in body), and then she can really torture me…forever!

Let’s face it: I’ve already passed the entrance where the sign says, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

What’s this? Somebody’s coming into the room…if that’s what this fiery-walled, white room can be called, this prison cell of mine.

Oh, God! It’s that man, the one who calls himself my father, in the long white coat of a doctor. He thinks he’s going to treat me?

“Good afternoon, Roger,” he says to me with a phony smile. “How are you feeling now?”

“How do you think, Father?” I growl sarcastically at him.

“You think I’m your father?” he asks with an incredulous look.

“Isn’t that what you’ve been claiming you are?” I ask. “I assure you–you aren’t my father, and never will be.”

“I know that, Roger,” he says. “I’m your therapist. Your father and aunt are outside. They are hoping I can help you. You’ve been under sedation for several hours now. Now that the drugs are wearing off, they could be still affecting your hallucinations. I guess that’s why you’re seeing your father’s face instead of mine.”

I blink a few times and look at his face again. No, he isn’t that man. He looks quite similar, but he isn’t him.

“My name is Doctor Sweeney,” he says. “Feel free to talk to me about anything you like. Don’t censor yourself.”

“I’d rather not talk to you at all,” I say, still frowning at him.

“Why is that, Roger?”

I look around at the fiery, white walls, which look rather soft now–cushiony, even. This ‘doctor’ is no doubt part of Mama’s plan to get inside my head.

“Let’s just say that I don’t trust shrinks.”

“You’ve been mistreated by psychiatrists before?”

“I know who my aunt and that man are working for.”

He’s writing something down on a notepad. “And who is that, I’m curious to know?” he asks with a self-satisfied smirk.

“You know who,” I say with a scowl.

“Um, no, I’m afraid I don’t,” he says, still writing.

“Oh, yes, you do. You’re working for her, too, obviously.”

“For her?“

“Don’t play dumb with me, shrink.”

“I’m sorry, Roger, but I guess I am dumb. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why don’t you just tell me, then we can bring it out into the open and fully explore what’s troubling you?”

“Oh, right. Then you can call me crazy, lock me up in this inferno of a prison, and then Mama will get what she wants!”

“Mama? Is she who we’re working for?” he asks, still writing.

“Of course it’s her! Don’t you condescend me!”

“Didn’t your mother die a little while back?” he asks, writing really fast now. “Your aunt and father said she died…”

“HE’S NOT MY FATHER!!!”

“If you insist, though I do see a facial resemblance between you two.”

“You’re working for my mother, that’s why you say I look like him.”

“She is dead, though, isn’t she?” He’s still writing away.

“Of course she’d dead…in body, anyway.”

“So is she still alive in spirit? Is she a ghost?”

“Obviously!”

“Has her ghost appeared to you, telling you her plots against you?”

“I’ve seen her ghost, though she tells me little.”

“And why do you think she’s trying to persecute you?”

“Revenge.”

“For what?”

“Because I k…!” Oops. I’m quite silent now.

“Do you believe you…killed her?”

I’m still silent, looking down at my shoes.

“Your aunt and…that man say she died of a heart attack. You aren’t guilty of her murder, Roger. This guilt complex must be the basis of your delusions.”

“If I’m so non-violent, then can you please remove this straitjacket?”

“I’m afraid you might hurt yourself, and me.”

“Then I am of a violent nature, aren’t I? Violent enough to have killed her.”

“You have the potential to be, but you never killed…”

“We all have the potential to be violent, Doctor.”

“Am I being violent to you?”

“You’re depriving me of my freedom of movement, caging me in walls of white fire, binding my…”

“Walls of white fire?” Oh, he’s writing really fast now!

“Of course! Look around you! Are you blind?”

“No, but I must be having delusions myself, for all I see around us is a padded cell.”

“A padded cell? How cute.” Condescending bastard!

“Did your mother’s ghost surround us in white fire?”

“Of course she did! She’s a witch!”

That pen of his is moving like…crazy…now.

“Is that why you killed her? Did you use magic yourself to give her a heart attack?”

No courtroom would believe I killed her with magic, so I felt safe nodding at the shrink’s question.

“And now that she’s a spirit, I suppose she’s much freer to use her magic in a much more malignant way?”

“The fact that you can predict her freer use of magic on me proves that you are working for her,” I hiss at him. “But I can promise you this, shrink: I’ll find a way out of this prison. You’ll see!”

“M-hmm,” the shrink says in his usual smug manner. “What do you think your mother’s ghost is going to do to you, and to the world in general?”

“She’s destroying the global economy, she’s worsening global warming, as you can see all around us,…”

“Oh, yes, the burning padded cell.” He’s writing this all down, of course.

“…and the worsening of tensions between the West and China and Russia, leading to World War Three and nuclear annihilation.”

“Your mother’s ghost is causing all that? She must be one powerful witch.”

“Is condescension your preferred form of therapy, shrink?”

“No, getting all your thoughts out in the open, analyzing them, and learning where you got them from is my preferred method.”

“And where do you think I got my ideas from, Doctor? My tinfoil hat?”

“We’ll figure that out in time, Roger. For now, though, I’d like to observe you talking with your aunt and your f…, excuse me, that man.”

“Oh, God, no! Not him!”

“If he isn’t your father, why does he upset you so?”

“Because you all want me to believe he is!”

“How will believing he’s your father harm you?”

“It’s a lie of Mama’s, intended to lead me into a world of illusions!”

“Your hallucinations and delusions have already done that, Roger. I think you’re far more afraid of realizing that he really is your father. There’s something about him really being your father that you’d find devastating. We must explore this possibility, nonetheless, to get to the root of what is troubling you. I’ll be right back with him and your aunt.”

The shrink is getting up and walking towards the fiery white walls. I’m trembling in this straitjacket, rocking back and forth, trying desperately to hang on.

Oh, God, they’re coming in, emerging from the white fire!

Maybe I can incinerate myself by ramming into one of the fiery walls. Unh! I feel no burns from it, only a cushion pushing me back into the middle of the area. Mama won’t let me kill myself! She wants to torture me by forcing me to face this man!

He’s standing in front of me, looking at me with a fake look of concern for me. That shrink says he resembles me…wait! His face is being reshaped…to look exactly like mine! This is another of Mama’s tricks, for sure!

“Roger, please accept that I’m your father,” the impostor says. “Here’s a photo of your mom and me when we were dating. I had all my hair back then, but you should be able to see that it’s my face. Look!”

I’m looking at it, then looking back at him. His face is changing again: I’m seeing five eyes on it, three noses, and two mouths. Definitely not the face in the photo. Granted, the monstrous face I see on him is not his real face–something Mama is making me see–but it doesn’t prove he’s the man who dated Mama and got her pregnant.

All I can do is laugh at him. “It’s not you, old man.”

“Yes, it is,” he insists. “Deny it all you want, I am your old man. I’ll prove it further.”

He’s fumbling in his pockets for something. I’m sighing in exasperation. “My father died years ago!“

“No, he didn’t. He’s standing right here in front of you, Roger.” He takes out some paper and presents it to my reluctant eyes. “Here’s a document from a paternity test I did. Look at it! See my photo, and your name, and your mother’s name.” He’s pointing everything out for me.

“Forgeries!” I shout.

I get groans of frustration from him, my aunt, and the shrink.

“Roger, why is it so awful to you to believe that I’m your father?” that man asks. “Can’t you see how hurtful it is to me to be rejected by my own son? I know I left you before you were born, and I remained uninvolved in your life, and I’m sorry about that, truly sorry! But I want to make it up to you now. I wanna take care of you. I wanna help you get well. I can see now that the lack of a father in your life is, to a great extent at least, the cause of your sickness. I left your mother because I could see that there was something wrong with her, some kind of narcissism or psychopathy in her. It was a cowardly move on my part to have left you, and I’m sorry. Can’t your father get a second chance?”

“No,” I say with an icy look.

“Why not?” he screams.

“My father can’t get a second chance because my mother killed him. You’re right about her probably being narcissistic or psychopathic; but you left out one thing.”

“What’s that?” my aunt and the shrink ask together.

“My mother was a witch.”

More groans from all three of them. I’m unmoved.

“Look, Dr. Sweeney, could you at least remove the straitjacket?” the man asks. “Let’s give him some dignity. He isn’t normally violent. I’m sure we’ll be safe.”

With a sigh, the shrink says, “All right. I have orderlies just outside, who’ll come in at the drop of a hat the very second he begins acting up.”

“I’m sure he’ll be OK,” my aunt says. “He only got combative when we took those two silly things off of him, that necklace and sachet.”

“My only means of protection from Mama’s magic,” I growl as the shrink is taking off the straitjacket.

“Ridiculous,” my aunt says.

My arms are free at last. I’m still calm.

“See?” I tell the shrink. “I’m in control.”

“Please, Roger,” the man says with teary eyes. “Stop pushing me away. Let me be your father.”

“His ‘proof’ is faked,” I grunt through clenched teeth.

“Oh, you’re a fine one to judge the falsity of anything,” she says. “Will you ever acknowledge the falsity of your own delusions and hallucinations? You can’t see what’s wrong with what your eyes see and your ears hear, yet you’re so sure his photos and documentation are faked? He’s a nice man. OK, he left you and your mom, but he wants to make amends. Why can’t you just forgive him?”

My head is bent down, looking at my shoes again. I’m fighting back sobs. Tears are forming in my eyes.

“Your own mother told you he left you and her,” my aunt says. “Where’d you get this weird idea that she killed your father with witchcraft?”

“She lied to me,” I’m sobbing. “That witch was a liar!“

“Your very thoughts are lying to you,” my aunt says. “As soon as you come to accept that, you’ll begin to heal.”

“I abandoned you, Roger,” that man says. “I left you with a sick, disordered woman. I should never have done that. I was weak, irresponsible, and cowardly for doing that to you, and for that I am deeply sorry. I hope you’ll let me make it up to you.”

Now, I am bawling like a baby.

“Roger,…” he begins to say.

“No,” my aunt says, taking his arm. “Let’s leave him. Let him explore his thoughts a while, search his feelings. Maybe he’ll come to his senses.”

The two of them leave the room with the doctor. I’m no longer seeing white flames surrounding me. I really do see a padded cell, all white cushions for walls and the floor.

I’m still bawling my eyes out. Could it be true? Could that man really be my father? Did he abandon me, and leave me to the mercy of that horrible woman? Could he, my father, have been so unloving, so selfish, and so cruel? Could my father really have been so weak, so cowardly, so irresponsible, so contemptible?

My face is drowning in tears. My sobbing must be audible all over this…mental hospital. How embarrassing.

The idea I’ve had in my mind, that my father was a great man, murdered by my treacherous mother…is it just me kidding myself? Am I really so worthless as to be the offspring of such a feckless coward and a scheming bitch? Oh, that’s even worse, much worse!

No! This whole thing is a lie! That man is not my father! Surely, I come from better stock than that! Mama’s ghost tried to trick me there, to provoke my tears, but that was just a temporary weakness in me! This was all part of her plan to deceive me further!

I see that the white flames have returned. Mama is using them to trick me into thinking I’m deceiving myself again.

Still, I’ll go along with her plan. I’ll pretend I’ve accepted that man, even in my private thoughts. Then my conspirators will relax their hold on me, and I can figure out a way to escape this fiery prison.

And then, maybe, I’ll learn some more magic to stop Mama, and to save the world from the fiery hell of war she wants to impose on it.

‘Mama,’ a Psychological Horror Novel, Chapter Three

It’s celebration time here at home! Four hours into it, and I’ve already had a glass of red wine to start off, then two glasses of Kahlúa and milk, three glasses of Bailey’s Irish Cream, and four glasses of Jim Beam and Coke.

I. Am. So. Wasted.

I’ve been listening to music from YouTube videos, often annoyed by the ad interruptions. For the past hour, I’ve been playing a compilation video of songs from the 1980s. At the moment, I’m hearing one I haven’t heard in years. I don’t remember who did the song; I’m too wasted even to remember the song’s name, as ridiculous as that sounds.

The rhythm section sounds like a combination of heavy pounding on the drums with a drum machine. The keyboards are dark and eerie, while the singer–whose voice sounds really familiar, but I’m too drunk to place it–keeps doing a perverse, evil laugh.

What I do remember, and vividly at that, about the song is a line I’m singing along to: “Don’t leave me, Mama!” I sing it out loud, powerfully…then I remember my neighbours, above, below, and on either side of my apartment. I listen carefully for any reactions to the noise I’m making.

All I hear, apart from the song, is a feminine voice whispering, “I won’t leave you, Roger…ever.”

I stagger, almost falling on the floor.

*************

Several days have passed by since my little solo party on the night of the funeral day. I was too oppressed by my killer hangover the next day even to give a second’s thought about the voice I’d heard. So far, since hearing that whisper, I haven’t noticed anything disturbing or unusual.

My aunt is running the pet food store with the expected efficiency. I begged her to let me call her just by her name, without “Aunt”: she’s grudgingly allowing me to, thank God.

Sometimes, as I’m walking from my apartment to the pet food store, or the other way around, or if I’m out for any reason, such as to buy something from the grocery store, I’ll see that man again. He’ll gesture to me, wanting to get me to talk to him. I’ll turn my head away and pretend he’s not there. I really hope he’ll get the hint and stop bothering me.

Anyway, here I am on the sidewalk, on my way to the pet food store. As I’m walking past a park, I can see that man sitting on a bench under a tree. Oh, God, he’s waving at me! I’m turning my head away to ignore him–that should work.

Wait…what’s that over there? The face on the street sign on the other side of the street. It’s showing a man selling beer, but the mouth is moving. I hear, “Go on. Talk to him,” in a feminine voice.

It’s the voice of my mother.

I trip over a break in the sidewalk and fall on my face. As I get up, I can hear people laughing at me.

****************

Having arrived at work, I’m visibly shaken, for my aunt has noticed the fear on my face. “Roger, what’s wrong?” she asks.

“Oh, uh…I fell down,” I say. “It was embarrassing. People were laughing at me. You know how sensitive I am about that kind of thing.”

“Well, be more careful,” she says. “When you change into your Pet Valu shirt, the first thing I want you to do is face the cans.”

“OK,” I say; I change into the shirt, and go into an aisle to face the cat food cans. I see a middle-aged couple entering the store–a man and his wife, I assume. They’re coming into my aisle to look at the cat food.

After looking at the cans for a while, the woman says, “Hmm. No Whiskas to be seen anywhere here.”

“We should be getting a shipment later today,” I tell her. “Any time, really. I’m surprised it isn’t already here.”

“Could you ask your boss, please?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say. “Ma–er, Aunt–er, J-Jane?”

“Yes, Roger?” I hear her say with a sigh of annoyance, obviously from my not calling her Aunt Jane. “What is it?”

“Have the Whiskas arrived yet?” I ask her.

“The truck is on its way as we speak,” she says.

“When do you think it will get here?” I ask. “There’s a lady here who wants to buy some.”

“It should be here in about ten minutes,” she says.

“Can you wait ten minutes?” I ask the customer.

“Well, I’ll come back in about a half hour,” she says. Then, just as she’s walking away, I hear her say, “Go talk to that man in the park.”

Her voice changed distinctly into that of my mother.

The cans I had in my hands have fallen to the floor, just barely missing my feet.

**************

I haven’t heard Mama’s voice at all for the rest of the day, but I’ve been shaking the whole time. Is that voice real, or have I been imagining it? It sounds too exact, too vivid, to be an auditory hallucination.

After a week, I’m lying in bed at night, drifting off…

At night, I see the graveyard where Mama was buried. My eyes are like a movie camera, slowly coming closer to her grave. I see a yellow mist rising from the ground before the headstone. The mist stays there for a moment, hovering there. Then it floats away.

I see it moving down the street, in the direction of my apartment. My camera-like eyes follow the mist like a tracking shot. A white fog, like the kind you’d see in England, is all around, surrounding the original mist, which is still floating along, a hazy spot of yellow moving in the white haze. The yellow reaches my home.

It slips through my bedroom window like a ghost. Indeed, it is a ghost, for it wakes me from my sleep. I hear Mama’s voice: “Roger! Roger, wake up! It’s Mama.”

I wake up and look at the yellow mist, in the centre of which I see her face forming. She is grinning malevolently at me. “What do you want?” I ask in a tremulous voice. “You haven’t come here to kill me, have you? Have you come here for revenge?”

“Oh, no!” she says in a hissing voice. “On the contrary, I want to thank you for helping me to liberate myself from the limitations of my physical life.”

“Limitations?” I ask, my eyes and mouth wide open.

“Yes. Being in a body puts great constraints on the magical powers that a witch like me can use. Now that I am all spirit, I am free to roam anywhere and do anything I like. Killing myself wouldn’t have worked, because the spirit world frowns on suicide as a sin, just like the Church does. So I needed to prod you into making that voodoo doll and killing me with it. And you, my dutiful son, did exactly that! You freed me from the prison of my body, and now I want to thank you for your gift of love! My good boy!”

“And what are you planning to do with all your newfound freedom?”

“Oh, I’m planning all kinds of mischief! Nothing I can tell you about in detail, though, since you, now acquainted with the magical arts, might try to stop me. If you want to stop me, you’ll have to hone your skills to a level matching a witch who’s been a master for decades, so you’ll have a lot of catching up to do. And with that bad habit of yours, always seeing and hearing things, you already have quite a bad handicap, so I’d advise not even trying to interfere with my plans, OK? Gotta go now, son. I have some wickedness to indulge in, now that my corporeal chains have been broken, thanks to you. Oh, how delightful it is to have power over so many people! What fun this will be! Don’t worry about it. You’ll see what I’m up to soon enough. ‘Bye!”

The glowing, golden mist evaporates, leaving me in total darkness.

I rise from my bed with wide open eyes, a pounding heartbeat, and sweat all over me. I’m shaking. My bedroom is as black as it was before, minus the mist. Was that a dream, or a vision? It’s hard to tell the difference between the two. Has this all been real, or have I been imagining it? Is Mama really a ghost, reappearing in my life to torment me, or is all of this just a reflection of my fears and guilt?

Come to think of it, it makes perfect sense that she would have planned my killing of her with the voodoo doll. That was far too easy; surely, she would have known, or at least suspected, what I was doing, with her far greater mastery of magic. So as strange as it may seem to believe she’s returned as a spirit, believing I, a novice in magic, could outwit her, is even less plausible.

This must be real.

As a witch, she’d know all about the spirit world and how to use it to aid her in her manipulative purposes. To become such a spirit herself would simply be the next step for her, no longer needing the aid of other spirits.

I’m in trouble.

The whole world is in trouble.

I’m not going back to sleep, that’s for sure.

‘Mama,’ a Psychological Horror Novel, Chapter Two

And now that we’ve arrived in my apartment, I’ll take you over to Mama’s bedroom, where I’ll show you the proof that she was evil and, therefore, I had to kill her. Just step this way and follow me.

Here, her room. It looks pretty ordinary, doesn’t it? With all the usual things: her bed, her dresser, her closet, etc., nothing out of the ordinary, right? Well, let me show you something in one of her dresser drawers that will make your hair stand on end!

I’ll just open this drawer, and…here it is, this book. Look at the title: Bewitching Smells…er, Spells. Let me open it up and flip through the pages, so you can get a full idea.

Check out all these herbs she uses to make magic spells: lavender, rosemary, basil, thyme, sage, etc. I’ll flip past these pages and show you some more interesting, incriminating stuff…

Here, look at all these pictures of bottles of potions. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think they were bottles of perfume or something, but I know! They’re all phials of magic potions she’d been using on me and on anyone else she wanted to control!

Anyway, we can look at that later. I’ll just put it back in the drawer for now. Now–you, the man I see in the mirror of Mama’s dresser drawer, my superego, my conscience, as it were–come with me into the living room, and there I’ll tell you the whole story: how I found out she was a witch, how I plotted to kill her using a little magic of my own, and how she actually died at my hands. Let’s go.

Yes, let’s sit on either side of the living room TV, you on the sofa under the mirror where I can see you, and me in the big, comfy chair. It all started with this TV, where I was just starting to watch a horror movie on Netflix. I’d never seen any of the Friday the 13th movies, not being interested in any of them, but nothing else was on that night.

Mama was going to bed. “You keep the volume down, Roger,” she told me as she was going into her room. “I have to get up early tomorrow to do some work at the pet store.”

“OK, Mama,” I said as the movie began. There was this strange sound I’d hear from time to time in the movie: “Ch-ch-ch-ch…ha-ha-ha-ha…”

Several more minutes into the film, I heard her call to me from her bedroom: “Roger?”

I paused the film. “What is it, Mama?”

“I left my pillow on the sofa,” she said. “You know, my little pink one. Bring it in here for me, would you?”

“Yes, Mama,” I said, then took it into her room. I’d left the door wide open as I handed it to her. I looked over at the top of her dresser, where the book was sitting, all white and innocent-looking, except for its title, which I barely made out in the dim light coming from the living room: Bewitching Spells.

I shuddered as I stared at it, frozen in my tracks for several seconds.

“Roger?” she said, waking me out of my daze. “You can go now. I’d like to get some sleep, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, yeah, uh…sorry, Mama,” I said, then went out of her room and closed the door. I went back to the TV and unpaused it. I no longer paid any attention to the movie, though I sat on the sofa in a trance, staring at the screen. I kept hearing an echoey, reverberating whisper: “Kill…Mama…”

That night happened a couple of months ago, and I kept hearing that whispering in my head, over and over again, in the days and weeks that followed: “Kill…Mama…” I also kept the vision in my mind’s eye of that white book cover, with that disturbing title: Bewitching Spells.

The day after that night–always hearing “Kill…Mama…” in my mind’s ear, again and again, at least once every two minutes, and often far more frequently than that–I waited for her to leave the apartment for the pet food store. As soon as she was gone, I went right into her room to look at that book again.

Now it was in her dresser drawer, the same one you and I just saw it in. I’m sure she was trying to hide it from me, though hiding it had slipped her mind on the night that I first saw it, surely.

Though I flipped through the pages and saw all the pictures of the herbs and phials of magic potions, as you and I just saw, I was careful not only to keep the book in its drawn-out drawer, but also to keep it in the exact same position in the drawer, so she wouldn’t suspect I’d found it and learned of her schemes. Indeed, apart from opening the book and flipping through the pages, I didn’t move the book one millimetre from where she’d left it.

Yet as I flipped through the pages and had my worst fears about Mama confirmed, I felt a tear or two run down my cheeks. Apart from the sheer terror I felt knowing what power she’d had over me, the power she’d always had, I also felt the most stinging betrayal. How could she have done this to me? I’m her son! She was supposed to love me, not hex me! What had I done to deserve such an evil mother?

Memories of my relationship with her flashed before me: all those times she’d bullied me, told me what to do in her growling voice, showed me no pity or compassion whenever I’d been hurt as a child, all of those things now took on a new meaning for me, a meaning that gave no comfort, but a meaning that at least made some sense of all of my life’s suffering. It had all been her fault!

The most significant of all of these memories, starting from my early childhood, was how I’d always felt incapable of fighting back. Oh, I had the rage inside me to fight, I oh, so wanted to, but somehow I couldn’t. It was something deeper, more fundamental, than mere cowardice…it was like a mental block, like Alex DeLarge and the Ludovico Technique used on him to stop him from committing crimes.

Now I knew what the cause had always been for my consistent inability to stand up for myself. It was her magic spells, all used to control me! That’s why not only could I never stand up to her, but I also could never stick up for myself against all the bullies at school, in the neighbourhood, even against little kids! Yes, I was that pathetic, but in my defence, Mama had been jinxing me the whole time!

Knowing my own mother had always wanted me to be weak and cowed, this hurt more than anything else ever had in my whole life. Her magic had done nothing less than ruin my whole life. By the end of this meditation, with her book open in that drawer in front of me, I was sobbing. Fortunately, none of my tears dropped on the pages, so Mama wouldn’t know I’d been looking at them.

I closed the book and the drawer, then I went out of her room, wiping my tears off my face. I kept hearing that reverberating whispering: “Kill…Mama…”

I’m sure that at least a large portion, if not almost all, of my hallucinating–visual and auditory, for the most part–has been the result of her spells. It was part of her scheme to control me, to make me doubt my senses and feel that I needed her total guidance in life.

My hallucinations cannot, however, have all been directly caused by her magic. That voice I kept hearing, the one that whispered, “Kill…Mama…”, couldn’t have been caused by her spells. Why would she have wanted me to kill her? She never showed any suicidal tendencies, and even if she’d secretly wanted to die, she could have simply killed herself–why involve me in it?

No, that voice telling me to kill her must have come from another source. Since she was surely using her magic to control other people, as well as me, there must be spirits out there, agents of good, that recognized her evil and wanted me to be their agent of justice, of retribution.

For though her spells weren’t the source of every single voice I’ve heard in my head, her spells surely altered my brain to the point where I’ve been creating my own hallucinations, my mind altering the things I see and hear to serve some kind of purpose that I’m not consciously aware of. I had to remove her from my life in the hopes that her spells might wear off soon after, and I will then be free to live a normal, happy life, at last!

Hey…wait a minute. Who is that? Just a sec. I wanna look out the window, and see who that is. Hey, that’s that man at the funeral, the one my aunt tried to introduce me to. What’s he doing there, standing across the street and looking up at my window? What does he want? He doesn’t still think he’s my father, does he? What a creep! I’ll give him the finger: there, that should get rid of him…good. He saw it, and he’s going away.

Alright, back to the comfy chair, and back to my story. Now, to kill her, I knew I had to be really careful, ’cause with her skill at using magic, she’d probably see me coming from a mile away; so I knew that using any spells from her book would be a no-go from the start. I’d have to get a magic book of my own. I wouldn’t even bring the book into the apartment, nor would I research anything online at my laptop here. I’d go to the library on the other side of town, take notes there, and proceed accordingly.

In the library, I found a book on how to make a voodoo doll. I knitted it up at home, telling Mama that it would be a gift for her great niece, my aunt’s granddaughter, five-year-old Emma. I did a convincing acting job, even if I say so myself, telling Mama the lie with a perfectly calm voice and face. She was surprised at my generosity: her only doubt was that I had any inkling towards doing something nice for anyone, let alone sweet little Emma, whom I sincerely adore. This was the kind of hurtful attitude I’d always resented in Mama.

Nonetheless, she never indicated any suspicions in what I’d been planning. I kept at work knitting up that doll, privately amused that she was seeing me there creating the instrument of her imminent death, and not knowing of that at all. Of course, as I was knitting away, I was careful never to think about the doll as anything other than a gift for Emma–just in case Mama’s magic gave her the ability to read my mind!

A month later, the doll was finished. It took so long because I have no skill whatsoever at knitting, of course. Mama laughed at me for the many mistakes I made, taunting me that I should have just given up. Those mistakes forced me to start all over again, many times–it was so frustrating, but I was determined to kill her. Her taunts only hardened me in my resolution.

I didn’t want Mama to see it during the final stages of knitting, because I’d managed to make it look like her, so that she’d, naturally, get suspicious. So during the final stages, I worked in my bedroom with the door locked, or when she was out.

According to the book I’d found in the library, I had to do some magical incantations in a ritual to ensure that the doll would be linked to her. I’d also used yarn and knitting needles she had handled, as well as material from an old shirt she used to wear, but which I’d rescued from the garbage just in time.

I did the ritual in my bedroom at night, with my door locked. I was taking an enormous risk, since she might have sensed, through her own magical powers, what I was doing; but I had no other choice than to do it there, for where else could I have done a magical ritual without anyone interfering?

I did the ritual with the lights off, and a circle of glowing candles surrounding me. I’d bought a black mat with a giant white pentacle on it. I played a recording of soft chanting on my laptop. Mama was already in bed, so I figured she wouldn’t notice the sounds.

My success at making the doll near her, without her suspecting anything, encouraged me to keep going, and to take the chance of doing the ritual there at home. Perhaps her powers were weakening with the onset of old age–who knows?

I stared at the eyes of the doll, visualizing that it was my real mother sitting across from me on that pentacle mat. I kept hearing “Kill…Mama…” over and over again; I softly whispered it, too, in time with the chanting as it reverberated in my ears.

I remembered, shortly before the night I’d watched Friday the 13th, that Mama had begun clutching at her chest and complaining of pains there. I understand that such pain is how heart attacks start to happen. So during my ritual, I visualized those pains getting worse, leading towards heart attacks.

I kept whispering “Kill…Mama…” while holding little pins I would soon stab into the chest of the doll; as I did these things, I’d visualize Mama having heart attacks.

I continued with the ritual, repeating the same actions for another twenty minutes, according to the instructions of the book. I never stuck a pin in the doll that night, for according to the book, you can’t do that until the effects of the completed ritual have fanned out and permeated the whole area, a process that would take the rest of the night. This was another reason I had to do the ritual near her: to ensure the spell would contact her and her energy as soon as possible.

The next morning was when I could finally put the magic to the test. I heard her moving around outside my bedroom: she was probably going to the kitchen. I was holding the doll in one hand, and a pin in the other.

I heard a familiar groan of pain from her; I imagined she was grabbing at her chest again. This seemed like a good cue to stab the pin in the doll’s chest…so I did.

Now I heard a huge roar of pain from her. A dish smashed on the kitchen floor: she’d obviously dropped it. I grinned. My doll worked!

Though I left the pin in the doll’s chest, I wouldn’t stick another one in for a few days. I wanted Mama’s death to be gradual, not suspiciously sudden. I also wanted her to suffer before she died.

Because I’d left the pin in the doll’s chest, I saw Mama going about her day frequently clutching at her chest and moaning in pain. She went to a doctor after three days of that pin in the doll; he just gave her pills.

Back at home, I stuck another pin in the doll’s chest.

In my bedroom, I heard her wail in pain in the kitchen, and this was just after she’d taken one of her pills. My grin grew wider.

Over the next few days, she took more of the pills, going from one at a time to two, then three, despite the doctor insisting she take only one at a time.

The following week, I stuck in a third pin.

She bellowed and fell to the living room floor with a thud.

I called an ambulance, and she was taken to the hospital. I let her rest there for several days, making visits, too, of course, and acting all concerned for her welfare. I think my acting job was convincing.

All the medication they were giving her had managed to cancel out the pain my pins in my doll were giving her. About a week later, she was released, and I took her back home.

The day after that, I stuck a fourth pin in the doll. She fell down dead.

The funeral happened a week after that.

…and here we are now.

Analysis of ‘Videodrome’

Videodrome is a 1983 science fiction/body horror film written and directed by David Cronenberg (who just two years earlier wrote and directed Scanners). It stars James Woods, Debbie Harry of Blondie, and Sonja Smits; it costars Peter Dvorsky, Les Carlson (who also played a man tracing telephone calls from the killer in Black Christmas), and Jack Creley (whom we may recall as the teacher from that old Glosettes TV ad from two years before this film).

Videodrome was Canadian Cronenberg’s first film to get backing from a major Hollywood studio. Though it had the highest budget of any of his films at the time, it was a box office bomb. It did, however, receive praise for its special makeup effects, for Cronenberg’s direction, and for the performances of Woods and Harry. It’s now a cult classic, and is regarded as one of Cronenberg’s best films.

Here is a link to quotes from the film.

Since Videodrome (“video arena,” or “video circus”) is about a broadcast signal, “Videodrome,” showing snuff films, a signal that lures its viewers into a hallucinatory world of mind control and paranoia that ultimately kills them, the film can be seen as an allegory of how the media in general is used to manipulate us, the people, into believing anything the media’s corporate owners want us to believe, and to act on those beliefs, no matter how harmful they may be. Such manipulation includes manufacturing consent for wars, which can be seen as symbolized by the violence of the snuff films seen in the movie.

What’s so alluring about Videodrome is precisely this video aspect, for the TV screen can be seen as a metaphorical mirror reflection of the viewer, analogous to the mirroring back and forth between one person and another to whom he or she may be talking at one time. We see an example of such an analogy at the beginning of the film, when Bridey James (played by Julie Khaner) wakes up her boss, Max Renn (Woods) through the use of a TV to remind him of a meeting he is to have that very day with Japanese pornographers about a film to be shown on his Toronto UHF TV station, CIVIC TV, which specializes in showing extreme erotic content.

Her talking to him on a TV screen, rousing him from his sleep is meant to look almost like one side of a conversation. As Professor O’Blivion (Creley) will tell us later, “The television screen has become the retina of the mind’s eye.” Seeing Bridey on the screen is like seeing her eye to eye; the worlds of fantasy and reality are blurred and fusing.

If looking at someone on a TV is hardly to be distinguished from looking at someone in real life, in front of oneself, then we can extend this idea to what I’ve discussed before of the dialectical relationship between the self and the other, of how there’s a bit of the self in the other, and vice versa. One could relate this idea to how Ian Anderson once introduced the Jethro Tull song, “The Minstrel in the Gallery,” as being about the performer not just being watched in his performance, but also him watching the ‘performance’ of his audience, for “he saw his face in everyone” after “he threw away his looking glass.” As I said above, the TV in Videodrome is a metaphorical mirror, or looking glass, in which the viewer sees his face in everyone on the screen, and narcissistically identifies with each of them.

The point is that Max projects his own unconscious desires onto the screen when he watches Videodrome, and the violence of his resulting hallucinations is a reflection of what’s inside of him. Then Videodrome in turn projects its violence back onto him, making him consciously act out his unconscious violent urges.

He watches the TV…and the TV watches him, so to speak, at least in his hallucinations. There are, or seem to be, two-way conversations going on between him and whoever is on the TV screen. This sense becomes more explicit when Max sees the Marshall McLuhan-like O’Blivion address him on the video he watches, the video when we see O’Blivion killed.

One establishes one’s sense of ego, as a distinct self, by seeing oneself for the first time as an infant in front of a mirror. One sees oneself, but the self is ‘over there,’ as if another person. One establishes oneself, yet is alienated from that self, hence conversely, there’s the sense of the self in the other, and vice versa.

Metaphorical mirrors exist in people we face in two-way, dyadic relationships, as with the infant held by his mother, them looking into each other’s eyes. An analogous two-way relationship is felt between the viewer and the person being viewed on TV.

When the media successfully manipulates our emotions, making us feel what its corporate owners want us to feel, this manipulation is the TV watching us back, like those two-way telescreens in Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four. It’s significant that O’Blivion is meant to represent McLuhan in Videodrome, for recall what McLuhan said about the modern media: “The medium is the message,” or “the massage,” or the “mass age,” or the “mess age”; how the message is presented is, if anything, more important than its content.

Yes, the medium also massages us–that is, how the content is presented, in the case of Videodrome, via TV videotapes, is a visual form that charms us as a mother does her baby, she being one of those metaphorical mirrors; and through this charming, this massaging, the media gets us to do its bidding. It is the mass age because we’re in an age in which the media does this charming and manipulating of the world’s masses, interconnecting us all to the point of creating a global village. The medium is also, by making a mess of our age, a mess age.

Such manipulating is why some are concerned about CIVIC TV. Max appears on a TV show to defend his channel by rationalizing that, by giving his viewers an outlet to release their dark fantasies onto, they won’t feel the need to vent them on non-consenting people in real life. It is at this TV show where he meets Nicki Brand (Harry), and he immediately finds her attractive in that red dress.

That the two quickly begin a sexual relationship, all while Max has been watching his first samples of Videodrome, is significant, for she in her seductive beauty personifies the allure of Videodrome. The show presents plotless, realistic scenes of sadism, while Nicki is a masochist, enjoying being pricked with pins and burned with cigarettes.

That a masochist should personify a show featuring sadism, the dialectical opposite of her desires, is reconciled with a quote from Freud: “A sadist is always at the same time a masochist.”

Nicki is so taken with Videodrome that she decides to go and “audition” for the show. That she so quickly becomes part of Max’s hallucinations on his TV screen shows us how much she is, and has always been, at one with Videodrome.

Another character, one closely associated with Nicki as I’ll point out soon, is Masha (played by Lynne Gorman). She, in about her mid-fifties, is old enough to be 34-year-old Max’s mother (“Masha” could be heard as a pun on “Mama”), which is significant, because he occasionally flirts with her, indicating a transference of the Oedipus complex.

That Masha is associated with Nicki is made clear in the scene when Max hallucinates first whipping tied-up Nicki, who masochistically enjoys it, then realizes he’s whipping Masha, tied up and in Nicki’s place, even wearing red, as Nicki was. Max wakes up and hallucinates seeing Masha lying next to him in bed, still tied up and gagged, and dead from the beating; this indicates further his Oedipal transference onto her, as well as her association with Nicki (i.e., her involvement in the erotic fantasy).

If ‘Mama’ Masha is associated with Nicki, then Nicki is also a kind of displaced Oedipal transference, which can be seen in the earlier scene when Max hallucinates seeing her on his TV screen, and she says to him, “Come to Nicki,” which almost sounds like, “Come to Mommy.”

Therefore, Masha represents his good mother, and Nicki represents his bad mother, to use concepts from Melanie Klein. Masha is the good one because, apart from submitting ‘nice’ porn to CIVIC TV, she also warns him against looking further into Videodrome. Nicki is the bad mother because, of course, she lures him more and more into Videodrome.

This splitting of Max’s mother transferences into good and bad objects reflects what Klein called the paranoid-schizoid position: paranoid because of his fear of the bad internal object possibly persecuting him (which Nicki does, of course); and schizoid because of the splitting of his world into absolute good and bad, black and white. Trying to reject the bad, through projection, will result in bizarre objects, Wilfred Bion‘s term for hallucinated projections of the bad objects. Such projective identification is why Max is hallucinating.

One crucial thing to understand about his Oedipal transferences is that they are narcissistic in origin. Seeing that mirrored other face in front of oneself, be it the mother’s, a maternal transference, or a face on the TV screen, is a participating in a dyadic relationship with the other (only one other person), as opposed to Lacan‘s Other, meaning the many other people of society in general. The one other is a mirrored reflection, or an extension, of the narcissistic self, and that other is selfishly hogged, never to be shared with other people.

In his being sucked further and further into the dangerous world of Videodrome, Max is isolating himself and regressing to an infantile state where fantasy and reality have a blurred boundary. The removal of the societal Other, as represented by a father figure (here in turn represented by O’Blivion, whom we see killed, reduced to oblivion, on the videotape), is what Lacan called foreclosure, which leads to psychosis, Max’s break with reality, leading to more hallucinations and more delusions.

The media’s manipulation of us, beguiling us with those seductive images on the TV screen (or, in today’s world, our computer screens or smartphone screens; and incidentally, McLuhan predicted the internet) and twisting our minds with propaganda, is doing basically the same thing to us as Videodrome is doing to Max. In mindlessly supporting imperialist war after imperialist war, we’ve become as narcissistic, violent, delusional, and paranoid/schizoid as he is.

Max asks Masha to find out more about Videodrome for him, and as I said above, she tries to warn him to stay away from it. She insists that these snuff films show real murders, not faked ones. Of course, any producer of snuff films, in his right mind, would never risk being charged with murder when he could just fake the killings, as is done in mainstream films. Videodrome, however, doesn’t fake the killings because, as Masha tells Max, it has a philosophy.

When Max asks for a name behind this philosophy, she tells him that it’s Professor Brian O’Blivion. I would say, however, that the name behind this philosophy is that of the Marquis de Sade, who in his erotic writings merged pornography with philosophy, anti-religion, a glorification of cruelty and crime, and an ironic commentary on the oppressive power structures of our world–the Church, the state, and class antagonisms.

Right after learning about O’Blivion, Max goes to find him, and it’s significant that the building he goes to is a place where the homeless are made to watch marathon sessions of TV. Here we see a parallel of the relationship this film makes between sex and violence: the pleasure of watching TV, of being seduced by images on the screen and being put in that infantile, dyadic, almost Oedipal relationship, is associated with the structural violence of being reduced to poverty.

The rich and powerful, like Sade’s wealthy characters, his politically influential sex criminals, are torturing and killing the weak and poor. The people behind Videodrome represent these powerful people, at least the corporate media faction, indulging in transgressive, pleasure/pain jouissance and getting the surplus value of what Lacan called plus-de-jouir. Sadomasochism in the film represents the pleasure the ruling class gets from oppressing the working class.

Just as there are competing capitalist, imperialist interests, so are there competing factions for the control of Videodrome: there’s the agenda of O’Blivion and his daughter, Bianca (Smits), and there’s the agenda of Barry Convex (Carlson) of the Spectacular Optics Corporation, and of Harlan (Dvorsky), the operator of the CIVIC TV satellite dish who, though feigning subservience to Max, his “patrón,” nonetheless has lured his boss into his obsession with Videodrome by getting him to watch a broadcast of it at the beginning of the film.

Before meeting with Convex, Max has had a particularly disturbing hallucination in which he sees a yonic slit appear on his belly. He has a handgun with obvious phallic symbolism, for he puts it in the slit, along with his fist. This scene reinforces the thematic link of sex and violence in the film. It also suggests an internalizing of the combined parent figure, an infantile phantasy based on a child’s witnessing of the primal scene, of his parents having sex, which looks painful to the child and arouses Oedipal jealousy, a feeling of being left out.

Connected with this unconscious phantasy (recall Max’s maternal transferences onto Masha and Nicki) is his feeling of lack, as symbolized by that yonic slit, in turn a symbolic wound from castration. A lack of being able to be, or to have, the phallus for the mother (Masha or Nicki) gives rise to desire, which is the desire of the Other, to be what Masha or Nicki desires, these two being manifestations of Max’s objet petit a.

Consider in this connection a scene not filmed, but in the novelization by “Jack Martin,” pseudonym of Dennis Etchison, in which Max sees a TV rise out of his bathtub like Botticelli‘s Birth of Venus. If you recall the myth behind the painting, Venus, or Aphrodite, appeared from the foam after Uranus‘ severed genitals were thrown into the sea. As I discussed in this post, the castration of Uranus leading to the birth of Venus can be allegorized as Lacan’s notion of lack giving rise to desire.

Max’s desire, fueling his growing obsession with Videodrome, puts him in such a vulnerable state that he can now be easily manipulated and exploited by Convex, who comes in right on cue and has Max driven over to a branch of Spectacular Optical, a seller of eyeglasses. Since, as O’Blivion informed us, “the television screen is the retina of the mind’s eye,” then these glasses, through the association of TV with one’s eyes, are a metaphorical television in themselves. And since Convex is Videodrome’s producer, as a member of the eyeglasses company, we see a stronger link between the glasses and TV.

In his self-introduction to Max in the car on the way to the Spectacular Optics branch, which is done fittingly on a small TV screen in the car, Convex explains that the eyeglasses company makes cheap glasses for the Third World, paralleling Bianca’s having homeless people watch TV. Convex’s company also provides missile guidance systems for NATO, so we can see a sinister link between his use of media manipulation via Videodrome, his eyeglasses (as I suspect) controlling and shaping what the poor of the Third World see, and imperialist capitalism.

It is at the back of the eyeglasses store that Convex has Max wear a device on his head to record his hallucinations of whipping Nicki, then seeing himself whip Masha. His inner fantasies of dominance and control, over the two representing his objet petit a, are being manipulated and exploited (and therefore in turn dominated and controlled) by Convex.

When Max later learns of Harlan’s involvement in luring him into Videodrome, and of Harlan’s association with Convex, Harlan tells him of the need for the West to toughen up against its toughening Eastern enemies, who I suspect were the communists. We’ve seen this Western toughening up since the time Videodrome was made, suggesting how prophetic the film was in linking media manipulation of the masses with the neoliberal counterrevolution starting in the 1980s with Reagan and Thatcher.

Another surreal moment comes when Convex puts a videocassette into that slit in Max’s belly. Since, as I said above, that slit is yonic, Convex is putting the cassette in Max against his will, and the insertion is done to control Max, it can be seen as a symbolic rape, another fisting.

Convex wants Max to give CIVIC TV to Videodrome, and to kill his two business partners. Here we have a pun already seen in American Psycho: murders and executions for the sake of mergers and acquisitions. Videodrome is an example of big capitalism swallowing up small capitalism–CIVIC TV. Once again, I must give that quote from Marx: “One capitalist always strikes down many others.” (Marx, page 929)

Max holds his handgun, which merges with his body and becomes an extension of his fist, a phallic fist, like those hands that put organic videocassettes into his vaginal belly.

He does as commanded. He goes into the CIVIC TV building and finds his two business partners, Raphael (played by David Bolt) and Moses (played by Reiner Schwarz; since Videodrome was filmed and set in Toronto, I wonder if this second business partner was named after Moses Znaimer, head of Citytv at the time). Max kills both of them, then flees the building, having pretended also to be wounded and therefore supposedly not guilty of the attack.

Here we see Max no longer just unconsciously getting his kicks from snuff films. And no longer is he just being manipulated by and hooked on Videodrome, as if it were a drug. Now he is an assassin for Convex. Just like those of us who start off enjoying transgressive, taboo pleasures (jouissance) brought about by Lacan’s lack and a narcissistic wish to be mirrored by a mother substitute (objet petit a), then are manipulated by the media to channel our aggressive, violent urges on specific, political targets, so is Max being used to wipe out Videodrome’s enemies.

Next, he is to find Bianca and kill her. She, however, has been expecting him, and she shows him a video recording of Nicki being murdered by the people in Videodrome, Bianca’s purpose being to sway Max over to the O’Blivion side. (But has Nicki really been killed, or is the recording yet another of Max’s hallucinations, an attempt to manipulate him into working for Bianca? Indeed, for that matter, was even her father really killed, or was his assassination, apparently done by Nicki, yet another hallucination?)

In any case, just as the killing of Professor O’Blivion represents the Oedipal wish to annihilate the father figure so as to have the mother transference (Masha/Nicki), so is the killing of mother figure Nicki a reflection of an unconscious Electra complex in Bianca (her “father’s screen”), a wish to protect her father…or at least to protect his legacy. With Max under her control now, him having seen a hand/pistol emerge from a TV, and having been shot by it (projective identification from the TV back to him, and we furthermore see bullet wounds in the ‘chest’ of the TV screen, indicating once again the mirrored, two-way relationship of the viewer and his TV), he is now to destroy Videodrome.

He recovers from being shot like a resurrected Christ, the bullet wounds being his stigmata. Accordingly, he is now “the video word made flesh,” and so, “Death to Videodrome! Long live the new flesh!” As a brainwashed, quasi-religious zealot for the manipulative media, narcissistically flattered to be associated with Christ, he will go off to kill Harlan and Convex.

His switching to the O’Blivion side mustn’t be seen as him being any better than before. The Videodrome/O’Blivion conflict is just symbolic of controlled opposition, as far as it represents media manipulation of the public. The two sides just represent competing capitalists.

Harlan puts another videotape–this time, a surreal, fleshly one–into that vaginal slit in Max’s belly; but now that Max is working for Bianca, the symbolic wound of castration that that slit has been is now a kind of castrating vagina dentata that closes up on Harlan’s hand, his fisting, symbolic phallus, and bites it off, leaving the remainder of his arm vaguely resembling a mixer’s beater. Max has gone from feeling powerless, like a eunuch, to powerful. His Lacanian lack feels fulfilled.

After killing Harlan, Max finds Convex at a Spectacular Optics convention on the theme of Lorenzo de’ Medici, to whom the following two quotes are (erroneously) attributed: “Love comes in at the eye” (actually from WB Yeats‘s poem, “A Drinking Song“), and “The eye is the window of the soul” (not definitively attributable to any one source).

Apart from being, as it seems, a mere error on Cronenberg’s (or Convex’s) part, could there be any deeper meaning behind associating these quotes with the Italian Renaissance statesman, banker, and patron of the arts? Perhaps the point of linking Lorenzo de’ Medici to Videodrome is to say that he was, on the one hand, the McLuhan/O’Blivion of his day, and the art of men like Botticelli and Michelangelo (whom he sponsored) was the TV of the time; and on the other hand, his political power was like that of Convex, Bianca, et al.

In any case, Nicki’s love surely has gone into Max’s eye, which is the window of the soul that he’s lost to Videodrome.

We see Convex come on a stage after a dance performance, and he says to the audience, “Well, you know me, and I sure know you.” We also hear a member of the audience say, “Yeah, we know you.” This exchange reinforces the theme I discussed earlier of the reciprocity between performer (e.g., Jethro Tull), or person on TV, and audience, or TV viewer.

With his hand-flesh-gun, Max shoots Convex, who falls to the stage floor with his body tearing to pieces in a manner reminding us a bit of the climactic scene in The Evil Dead. This over-the-top death is explained in the novelization as being the result of Max not shooting Convex with normal bullets, but rather with “new flesh” ones.

Max’s ever-increasing madness is, of course, resulting in his ever-increasing isolation. He escapes to a derelict boat in the Port Lands. He has a hallucination of Nicki on a television set there. Recall how I’ve characterized that mirror-like reciprocity between TV image and viewer as a narcissistic one, how the ego is established in what Lacan called the Imaginary. Alongside this experience has been Max’s traumatizing, maddening experience of the Real, these surreal, hallucinatory states that cannot be symbolized through language (how the novelization managed such verbalizing is anyone’s guess); in other words, the psychologically therapeutic realm of the Symbolic is absent here. Max can only get madder and madder; he cannot return to the social world.

Accordingly, Nicki tells him that he must “leave the old flesh” to destroy Videodrome once and for all. This means he has to kill himself. In his narcissistic imagination, Max thinks that doing so will raise him up to a higher level of existence (“the new flesh”), rather like Christ’s death and resurrection giving Him a ‘spiritual body.’ Since Max, in his insanity brought on by media manipulation, is bordering on psychological fragmentation, such narcissistic imaginings can feel like a shield against said fragmentation.

He sees himself on the TV screen putting a bullet in his head, then he immediately does the same to himself. He and the TV are one, a mirror of each other, because the media, in controlling him, have made him destroy himself…just as today’s media, in manufacturing our consent for war with Russia and China, are making us all destroy ourselves through escalation and raising the threat of nuclear war.

Like Max Renn, we are all mesmerized by the images we see on our screens, be they TV, tablet, computer, or smartphone. Neoliberalism has caused us to feel a particularly gaping lack, a hole in our lives like that slit in Max’s gut. We’ve been propagandized to see things in a split-up, black and white world, with ourselves narcissistically as the white, Christ-like good, and other nations as the black, absolutely evil enemy. Political parties, like Videodrome vs. O’Blivion, pretend to be at odds with each other, when actually they push for essentially the same agenda. And we are driven to support aggressive, violent policies that could end up killing us all, like Max the flesh-gunned assassin.

Media manipulation is making us see a world so divorced from reality, so distorted a version of the truth, so surreal, that we could be understood to be hallucinating. If we’re not careful, we’re all going to “leave the old flesh.”

Analysis of ‘Trilogy of Terror’

Trilogy of Terror is a 1975 made-for-TV horror anthology film directed by Dan Curtis. It features three segments based on unrelated short stories by Richard Matheson; the first two segments were adapted by William F. Nolan, while the third–and by far, the best–was adapted by Matheson himself, based on his 1969 short story, “Prey.”

All three segments star Karen Black in the roles of “Julie,” “Millicent and Therese,” and “Amelia,” which are also the names of the segments, since each story, as I’ll argue below, is really about the inner mental life of each character Black plays here. “Julie” costars Robert Burton, Black’s husband at the time. “Millicent and Therese” costars George Gaynes. “Amelia” is essentially a one-woman-play, with only Black and Walker Edmiston doing the voice of the Zuni doll.

Here is a link to a few quotes from the film.

The essential reason to watch, or own a DVD of, Trilogy of Terror is to watch “Amelia,” the excellent third segment, as the first two are rather mediocre stories. It’s never properly explained how Julie lures Chad Foster (Burton) into a brief sexual relationship before poisoning him: is she a witch, or some kind of succubus? And how come her sister (played by Kathryn Reynolds) never even suspects Julie of any kind of wrongdoing? That Millicent and Therese are two personalities in one woman’s body is pretty easy to predict–we never see the two together in the same scene.

It is, however, worthwhile to examine all three stories in terms of their common themes and elements, in order to grasp a deeper meaning in the superb and genuinely scary “Amelia.” All three stories are psychological studies of their titular characters, emotionally repressed women who are rigid, prudish, or otherwise neurotic on the outside, but who each have a hidden, inner dark side that is finally revealed at the end of each story.

These dark sides, or what Jung called the Shadow, are kept from the titular characters’ conscious minds (until the end of each story) through the use of a number of ego defence mechanisms: repression, projection (including projective identification), splitting, denial, and reaction formation. A merging with this repressed, projected, or split-off Shadow occurs at the conclusion of each story.

The sexual predator in Julie is projected (through projective identification) onto her young and handsome American literature student, Chad; the stereotypically male sexual predator becomes the victim of the erstwhile stereotypically female victim of sexual predation, thus reversing the stereotypes. He as a predator parallels the aggression of the Zuni fetish doll against Amelia.

Therese’s seduction of her father (or was it his seduction of her, as repressed by prudish Millicent?), of Thomas Anmar (played by John Karlen), and attempted seduction of Dr. Chester Ramsey (Gaynes) are all instances of Therese as a sexual predator. The Zuni fetish doll, with its phallic spear, and later, the phallic little knife, is symbolically predatory in a sexual sense.

Julie splits off her Shadow side onto Chad. Millicent splits off her Shadow side onto her “sister,” Therese. Amelia splits off hers onto the Zuni fetish doll, making it into what Wilfred R. Bion would have called a bizarre object, a hallucinatory projection of Amelia’s unconscious matricidal instincts.

All three stories involve some kind of strained family relations, the all-too-typical causes of mental disturbances. Julie’s sister, perpetually kept in the dark about Julie’s private life, just wants to help her, but doesn’t even know the half of the problem.

Was Therese’s incest with her father an expression of the Electra complex, including her killing of her mother; or was it (as I see as a possibility) that her father raped her, causing her to split into two personalities, and did her mother, knowing of the rape, kill herself in heartbreak?

Amelia’s mother places great restrictions on her social life, driving her to move out for the sake of at least some independence. The man she’s dating is named Arthur, which sounds like a pun on father and thus symbolically suggests, through transference, more of the Electra complex (which is further intensified by her plan to kill her mother at the end of the story), thus thematically linking this story to that of “Millicent and Therese.”

Along with this literal expression of the Electra complex in “Millicent and Therese,” and the metaphorical one (as I see it) in “Amelia,” there’s also–in how possibly forty-something Julie could be old enough to be the mother of her handsome young male students–a possible mother/son transference in her relationship with them, suggesting a Jocasta complex in her. We thus can see a thematic link among all three stories.

Amelia attempts to kill the Shadow in herself by stabbing the Zuni fetish doll; Millicent kills Therese (and herself, of course) by pricking a voodoo doll with a pin. Chad drugs Julie’s drink at the drive-in; Julie later poisons his drink.

Julie, in behaving so frigidly and unsociably, is engaging in reaction formation to hide her predatory interest in her handsome young male students. Millicent’s prudery is a similar reaction formation hiding how she, being in the same body as Therese, has the same sexual desires. In being so intimidated by her domineering, clingy mother, Amelia is using reaction formation to hide her wish to kill her mother and thus free herself from her.

Each of Black’s characters, in a symbolic or literal sense, merges with her Shadow at the end of each segment. Julie, in drugging Chad’s drink as he’d drugged hers, has merged with him (through their sexual relationship), her projected Shadow. Millicent pricks the voodoo doll representing Therese (since it’s she who wants to kill Therese, not vice versa), but has done so in Therese’s blonde wig, makeup, and clothes; in other words, both personalities had to have been present at the time of the killing, both of them sharing consciousness, or both “on the spot,” to borrow an expression from Billy Milligan, a merging of them in suicide. Amelia opens the oven in which the Zuni doll is burning, and its spirit enters her body, the resulting demonic possession being a symbolic merging of her with her Shadow.

Let’s now turn the discussion towards sharp teeth. There are the fangs in the vampire movie that Chad takes Julie to see. After he drugs her drink and she falls asleep in his car, he takes her to a motel, where he checks himself and her in as Mr. and Mrs., get this…Jonathan Harker, an allusion to the character in Bram Stoker‘s Dracula; Harker at one point is terrorized by Dracula’s vampiress brides, suggesting already that Chad is being used by Julie, not vice versa.

Then there are the sharp teeth on Amelia’s Zuni fetish doll, teeth that end up in her mouth at the end of the story. As with the drug or poison put in, respectively, Julie’s and Chad’s drinks, the biting teeth are symbols of projective and introjective identification, understood especially in the context of Bion’s notion of container and contained…that is, not the kind that mothers use to soothe their agitated babies, but rather negative containment, which leads to a nameless dread (see Bion, Chapter 28; for more on Bion and other psychoanalytic concepts, go here).

Bion used masculine and feminine symbols to represent, respectively, the contained and the container, suggesting phallic and yonic symbolism. In turn, the sharp teeth, like the spear and little knife the Zuni doll uses, are phallic (also like the vampire’s fangs), and the bite and stab wounds are yonic. In this negative containment, trauma (as opposed to the processing of pain that a mother does for her baby) is projected from the attacker and introjected into the victim.

The pricking of the pin into the voodoo doll representing Therese, as well as Amelia’s stabbing in the Zuni doll’s face as it tries to get out of the suitcase she’s trapped it in, are also symbolic examples of this projection and introjection.

With all these points of thematic comparison and contrast made, we can now focus on the deeper psychoanalytic meaning of the best segment, “Amelia.” As I said above, it’s fitting that these stories are all named after the women Black plays in each of them, because the real theatre of these stories dramatize what’s going on in the heads of these three mentally ill characters. That “Amelia” is more or less a solo performance emphasizes that we’re dealing with a drama happening entirely inside her mind.

I believe the Zuni fetish doll coming to life and attacking her is a hallucination, a projection of her repressed wish to kill her mother, who oppresses her with guilt trips to keep her from living a free life.

She buys the doll knowing about the warning not to remove the chain from it, that its removal will bring it to life. She doesn’t believe such a thing will really happen, of course, but the idea exists in unconscious phantasy for her. She looks at it, saying it’s so ugly that even its mother wouldn’t love it; saying this is a reflection of how the doll is a projection of her own unconscious matricidal urges–no mother, Amelia imagines, would ever love her daughter for having such feelings.

After arguing with her mother on the phone in the living room over whether they can cancel one night together (a regular Friday night get-together she and her mother always have) so Amelia can spend it with her boyfriend on his birthday, she–oppressed with guilt from her mother’s manipulations–brings up the doll, telling her mom of how it will supposedly come to life with the removal of the chain. Her bringing up of this is a wish-fulfillment and an implied warning to her mother, who, significantly, hangs up at just that moment.

Amelia then holds the doll, and she seems to have touched the chain at least a little. She sets it on the table and walks away. As we know, the chain falls off the doll’s waist. Now, consciously, she shouldn’t be concerned about this, since she doesn’t believe there really is a spirit inside the doll; but unconsciously, she has a wish that this spirit will come out, with the possibility of it one day attacking and killing her controlling mother. Therefore, Amelia’s fondling of the doll, leading to the chain falling off, is a parapraxis indicating her unconscious matricidal urges.

After being in the kitchen to slice up some meat (with that little knife) and put it in the oven, she returns to the living room to find the doll no longer standing on her coffee table. She looks around, including under the sofa (the obscurity below being symbolic of the unconscious), but can find only the Zuni doll’s spear, the tip of which pricks her finger. Her inability, at this point, to find the doll is representative of her repression of “He Who Kills.”

The living room lamp suddenly switching off represents further repression. Right when she goes to turn it back on is when the doll attacks her, at her foot. This attack represents the return of the repressed, in which the forbidden, repressed feelings return to consciousness, but in a totally unrecognizable form. In Amelia’s case, her matricidal desires have returned to consciousness in the form of a hallucination: the doll trying to kill her, rather than kill her mother.

So on the surface, conscious level, Amelia is terrified of the doll killing her, of course; on the unconscious level, though, she is afraid of what the doll represents–her matricidal Shadow merging with her, a merging caused by all those projective/introjective cuts and bites, the container wounds and the stabbing and biting of the contained.

Her real fear is her wish to kill her mother.

This fear/desire is what makes this third segment so scary.

So her attempts to stop the doll–wrapping it in a towel and drowning it in the bath water, stabbing it in the face, smashing it against a lamp, shutting doors to keep it out, locking it up in a suitcase, and burning it in the oven–are really attempts to prevent it from merging with her.

Now, there’s her wish to prevent the merging, but there’s also the wish for the merging to happen, hence, as I said above, her ‘accidental’ causing of the chain to come off, then her slipping and falling when running away from the doll–which allows it to get to her again–and, when she tries calling the cops, she oddly can’t remember the address of her apartment and thus can’t help the cops find her. This ‘forgetting’ is another parapraxis serving her unconscious wish to merge with her murderous Shadow as personified in the Zuni fetish doll.

Its unintelligible babbling, combined with her screams, is an expression of Lacan‘s notion of the Real, a realm of non-differentiation, of unverbalized trauma.The doll’s possibly killing her is far less horrifying that its merging with her to commit matricide, which–as the psychiatrist said at the end of Psycho–is the most unbearable crime of all. Amelia’s conflict is of the classic id vs. superego kind, or of gratification vs. morality.

As the doll is using the little knife to cut a hole in the suitcase she’s trapped it in, she tries to grab it by the blade with her fingers, a foolish, futile move that only gives her a bloody cut. Again, though, this act reflects her conflict between wanting to disarm the doll and stop its attacks on the one hand, and her unconscious wish to merge with it (i.e., the cut on her finger, the container, from the knife blade, the contained, as an act of projective and introjective identification).

Similarly, after she’s thrown the doll in the oven to burn it (as Julie burned down Chad’s apartment and him in it after poisoning him), she has to open the oven door…consciously, because she needs to make sure it’s ‘dead,’ but unconsciously because she wants to be merged with its spirit, which of course she does.

Now, just as I believe the doll’s coming to life is a hallucination that we, the viewers, share with her, so do I believe her merging with the doll’s spirit at the end, including her razor-toothed grin, is a hallucination, a delusion we viewers share with her. Her unconscious desire to kill her mother was there from the beginning; her belief that the demon in the doll has possessed her has given her a convenient excuse to kill her mother with a clear conscience. After all, it isn’t Amelia who wants to slice her mother up with that large knife she’s poking on the floor…it’s the ‘Zuni demon’ who wants to.

Similarly, Julie entertains the illusion in her mind that Chad is the sexual aggressor while she pretends to be innocent and frigid (her ‘witchcraft’ on him being a metaphorical projection onto him), and Millicent imagines Therese is a sister rather than a split-off personality bearing what’s actually Millicent’s middle name, another act of projection.

In therapy, one sometimes speaks of doing Shadow work, a confronting of and merging with one’s Shadow. Such a merging is not what’s happening here, with these three women Black is playing. Julie, Millicent/Therese, and Amelia split off, project, and repress their respective Shadows with such vehemence that the inevitable merging comes with a violent force that has tragic consequences.

One must assimilate the Shadow, but it must be the conscious personality that integrates the Shadow, not vice versa. Jekyll integrates Hyde, not the other way around. Julie projects Chad (remember that what we see on the screen is a dramatization of her inner thought processes; it’s not to be taken as literally happening), Millicent splits Therese off from her, and Amelia hallucinates the living spirit in the doll. These acts of projection result in Hyde taking over Jekyll.

‘Furies,’ a Horror Novel, Part Six, Chapter 4

Megan and her father, John, as well as Lynne and Herman, stood in a straight line, holding hands, before their own lake of blood. The only one of them not trembling at the thought of feeling the suffering of the other three was John.

You’re not afraid now, Mr. Fourier, Furioso said to him, but you will be…soon.

I only feel hate and anger, John said. Anger towards this unfilial daughter of mine, and hate towards the whole miserable world. I’ll be glad to end my existence. If this is the only way to do that, then so be it.

To end your existence, and to end the pain that you think your hate and anger are shielding you from, you’ll have to let go of those two emotions, Furioso said. When you let that pain hit you, be prepared for a shock. But stay with it, for only staying with it to the end will get you out of Hell.

Very well, John growled. Let’s just do this.

In you all must go, Furioso said.

Megan, Lynne, and Herman shook as they all took deep breaths. John just snarled as he got ready to jump in.

The four ghosts went in with a splash of red spots flying in all directions. They sank deep below the surface, seeing at first only a void of infinite black.

Then the visions of their rapes appeared.

As with the other groups of ghosts, each of the four of them experienced the suffering of each other, not of their own. They felt the phallic invasions of those that they themselves had invaded in their physical lives.

Megan felt a strap-on dildo suddenly jammed into her ass while lying on top of Lynne, who felt Herman vaginally invading her…but not in their bedroom at home. Lynne experienced it in Megan’s body in the changing area of the shower room in the high school gym.

Herman experienced a phallic penetration again, but as with Lynne, it was in the gym changing room. And he felt it in Megan’s body. He saw himself on top of him-as-her.

Oh, no, Lynne and Herman moaned together. Not again! Our crime, back to haunt us!

So, this is what I made them feel, Megan thought as she felt that dildo going in and out of herself. My saner self wouldn’t have wished this on my own worst enemies. Yet my not-so-sane self did wish it on them! Hate and lust for revenge really do take away one’s sanity. I want to heal from the trauma of my rapes, not go through them again!

As Herman felt his own phallus jamming in and out of him, tearing away at Megan’s vagina, he also felt a surprising emotion from Megan’s experience: he felt her crush on him, and her betrayed love.

Oh, my God! he thought as he saw her victimization through her eyes. Megan used to like me? She fancied me? And I did this to her. I let Lynne talk me into doing such a horrible thing to her? Lynne and I should both be ashamed of ourselves, far more than the guilt we’d felt years ago.

I thought I’d paid my dues, Lynne thought as she continued experiencing Megan’s rape with all of her senses. Going to church, being a ‘good Catholic,’ being monogamous with the rapist I’d goaded him into becoming, giving therapy to rape victims, going to confession and telling the priest what I’d conspired to do with Herman…none of that comes close to redeeming myself. No belief in Jesus could ever undo what I did to Megan. Why did I have to be so cruel to that poor girl, she who’d hardly done anything to me? I so deserve this, as awful as it is to have to experience. I’m so sorry, Megan.

I’m sorry, too, Megan, Herman moaned. I repaid your crush on me by being such an animal. I should have gone to jail for what I did to you.

We deserved to experience your revenge, Megan, Lynne said.

No, you didn’t! Megan said. I should have known from my own pain that no one, ever, should be subjected to rape.

The agony of these three, however, was an orgy of delight compared to what John was going through…he who, perhaps, should have been subjected to it.

John found himself in the body of a little girl–twelve-year-old Megan’s. That delicate body being used for the perverted pleasure of…himself.

He could no longer shield himself from her thoughts: Oh, Daddy! You’re hurting me! Why are you doing this to me?

He looked up at himself through her eyes, that sweating and grunting man with the hateful snarl on his face. He saw himself with the eyes of his betrayed daughter. He saw what a foul pig he really was.

He realized that all those bad boys he’d warned Megan about, those boys he’d accused her of yielding her body to…they were all actually projections of himself.

He remembered his constant, unchanging attitude every time he’d done this to his daughter, as well as to all those prostitutes he’d been so rough with at that brothel: They’re all just a bunch of sluts, tempting me to sin. They deserve no kindness for making me sin. The only good in them is the pleasure they give me.

He now felt the worthlessness he’d imposed on his daughter.

The pain he felt between his legs–experiencing it in Megan’s then-small body–the pain of his phallic stabbing, was a minor irritation compared to the torment of looking up at and seeing his ugly face. Now, John was a physically handsome man; but the scowl of hate and contempt on his face as he continued raping her, devoid of pity or remorse, cancelled out his good looks to the point of reversing them to the other extreme, making him as hideous as a Gorgon…yet looking in that face would never give him the mercy of turning him to stone.

If John closed his eyes, he still saw himself.

Now he knew who he really hated.

God, stop this! he screamed inside himself. I can’t bear to see myself this way! I’m a beast! I’m a devil! I’m a monster! I don’t deserve to exist! I don’t want to exist!

But he kept existing in that lake of blood.

He tried to push the pain away, to project it onto Megan, then to Lynne, then to Herman; but it always came back to him. The pain was a ball of fire that flew in a circle among all four of them…and this is when they all realized that their ‘ghost-bodies,’ as it were, had begun merging into one, single, deformed monster of a body. Megan was reminded of the fused body at the end of the Tool video for “Schism.” This body was shaped like a circle-jerk of a donut, with a phallus shoving into each ghost positioned before that phallus.

A donut-monster fucking itself.

All four ghosts were trying to pass the pain on, that fireball, to each other, passing it on in the form of rapes, but it always came back. As their four identities continued fusing, transforming from a ‘donut’ into one giant floating blob in all that blood, they began to see the futility of trying to pass the pain away, to project it. They realized, more and more, that they had to confront it.

Even John did.

I’m sorry, baby, he moaned to Megan. Though saying ‘sorry’ is useless. I was never a real father to you. I should never have even been born. I deserve this punishment…forever.

The fireball stopped flying around in circles. It stopped in the centre of their now fully unified identity, that grotesque ball of pain. The fire settled there, then it grew from the centre slowly, coming closer and closer to the periphery. All four ghosts, as one big ghost now, felt the painful experiences of all four of their lives simultaneously.

Besides experiencing each other’s rapes, they all felt such memories as Megan’s getting green paint all over her blouse, and hearing all the laughter from her classmates. They felt Lynne’s and Herman’s annoyance at getting in trouble with the high school principal for that prank; they also realized that Megan hadn’t wanted to involve the teachers or principal, meaning that getting revenge on her in the changing room was all the more indefensible. They felt John’s annoyance at his wife’s leaving him for another man…and they all knew of John’s shameful visits to that brothel, and how they justified his wife’s leaving him.

Shame, shame, and more shame.

A huge, deafening scream came from that blob as the fire reached its periphery and began boiling the surrounding blood. The scream died out, the blob melted into, and merged with, the boiling blood, and the bloody lake evaporated into a hot, pink mist, which in turn faded into nothingness.

A nothingness of peace.

***********

Furioso wasn’t there to watch it, though. He–as a demon who had lured so many thousands over the centuries to Hell, yet also had recently developed the compassion to show how some of the damned could escape it, was now standing before his own sea of blood.

He saw that red sea shrink a little, as it had shrunk a little on several occasions before.

A slight smile appeared on his lips.

THE END