The Seventh Squeal

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,

Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,

Louping and flinging on a crummock,

I wonder did na turn thy stomach!

-Robbie Burns, Tam o' Shanter

Judging by the police reports, the claw-like shreddings in the new wallpaper, and the singular event of my awakening topless and shivering in maple-tree outside of the house, last night's Turner Classic Movies horror marathon must be pronounced a mind-gnashing success. I thought oldies were supposed to be a cakewalk. Laughingly I condescended to spend "an evening of it", making wry faces at the poor special effects and chortling at the hauteur of 40's Trans-Atlantic accentuation. "Noli me tangere!" I gurgled; Was I not a child of the most de-sensitized and bloodthirsty American generation since Hernan Cortez?

Reader, take my advice. If you would like to make a mockery of the cinematic heretofore, and choose the macabre as your genre, make damn sure the film doesn't have four stars. What becomes cheesy acting when done poorly reaches stupendous heights of eldritch horror when performed with Shakespearean acuity and depth; instead of our modern decapitations, the merest sigh or raised eyebrow comes to indicate fathomless terrors beyond the ken of human perception.

The selection was particularly effective. From the casual sheningans of a bloodthirsty lycanthrope, to the shrieking claustrophobia of a British seaside manor, last night's showing left me a stewing pile of nerves and pizzicato mini-yelps, much to the chagrin of both missus and mutt. But far worse than any of the feature pictures were the dreaded intermezzi. Yes reader, I am referring to those commercial (which came close to mental) breaks.

Wound-up to the pitch of high c by dissonant chord changes and fine acting, how do you think I felt when I saw the ghost of Sarah Jessica Parker suddenly appear before me in shimmering white and maw agape? Dead, dead eyes peered into my very psyche, howling, and pointing a gnarled claw at me to lift the curse of a thousand years by buying her new shampoo. I fell to my knees and prayed in all 108 languages I knew until the apparition dis-apparated. Yet many more followed; vision after heart-stopping vision of celebrity ectoplasms, photoshopped to uncanny new heights of ghostliness, threatened to haunt generations of my offspring should I forbear to purchase their unnatural skinware.

What they promised was as eerie and unholy as their appearance. Rejuvenation, eternal life, the philosopher's stone! I was exhorted to "fight the seven signs of aging" by means of a dreadful new alchemy known as "microdermabrasion". Computer generated close-ups of the aforementioned process left me more in doubt about its scientific value, and more assured as to its Satanic origins. What seem to be uncanny little ghostlings suddenly appear after the application of the non-euclidean substance - terrifying shapes beyond the known fibre of the cosmos in the blink of an eye dispatch time and matter alike with babe-ruthless efficiency.

Cosmic dread was upon me. Yet some maddening atavism in my being prompted me to dig deeper into that which I loathed. Telephoning my contacts at Miskatonic University, I obtained through dark channels some security transcripts from the unholy headquarters of these devotees of Hecate. I present them to you now, unadulterated, and recommend squeamish readers turn their heads to more pleasant jottings. You have been warned!

(Scene: Headquarters of ***** skin and hair products. President's office. Two middle-aged men smoking cigars in fine suits (their own suits aren't too bad either) are looking outside at the bleak Autumn weather. One speaks.)

Tracy: Johnson, I need that formula. If we're going to beat Macy's for the Holiday Rush, we need a new product for mom that sells.

Johnson: Mr. Tracy, sir, we're doing all we can. Our scientists are plying their microscopes night and day. We've already managed to take off 20 years...

Tracy: Bah! Only 20!? You and your science! Your slow, plodding, progress of science! No Johnson, I need something more potent.

Johnson: (hastily) Just give us a few more weeks sir-

Tracy: (interrupting) Johnson, I've made up my mind. Call him.

Johnson: Sir, he's mad!

Tracy: He's a genius, Johnson.

Johnson: No sir, I can't be a part of this any longer. I have a family, sir, and -- well damn it all, I have religion and a conscience! You're meddling with powers beyond your control. I'm leaving sir, and if you know what's good for you, you will to! (walks to the door) God keep you, sir!

(exit Johnson. Tracy sighs, flips casually through his flesh-bound copy of the Necronomicon. Finally, he opens his cell phone. Fade to black. )

(Scene opens in Festermoor Castle. Alone in his study, cluttered with unholy tomes, pentagrams, alchemical apparatuses and pizza boxes, the infamous Doktor Fistus finishes drawing a magical circle.)

Fistus: Have now, ach! Philosophy

Studied throughout, alas for me!

And all religion is a bore

Your sanctity doth make me snore.

I stand here yet a mighty fool

In a puddle of my own drool.

Fortowhich I turn to devilry

To ply the wand, aye that's for me!

(enter his manservant Garble, a jaunty homunculus with a heart of ash)

Garble: Master, I've recieved the a call

They wish to know if you withal

Have made the cream?

Fistus: A fool do I seem?

Abra-dabra-cabra car

Gloogle bungle bing ja jar!

I shall show them, who are so pushy!

(waves his hand over the magic circle)

I summon forth an ancient hussy!

(The ghost of Helen of Troy appears in the magic circle)

Fistus: Oh dame who launched a thousand nations!

Pray tell the secret of microdermabrasions?

Helen: Eye of goat, and toad of mud,

Mud of sheep, and cow of blood!

Fistus: Haha! Success! And now I've done it!

The secret alchemy, I've won it!

And to secure the unholy ingredient
A monster party methinks expedient!

(Fistus begins to dance with his homunculus while Helen begins a galliard with castanets. A variety of demons and ghouls join in. Fade to black with accompanyment from Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor).