The Next Time I Lie

At a recent campout with girls from our church (I was one of the leaders), we gathered around the camp fire to exchange scary stories. Most of the others' stories had to do with intruders or sounds in the night.

I told them, "I have a story," and proceeded to tell them in essence, the first chapter of my novel "Ghost Moon Night". Everyone hung on to my every word, and then I revealed that I was fibbing. Someone asked, did you just make that up? I said, no.

It worked once, I don't know if it'll work again, the next time I say, "I have a scary story to tell..."

I feel obligated to reveal next time if I am making the story up, or if it's real. But what's the fun in that?

From the Dead

I have resurrected my YA paranormal novel Ghost Moon Night. Taken it out of the crypt and sent it out again to haunt an editor whom I met recently at a writer's conference. I tweaked it some, but otherwise, let the first three chapters stand as is.

I had shown her my first chapter of a historical novel, and though she loved it, she doesn't represent that genre. And then it occurred to me, listening to her presentation, hey, she represents paranormal!

It took me two days to figure this out.

So I asked her if she would look at my ms. She said, sure, send me first three chapters. Normally, she doesn't even look at ms without an agent's blessing. So the conference has been a great foot in the door.

Now I wait.

Out of the Darkness

In my previous post, I wrote about a new horror story I am working on. At first I was really excited about it. But now, I am not so sure because of the horrid feeling the first chapter gave me.

Ghost Moon Night is scary but does not have a pervasive feeling of evil. Whereas this new chapter involving coconuts (I am trying to write this with a straight face) makes me feel dark and dismal and dread-y if there is such a word. Thank goodness for a goofball sort of hero, or I'd have stopped at page five.

I am not sure I want to channel this story to life.

***
So I took a break and wrote another first chapter to a YA novel and the feeling is like light and day. The characters still are flawed and there will be major conflicts, but for the first time in a long time, I felt - emotion! Sadness. Wistfulness. Happiness. As I closed the scene, I felt like I was writing something that could illuminate the human experience. I am usually unsentimental in my fiction and avoid Hallmarky stories, but I really enjoyed writing this. The words flow and I do not grit my teeth over the effort.

Truth is, unleashing emotion on the page scares me. It is powerful but makes me feel utterly vulnerable.

***
I cannot imagine not writing horror anymore. It's been such an integral part of my writing life, hence this blog.

But what goes in has to have a source, and I'm just not sure I want to be the receptacle of all that.

Ghost Moon Night - First Chapter

Here's the first chapter of "Ghost Moon Night," my horror novel set in 1950s Philippines about a town haunted by evil creatures on ghost moon night.

Coastal town of Dasalin, Philippines

I was six when I first discovered the peculiar nature of ghost moon night.

For as long as I could remember, I was forbidden to go outside on ghost moon night, which is that one night in the month when the sky is completely empty of the moon.

It had been a rainy day, and I had to stay indoors. My mother hardly hung up the switch she used to swat me with, I was always getting in trouble. Late that night, the rain finally ceased. I didn’t care if it was ghost moon night, I was determined to go outside to the batalan and get a drink of water.

To get a drink now, you simply turn on the faucet inside the house. But when I was six, the kitchen was outside, and to get water, you had to pump it from the well.

My mother said I had to wait until sun-up, but I didn’t want to wait that long. When she wasn’t looking, I bolted out the back door and ran past the ditch where the labandera washed the clothes, to the outside kitchen where the pump was.

Someone had already beaten me to it. At first I thought it was Trining, the servant-girl, but then, I realized it wasn’t. For one thing, Trining had just cut her hair short with a pair of dull scissors, and this girl had long hair over a dark shawl.

The girl had her back turned towards me. I heard the handle of the pump creak as she lifted it up, the gush of water hitting the ground. And then I heard a horrible noise.

Even now, seventy years later, the hairs on my arm stand on end when I think about it.

It was the sound of an animal, slurping noisily, gulping in mouthfuls, with satisfied growls coming from the back of its throat.

I stood there frozen for a good minute, then I turned right around and ran to the back door as fast as I could.

I twisted the knob, but it would not budge. My clammy hands slipped as I tried to get the door open, and then I realized I must have accidentally locked it behind me. I pounded on the door and cried, “Mother! Mother!”

For what seemed like an awfully long time, no one came to the door. I looked over my shoulder and could make out the figure of a woman slowly approaching me, just beyond the low wall, against which the wash basin was leaned to dry for the night. What I thought was a shawl unfurled behind her, like wings.

Once again, I pounded on that door until finally, it opened and I collapsed in a heap at my mother’s feet. She slammed the door shut and locked it behind me.

“Susmaryosep, Antonio,” she said, looking frightened. “Didn’t I tell you to stay inside?”

“What is all this commotion about?” My father appeared in the doorway of the dining room.”

My voice was small and pinched. “I was getting a drink.”

“It’s ghost moon night,” Father said, frowning at Mother. “How could you send him outside?”

“I didn’t,” she said. “He went out on his own.”

I sat cross-legged on the floor, holding still for once that day, staring at my lap.

“Did you see anything?” Father asked. I knew he was talking to me, but I ignored him and continued to just stare. Mother bent down, grabbed my shoulder and repeated the question.

I hugged my knees and said, “I’m sleepy.”

***

All the lamps in the house were lit, like times when my parents expected visitors. My father accompanied me to my bedroom, tucked me under my mosquito net and sat on a chair beside my bed. Moths flit about my bedside lamp and cast dancing shadows on a wall adorned with a painting of the Sacred Heart of Jesus cut out from a calendar. A heart glowed on his chest.

“Son,” he said. “I was going to wait to tell you about ghost moon night until you were older, but I see that it cannot wait. Do you know why we stay inside and shut all the doors and windows?”

I mumbled something about multo, or ghosts.

“They are not just ordinary ghosts,” Father said. “They are called langbuan, for they come out that one day in the month when there is no moon, or walang buwan. They committed such terrible sins while alive that they are cursed to wander our town on ghost moon night.”

“Trining says they eat people, and that they especially like children who misbehave.”

Father smiled. “I don’t know about eating people, but they do steal people’s souls.”

I imagined my chest laid open, a clawed hand reaching for my soul. My eyes wandered over to the portrait of Jesus and his exposed heart. I looked away, burrowed deeper under my thin sheet and shuddered.

“Trining was lying anyway,” I said. “She also told me they looked like monkeys, when actually…”
My words died on my lips as Father’s gaze sharpened. Something in it scared me, and I could not go on.

“Promise me you will never go out on ghost moon night,” Father said, his voice trembling with strong emotion.

“Yes, Father,” I said.

“When I think of what could have happened to you tonight…”

“I was just thirsty,” I blubbered, trying to head off a tongue-lashing. “I didn’t mean to…”

Father reached in under the mosquito net and patted me awkwardly until my sobs subsided, and I felt a little better. As he usually did, he left the lamp which stood sentinel over my closed window burning. Later, I realized that he also left my bedside lamp lit well into dawn, for which I was grateful. I really needed it that night.

There were times, in later years, when I sensed my father wanted to speak to me about what happened that night, but I usually changed the topic. I learned my lesson, though. I never went out on ghost moon night.

Not until I was seventeen. Do you want to know what happened then?

You know, your mother will not appreciate my telling you this story. You might have nightmares.

Very well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.