Horror or not? - Salamander
In a recent discussion of the different approaches to writing “horror,” I remembered this story that I wrote for an anthology a couple of years ago. I ended up selling them another tale, but they rejected this one, although they liked it very much. I’ll tell you the reason after the story:
Here and there, the bricks still glowed, smoldering red clay in the deepening dusk.
Shelley watched the blackened expanse where a house had stood for over one hundred years, right up to that afternoon. Her first day with the crew, the only woman in a 12-person volunteer fire brigade serving the tiny community of Deerbourn. Her luck her first fire turned out to be the old Adler house.
“I’m glad we’re too late,” Bubba Driscoll said as they watched the roof give way and fall incandescently inward. “Fucking place should’ve been burned years ago.” Bubba, as always, stood too near Shelley. He smelled like cheese.
Everyone knew about the Adler house. Back in the 80s, Gus Adler killed five people over two years’ time, abducting them, bringing them here and torturing them to death. Shelley grew up on horror stories about Gus Adler. Some people said he had accomplices who were never caught.
The crew made sure the fire couldn’t spread, cutting trees, soaking the perimeter. The house burned beyond salvation, slowly imploding in showers of sparks and billowing black smoke.
“Someone has to stay here and watch it,” Deak Howell said.
“New girl gets the job,” Tom Skaggs said and all of them laughed.
“You ain’t gonna be too scared, are you?” someone asked.
Bubba offered to stay and keep her company.
“Better stay till at least … oh, midnight.”
Pigs. Every fucking one of them. Assholes.
She sat in the truck mostly, but every half hour, she walked around the blackened square of smoking timber, hearing nightbirds, insects, the thrum of distant highway traffic.
She fell asleep once and awakened to the sound of shuffling footsteps. She went for the gun she had stuffed in the glove compartment and the flashlight. She threw open the door and spotlighted the sound – a dull-eyed, blinking armadillo.
Laughing, she climbed out of the truck and watched the little mammal-tank scurry back into the brush. Stupid to be scared, she thought. She’d show Bubba and the other jerks. She almost hoped one of them would try to sneak up on her and scare her. Blowing Deak’s balls off might improve her mood.
Even the worst Gus Adler stories didn’t scare Shelley. Some people said that he had sacrificed those five people, and maybe more, to what he called the God of Fire and that there were still people in Deerbourn who worshiped the God of Fire. Maybe the goddamned volunteer fire department, she mused and laughed.
Then her laughter froze.
An oily shape moved among the ashes, twisted and red. A trick? No, Bubba and the others could never devise this.
The shape curled into a man. She aimed the flashlight at him and held the gun ready. In the beam, his skin shone dully, the color of burnt brick.
“Tell me,” he asked in a smoky, promising whisper. “Just how much do you hate those assholes?”
**
Although the anthology was calling for horror stories, the editors were adamant that the horror could not include any supernatural elements. The interesting thing was, in their call for submissions, they didn’t specify this because, to their minds, horror and supernatural horror were two different things! There's no doubt about it, genre is a funny thing....
"Salamander"
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2009
by Angela Caperton
Copyright 2009
Here and there, the bricks still glowed, smoldering red clay in the deepening dusk.Shelley watched the blackened expanse where a house had stood for over one hundred years, right up to that afternoon. Her first day with the crew, the only woman in a 12-person volunteer fire brigade serving the tiny community of Deerbourn. Her luck her first fire turned out to be the old Adler house.
“I’m glad we’re too late,” Bubba Driscoll said as they watched the roof give way and fall incandescently inward. “Fucking place should’ve been burned years ago.” Bubba, as always, stood too near Shelley. He smelled like cheese.
Everyone knew about the Adler house. Back in the 80s, Gus Adler killed five people over two years’ time, abducting them, bringing them here and torturing them to death. Shelley grew up on horror stories about Gus Adler. Some people said he had accomplices who were never caught.
The crew made sure the fire couldn’t spread, cutting trees, soaking the perimeter. The house burned beyond salvation, slowly imploding in showers of sparks and billowing black smoke.
“Someone has to stay here and watch it,” Deak Howell said.
“New girl gets the job,” Tom Skaggs said and all of them laughed.
“You ain’t gonna be too scared, are you?” someone asked.
Bubba offered to stay and keep her company.
“Better stay till at least … oh, midnight.”
Pigs. Every fucking one of them. Assholes.
She sat in the truck mostly, but every half hour, she walked around the blackened square of smoking timber, hearing nightbirds, insects, the thrum of distant highway traffic.
She fell asleep once and awakened to the sound of shuffling footsteps. She went for the gun she had stuffed in the glove compartment and the flashlight. She threw open the door and spotlighted the sound – a dull-eyed, blinking armadillo.
Laughing, she climbed out of the truck and watched the little mammal-tank scurry back into the brush. Stupid to be scared, she thought. She’d show Bubba and the other jerks. She almost hoped one of them would try to sneak up on her and scare her. Blowing Deak’s balls off might improve her mood.
Even the worst Gus Adler stories didn’t scare Shelley. Some people said that he had sacrificed those five people, and maybe more, to what he called the God of Fire and that there were still people in Deerbourn who worshiped the God of Fire. Maybe the goddamned volunteer fire department, she mused and laughed.
Then her laughter froze.
An oily shape moved among the ashes, twisted and red. A trick? No, Bubba and the others could never devise this.
The shape curled into a man. She aimed the flashlight at him and held the gun ready. In the beam, his skin shone dully, the color of burnt brick.
“Tell me,” he asked in a smoky, promising whisper. “Just how much do you hate those assholes?”
**
Although the anthology was calling for horror stories, the editors were adamant that the horror could not include any supernatural elements. The interesting thing was, in their call for submissions, they didn’t specify this because, to their minds, horror and supernatural horror were two different things! There's no doubt about it, genre is a funny thing....
Posted by Angela Caperton at 11/27/2011 5:25 PM 
Categories: Horror, Angela Caperton
Tags: Angela Caperton Horror
Categories: Horror, Angela Caperton
Tags: Angela Caperton Horror
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