Eaten by Mountain Rats

In 1876, Pike’s Peak Signal Station attendant Private John O’Keefe told tall tales of life in the station to lawyer, newspaper man and drinking friend, Eliphat Price. O’Keefe recounted a story of large, man-eating rats that lived in caves on Pikes Peak.

The story grew to include how these rats attacked him and his wife and daughter in the station itself – devouring a side of beef in less than five minutes. While Private O’Keefe tried to protect his family using a club to fend off the rats, it was actually Mrs. O’Keefe who saved the day by electrocuting the rats with a coil of wire connected to the signal station’s battery.

According to the story, her efforts were too late. Before she could connect the wire to the battery terminals, hundreds of these killer rats had already devoured Erin, the O’Keefe’s only daughter.

O’Keefe quickly erected a grave on the summit to support his story and to woo tourists. However, O’Keefe wasn’t married and he didn’t have a daughter. Despite this, the story hit the wires and ended up being published in many newspapers around the globe.

[source]

Paint of the Mummy's Tomb

Mummy brown was a rich brown bituminous pigment, intermediate in tint between burnt umber and raw umber, which was one of the favorite colors of the Pre-Raphaelites.

Mummy brown was originally made in the 16th and 17th centuries from white pitch, myrrh, and the ground-up remains of Egyptian mummies, both human and feline, one London colourman claiming that he could satisfy the demands of his customers for twenty years from one Egyptian mummy.

It fell from popularity in the early 19th century when its composition became generally known to artists. According to Jasmine Day, in her book The Mummy’s curse: Mummymania in the English-speaking World, “In 1881, the artist Laurence Alma Tadema, famous for his romantic ancient Egyptian scenes (such as that above which is very … brown), saw his paint preparer grinding up a piece of a mummy.  Realizing where “mummy brown” came from, he alerted his fellow painter, Edward Burne-Jones [and] together with some family members, the remorseful artists held an impromptu funeral burying a tube of mummy brown paint.” [Source]

Corpse Road

In medieval Britain, corpse roads provided a practical means for transporting corpses from remote communities to cemeteries in larger towns, that had burial rights. Concomitant expansion of church building throughout the UK during the late medieval period inevitably encroached on the territories of existing mother churches or minsters. Demands for autonomy from outlying settlements made minster officials feel that their authority was waning, as were their revenues, so they instituted corpse roads connecting outlying locations and their mother churches that alone held burial rights.

For some parishioners, this decision meant that corpses had to be transported long distances, sometimes through difficult terrain: usually a corpse had to be carried unless the departed was a wealthy individual. Many of the corpse roads have long disappeared, while the original purposes of those that still survive as footpaths have been largely forgotten, especially if features such as coffin stones, on which the coffin was placed while the parishioners rested, or crosses no longer exist.

Such corpse roads have developed a great deal of associated folklore. The essence of spirit lore is that spirits, that is, spirits of the dead, phantasms of the living, wraiths, or fairies move through the physical landscape along special routes. Such routes are conceived of as being straight and by the same token, convoluted or non-linear features hinder spirit movement.

Similarly, corpse roads would run in a straight line over mountains and valleys and through marshes. In towns, they would pass the houses closely or go right through them. The paths end or originate at a cemetery; therefore, such a path or road was believed to have the same characteristics as a cemetery, where spirits of the deceased thrive. As such, corpse roads became intrinsically associated with fairy roads and the supernatural entities which reside there. 

source

Review: SANTA CLAUS: THE MOVIE!

SANTA CLAUS: THE MOVIE
1985
Directed by Jeannot Szwarc


Mmm, McDonald's! I could really go for some Big Mac's and fries and nuggets! Also, some Coke! Delicious, delicious Coke!

Speaking of Coke, the producers of the 1985 flop SANTA CLAUS: THE MOVIE were probably snorting a tone of cocaine when they came up with this holiday "classic."

Basically it broke down to this: the producers of the box office smash SUPERMAN thought they could translate that same success onto another character, one in the public domain that they didn't have to pay rights to. And Santa Claus is sort of like Superman, in that they both fly, and that they both can see through women's clothes with X-Ray Vision.

"I wish they had just let us freeze to death."

Unfortunately, Santa didn't quite adapt as well to the Hero treatment, and what resulted was a fever dream of bright colors, possible musical numbers that never start but seem like they should, blatant product placement (by McDonald's, Coke, and, of all things, Pabst Blue Ribbon), and John Lithgow chewing so much scenery he must have dislocated his jaw.

SANTA CLAUS: THE MOVIE decides to give Santa (the Big Lebowski himself, David Huddleston) a backstory. It seems before he became the jolly old elf the world knows and fears  loves, he was a simple toymaker living in some undisclosed century. He and his wife and his two reindeer would ride around in the snow and give wooden toys to kids. How charming!

Well not so fast, because in the first fifteen minutes of this film, Santa, his wife, and his two reindeer freeze to death. Merry Christmas!

I'm gonna burn this mother fucker down!!!!

Riding back home, they get caught in a blizzard and all die. But wait! Luckily for them, they happen to die at the spot where a magical Christmas tree appears, and out of this glowing magic tree come elves!

The elves bring them all back to life, and the head elf announces himself by saying "I am the one called Dooley!" All the elves introduce themselves that way; it's a weird elf thing, I guess. Also, one of the elves is named Patch, and played by lovable drunk Dudley Moore, who does NOT look good with lipstick.

The elves make Santa a job offer: they'll make toys, and he'll deliver them to all the boys and girls of the world, in ONE NIGHT! How can this be? I don't know, there's some bullshit prophecy at play and Santa is the chosen one, and he can control time, or something. It's all very weird. Also, the elves dance.

As the centuries tick on, Santa entrusts the elf Patch with coming up with bigger, better ways to make toys, so Patch pulls a Henry Ford and constructs an assembly line. Unfortunately, it produces really shoddy toys that fall apart, which gives Santa a bad name. So, uh, I guess in the universe this film takes place in everyone is aware that Santa Claus is real? I mean, kids get into fist-fights over the subject, and say things like "My dad says he's all washed up!" which implies parents are sitting around discussing the productive merits of Santa Claus.

Santa promptly fires Patch, and Patch heads to New York City (for reasons unknown), and he also brings with him the magical gold dust that makes the reindeer fly. Also, I am making none of this up--this is exactly what happens.

Anyway, Santa befriends a little street urchin named Joe. Joe is always dirty, wears a leather jacket, has no family, and he really wants to eat some fucking McDonald's. In one scene, he stares through a window and longingly watches as families shove fist-fulls of fries into their faces. Joe has a friend name Cornelia, whom he refers to as "Corny."

Corny, like Joe, has no parents. But unlike Joe, she lives in a big mansion, which is owned by her cartoonishly evil uncle, B.Z., played by John Lithgow with such gleeful over-the-top-ness that you can't help become enchanted as Lithgow glowers and snarls and cackles and chomps on cigars.

Lithgow is a big-shot toymaker. So, wait--everyone is aware of Santa Claus, yet there is still a need for toymakers? Whatever. Anyway, Lithgow has just gotten in trouble with Congress because his toys catch fire, and he sells teddy bears stuffed with nails and glass (????). He needs some good P.R., and he gets it in the form of Patch, who shows up and offers to help B.Z. create something AWESOME for Christmas. Their awesome idea? Lollipops that make people FLY!!

"I want you to get nude with me in a bathtub, and then I'll cut you femoral artery." 

This is bad news for Santa. Kids love these magic lollipops so much that Santa sinks into a Sylvia Plath-like depression, where he mopes around and probably contemplates sticking his head into the gingerbread man oven.

Meanwhile, Lithgow wants to keep the success going by launching CHRISTMAS 2, and selling magic candy canes this time. There's a catch: these candy canes can explode and KILL PEOPLE. Street urchin McDonald's loving Joe overhears this, and ends up held captive by Lithgow and co., until he is rescued by Patch.

Then it's time for a "thrilling" chase across the skies as Santa and Corny and Patch and Joe ride in their respective flying sleighs and try to avoid exploding.

Did I mention this movie is fucking insane?

There's a weird charm to SANTA CLAUS: THE MOVIE. It's just so weird and off the walls that you can't help but sitting through it. It has a real train wreck effect--there's something more productive you could be doing with your time, but it's much more fun to watch the carnage.

It's so god damn magical!

Also, the film has such wonderfully tone-deaf dialog exchanges such as this:

SANTA: Next Christmas, you and I will have a date!
JOE: Really?
SANTA: Santa Claus never lies, Joe!

It's worth mentioning for a film called SANTA CLAUS: THE MOVIE, Santa Claus is barely featured. He takes a back-seat to Patch, but I guess PATCH: THE DRUNK ELF wouldn't be as good as a title (wait, yes it would...).

The film also features a rather horrifying comeuppance for Lithgow's character: in an effort to avoid being arrested, Lithgow eats a whole bundle of the magic candy canes, and ends up flying up into the cold, dead wasteland of space, where he will likely suffocate to death, after his eyeballs explode out of his head.

Merry Christmas!

SANTA CLAUS: THE MOVIE is a bad, bad movie, but it's so bad you have to see it; also, it gets major points for being a Christmas movie and not once mentioning or even hinting at Christ or Christianity--and therefor I give the film

Four out of Four Lithgows:

GOOD FOR BUSINESS

THE Four Gables Bed and Breakfast in Brattle, Vermont, was built in 1791 as a residence for Archibald Horton. Horton, a professional surveyor and an amateur occultist, achieved a small level of notoriety when he broke off from the Freemasons to form his own group, which he unimaginatively called the Hortonists.

            Horton and his Hortonists were obsessed with black magic, and they believed there were invisible portals all around us—portals to alternate realities where great old gods with terribly unpronounceable names dwelled. The Hortinists wanted to usher in a new era for mankind; an era where the ancient demon gods would liquefy human flesh and turn bone into ash. Despite their best efforts, the Hortinists never managed to achieve their goal. But they did pull off a bunch of other dark, nefarious stuff.

            One after another, the Hortonists died off in bloody, suspicious ways, until Horton himself was the only one left. Having lived to the extremely old age of 103, he committed suicide by cutting off his own head in a guillotine he had had shipped to America from France.

            Over the centuries the house passed from owner to owner—none of whom stayed very long. There was a long period of time when it was completely abandoned, but the historical society kept it from being demolished.

            Everything changed in 2001, when Beatrice Torgleson purchased the house with hopes of turning it into a bed and breakfast. She was recently widowed (under mysterious circumstances), as well as recently retired, and she thought this was a perfect way to spend her “golden years,” as people liked to call them.

            Bea shelled out a small fortune to restore the house, although it was hard to keep the same contractors working on the job. They would quit at an alarming rate, with no real reason given.

            Eventually Bea was able to get one of them to tell her that the house was haunted. The workers would hear strange things. Rooms would suddenly grow cold. The walls would bleed. Black ooze would leak up through the floorboards. Random animals were found skinned and decapitated all around the property.

            Bea was miserable. Her dream was dead before it began. How on earth could she open a B&B if it were haunted?

            The house was finished before winter came, and just in time. A blizzard came crashing in, smothering the landscape in snow. Bea was alone in the newly restored house, sitting by the fire, when Archibald Horton appeared. He stepped out of the fire, clutching his severed head in his arms.

            In her rocking chair, Bea sighed.

            “Are ye not afraid of me, woman?” Horton’s head asked.

            Bea shrugged. “What does it matter? My life’s dream is over. I killed my husband to inherit his fortune so I could open this bed and breakfast, and now it’s ruined.”

            “I understand not many of the words you have just spoken,” Horton said. He placed his head up onto the bloody stump of his neck and it rested there awkwardly. “I demand a sacrifice, woman.”

            “Go ahead, then,” Bea said. “Kill me and get it over with.”

            Horton laughed, and his laughter caused his head to fall off his neck and roll into the fire. Cursing, he reached into the flames and pulled the head out.

            “You are too old and ruined for the likes of me, woman,” Horton said. “The sacrifices must be of virgin blood.”

            “Well, you’re all out of luck,” Bea said, rising from her chair on creaking legs. “No virgins here.”

            She turned and headed for the stairs.

            “Where are you going?” Horton said. “I demand you come back and have an audience with me!”

            “Whatever,” Bea said and went upstairs to bed.

            That winter was spent interacting with the various dark forces that dwelled within the walls. Bea had planned to open the B&B in time for Christmas, but she gave up on that idea. She updated the B&B’s website to say Opening Delayed Indefinitely.

            Every morning as she woke and went to the bathroom, a shrieking female face stared back at her from the mirror, blood pouring from her eyes and spiders crawling from her mouth.

            Bea ignored it.

            When she took breakfast in the large, empty dining room, a headless, legless torso would crawl out from the heating vent and drag itself across the floor, leaving a trail of blood that would eventually evaporate.

            Bea ignored it.

            There were gigantic, hideous goat-like men in the attic, and two -headed rats in the basement. There were shrouded specters that floated from room to room, moaning and leaving a sticky residue of ectoplasm on the walls. There were a man and a woman, who were both nude and seemed to be composed entirely of blood, who would have violent, loud sex on the living room floor, before vanishing into mist. And of course there was Horton himself, always losing his head, screaming and chanting and demanding Bea bring him the sacrifices he desired.

            Bea ignored it all.

            Winter gave way to spring, and then summer, and soon autumn arrived. Bea took a trip into town. She needed to get out of that damned house for a while. She spent the day doing some light shopping and wandered into a Barnes and Noble.

            After perusing a few of the romance paperbacks, she was heading for the exit when she bumped into the corner of one of the display tables. The table was set up with various books for the upcoming Halloween season. Bea couldn’t believe her eyes. There were at least half a dozen books that acted as guides to various haunted locations. There was even an entire book devoted to haunted bed & breakfasts of New England.

            People apparently liked this sort of thing. They would pay good money to stay in a haunted hotel. Slowly, a plan began to materialize in Bea’s brain.

            She returned home. Horton floated up from the floor, clutching his head by the hair.

            “Tremble before my visage, woman!” he shouted. “For I am one with the Great Darkness!”

            “Yeah, whatever. Listen, I have an offer for you,” Bea said, setting her shopping bags down.

            “I do not make deals with the living,” Horton spat. He set his head down on a coffee table next to him.

            Bea smiled. “Oh, I think you’re going to like this one.”

            That Christmas, the Four Gables Bed and Breakfast finally opened, and seemingly overnight became renowned as one of the most haunted spots in New England. This brought in the tourists by the dozen, and the fact that Bea was a very good cook kept them coming back for more.

            Every day, a different person who was staying at the B&B would come up to Bea with a giddy look on his or her face, and tell of the horrifying sights he or she had seen during the night. Bea always smiled and nodded. She acted as if she didn’t really believe in that sort of thing, but that she would let the guests have their fun.

            And every few months, there would be reports from the surrounding towns of missing children; children seemingly snatched from their bedrooms late at night and never seen again. There were no leads, and no known motive.

            Of course, Bea knew the motive. She knew it because the basement was always off limits to guests, and she kept the key to the big padlock on her at all times. She knew it because she spent many nights washing the blood from her hands.

            But what did a little blood matter? After all, it was good for business.

            

Horror Movie Countdown to Halloween: Lost Highway

In honor of Halloween Week, I am listing some of my favorite creep-o movies. I tried not to pick the obvious choices to add a little diversity from all the other Halloween movie lists...

Lost Highway

David Lynch’s Lost Highway is something of a test-run for his film Mulholland Drive; they both explore similar, nightmare-ish themes and storylines involving duel identities. But there’s something infinitely more disturbing and creepy about Lost Highway.

Lynch later said he realized that when he was writing the film he was subconsciously channeling the O.J. Simpson murders/trial, and that’s one way to look at things: shocking murders involving “famous” people and the mysteries behind them.

Bill Pullman, here at his Bill Pullmaniest, plays a noise-jazz musician named Fred Madison. He’s married to Renee, played by Patricia Arquette, who seems like she’s on tranquilizers during the whole film. They live in a very creepy, very modernistic house (which is actually David Lynch’s own house) with few windows and really deep, dark corners.  One day, they find a videotape on their doorstep. They watch it, and it reveals that someone has been filming their house. They think nothing of this at first—until more tapes show up, showing that whoever is filming their house is also going IN their house, and filming them while they sleep.

This is creepy enough already, but Lynch piles on their creepiness as Fred and Renee go to a party and Fred encounters the character known as The Mystery Man, played by Robert  Blake who later in real-life had his own very public O.J. Simpson-like murder trial. Blake is delightfully disturbing in the role, and his pale-white make-up aids in this. After a great/scary scene where the Mystery Man hands Fred a giant old cell phone and tells him to call his own house, where the Mystery Man ANSWERS the phone and then the one at the party and the one at the house laugh in stereo, things REALLY start going downhill for Fred, because Renee turns up dead and Fred is convicted of her murder.

 He has no memory of the murder,  but all that is moot anyway because one night Fred morphs into rebel teen Pete Dayton, played (terribly) by Balthazar Getty.

From here we try to figure out what the FUCK is going on, as Pete, formerly Fred, gets out of jail and starts having an affair with a woman named Alice, also played by Arquette. The Mystery Man pops up some more, and Robert Loggia steals nearly the whole film as whacked-out mobster Mr. Eddy—who , in keeping with the duel personality angle—might also be someone named Dick Laurent—who we are told at the beginning of the movie is dead.

Lost Highway doesn’t really make a lick of sense. Sure, you can try to figure things out, and probably get pretty close to solving the puzzle—but it doesn’t matter. The fact that things are so strange, and so out-of-left field aid in making the movie extra, extra creepy. It’s not really considered one, but this is a straight-up horror movie. Almost every scene drips with weird, sleazy menace. None of the characters seem to have souls, and also Gary Busey is in this movie, so that right there is a sign of how fucked-up things are.