Freelance writer, horror author and geeky reviewer. Some of my stuff is quite graphic/adult, so leave now if that bothers you.
Tuesday 27 May 2014
Dark Review - Monochroma
Sunday 25 May 2014
Dark Review - Penny Dreadful
Review of Penny Dreadful Episode One
By Casey Douglass
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| Image ©Showtime |
Are you afraid of
spiders? If so you might find the first episode of new TV series
Penny Dreadful a little squirm inducing. They don’t feature
in a large way but just enough to provide some creeping menace.
Spiders aren’t the only sinister thing to skitter their way into
view though.
Penny Dreadful
is a new series from Showtime and Sky Atlantic based on the old 19th
century cheap and morbidly cheerful penny dreadfuls. These escapist
books featured near-the-knuckle fiction that appealed to people
seeking cheap and probably blasphemous thrills. Penny Dreadful
as a series draws on this concept and drags in some well known horror
characters such as Victor Frankenstein.
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| Image ©Showtime |
After seeing a woman
brutally attacked, we see the psychically gifted Vanessa Ives (Eva
Green) approaching sharpshooter Ethan Chandler (Josh Hartnett) with
an offer of some dirty work. Ethan then meets explorer Sir Malcolm
Murray (Timothy Dalton) and is given his first taste of the other
sinister world that is so close to our own.
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| Image ©Showtime |
Part of the fun of the
episode was trying to suss out what each character brought to the
table and, with the vague knowledge that they could be some great
literary superstar, I found myself looking for clues. The episode
ends with a nice reveal that confirms one such suspicion was correct.
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| Image ©Showtime |
The actually
otherworldly stuff is done very well and much of the episode takes
place at a brooding tentative pace. When there is a bit of action it
is quite frenetic and often pretty gory, which all lends itself to
the overall feel of the thing.
It’s hard to judge a
series on one episode, but if the successive ones are at all like
this one, I think Penny Dreadful will do very well. I
certainly intend to keep watching at least.
Friday 23 May 2014
Dark Fiction - Sleeper Cell
Sleeper Cell
By Casey Douglass
as part of #fridayflash
The figure under the
heavy duvet groaned and rolled onto his side. The air in the dark
room was stuffy and oppressive, the kind that hinted at antique
oxygen that was captured many weeks ago. The only illumination came
from the faintly buzzing digital alarm clock, its digits declaring
01:17 in a ghoulish green light.
A tiny breeze fluttered
at the tattered posters on the wall before all became still once
more.
‘According to the
manifest, this one sleeps like a log.’
Another swift movement
of air billowed gently and faded into nothing.
‘Ugh this room
stinks!’
‘They all do, to
varying degrees.’
A tall stick-like
figure moved out from the deepest patch of darkness and approached
the bed. ‘He sleeps like he welcomes the oblivion.’
A smaller figure joined
the larger one, its hands clasped behind its back. Both were cloaked
in black material that shifted and swelled as the eye roved over it.
The material hid their contours, their only visible body parts their
hands and faces. Over-large foreheads squatted down on beady eyes,
the nose in between looked stretched and pulled, the tip hanging just
past the chin over mouths that were just a dark ‘O’. The larger
one spoke again:
‘You are happy with
your assignments?’
The small one nodded.
‘Do you have any
questions?’
‘No Sir.’
‘You understand the
ramifications of failure?’
The small one looked up
at the tall one. ‘Yes Sir.’
‘What is your task?’
‘To manage and
harvest my allotted cell, to utilise the energies within in
furthering the goals of the movement, to stay hidden and nameless.’
‘Very well. You seem
to have a firm understanding of your role but I think that perhaps a
little test is needed. Why do we not like night workers and what do
we do about them?’
‘We erm, we don’t
like night workers because they are awake at night, going against the
grain of the majority and denying us their sleeping energy. We
manipulate their bodies to hasten poor health which will make them
give up that kind of work or die, restoring the balance.’
‘Excellent! Question
two. Explain Mardum’s principle of manifestation and tell me what
your assignment is with ten sleepers.’
‘Haha that’s an
easy one Sir. Mardum’s principle states that every sleeper
generates five unnims of dark-wave energy. To derive your
manifestation powers, that is your solidity, stability and reality
control, you simply multiply the number of asleep by five. As far as
my task with ten sleepers, that would generate fifty unnims, which
would be...erm...information gathering from electronic devices, such
as computers, tablets and phones.’
‘Very close. Fifty
unnims just pushes you into your next grade of action, which in this
case is modification of ventilation and air systems to force them to
sleep longer and more deeply. If a little toxic gas gets into the
atmosphere, it can push them into a deeper level of sleep. How much
energy will they generate from this Kinnar state?’
‘Two extra unnims
each.’
‘Good lad!’
‘Thanks Dad.’
The tall figure ran an
alabaster hand over the head of the shorter.
‘You are very young,
too young really, but needs must. Our people are fading down into the
nightmare plane again, which is why it’s all hands on deck, so to
speak. If we can’t infiltrate this world and make it our own, we
are finished.’
‘I know Dad.’
‘Can you do it?
Manage this ten story dwelling and get the energy you need to further
our aims?’
‘Yes!’
‘Good boy.’
A mumble came from the
bed followed by a dry cough. The two figures looked at each other as
they began to fade.
‘See you at home son.
If you get there first, make sure you wash properly. I know we will
have to get used to the stink of this world soon but there’s no
reason to bring it back with us before we have to.’
‘Okay Dad.’
The smaller figure
blinked out in a quiet pop of air. The larger one lingered a few
moments longer. He appraised the room around him. ‘Animals,’ he
whispered, before imploding into nothing once more.
Friday 16 May 2014
Dark Review - Godzilla (2014)
Review of Godzilla (2014)
By Casey Douglass
I must admit to not
having seen any other Godzilla film besides the 1998 version
with Matthew Broderick. I quite liked it but it left me unimpressed.
Roll on to this 2014 Godzilla and I came away feeling a bit
better.
I could give a basic
outline of the early story without spoilers but my brain is rebelling
today so I will just comment on what I want, still hopefully spoiler
free. Suffice to say that the story is the usual human arrogance plus
massive forces equals mass destruction.
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| Image ©Warner Bros. Pictures |
The characters that
steal the show are Bryan Cranston’s Joe Brody and Aaron
Taylor-Johnson’s Ford Brody. The father and son duo certainly have
their issues but they are the two characters that stick well in my
mind. The rest of the cast were pretty disposable and whose only job
was to run around looking startled. Except the kids that is. My god.
I saw the 3D version of Godzilla but even those 3D glasses couldn’t
hide the 2D acting of the kids. Ford Brody’s son was the most
unemotional kid I have ever seen. He managed a smile once near the
end of the film. There was also a little girl about a third of the
way into the film that watches something amazing unfold. She was like
a mannequin, no emotion or response whatsoever, even when being
bundled along in a hysterical crowd. I thought the kids in Everybody
Loves Raymond were shit but these two can join that club now.
I was impressed with
how the film handled the reveal of Godzilla and his adversaries. I
don’t think it’s much of a spoiler to say that there is some
monster on monster action. The film takes awhile to build up to
seeing anything of Godzilla and even when it does appear, the first
few fights are teasingly closed off by doors shutting or other things
obstructing the view. I appreciated this and it all felt quite well
done. I think it fell down a little at the end though, where I felt
we see Godzilla too closely and can begin to read its expressions.
 |
| Image ©Warner Bros. Pictures |
The 3D was okay, it did
the job but was forgotten about within five minutes of the film
starting. The film delighted in shadowy silhouettes rising from dark
places so maybe 3D was always at a bit of a disadvantage in those
respects.
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| Image ©Warner Bros. Pictures |
What Godzilla
is, is a competent mega-monster movie with oodles of destruction and
escalation. It runs to around 2 hours and that felt just about right.
There are twists to the story and interesting things to see, but
don’t expect to really care what happens to the characters by the
end.
Rating: 3.5/5
Godzilla on IMDb
Dark Review - Space Engineers
Dark Fiction - Fur
Fur
By Casey Douglass
as part of #fridayflash.
One image bleeds into
the next, a hazy scene forming once the seeping impressions become
more solid. An outdoor car-park, pretty full but with the odd space
here and there. Groups of people chatter and laugh, the event or
happening that drew them here either finished or about to start.
There is a suggestion of folding tables and bric-a-brac so it might
just be a car-boot sale.
A babbling man with a
bushy beard is gesturing to a small gathering behind a red hatchback,
his right hand continually shooting up to his nose to scratch at the
hair just beneath. I recognise him as Slavoj Žižek, the Slovene
philosopher from The Pervert's Guide to Ideology,
a film that I had watched weeks ago. I like philosophy. I also would
be intrigued by any guide written with perverts in mind, wondering
how that might make it any different to a regular guide. What I got
was an interesting look at some of the things that we treat as
factual and don’t question. Where perverts come into it I still do
not know.
The
people are enraptured with the furry man’s talk but his words fail
to reach me with enough volume to decipher. I pass by and continue to
look around me, hemmed in on all sides by hot metal and baking
concrete.
I
don’t know how or why the shift occurs but things begin to change.
Maybe a fleeting anxiety crosses my mind or it just happened without
my intervention. What was a sunny day begins to dim into a very dark
twilight, the cars around me falling into a deep shadow and only
staying visible where some unknown light source glints from their
contours.
A
deep rumbling howl erects the hairs along my arms and neck. I hear a
woman scream and sense the people around me scrabbling for somewhere
to hide. I am grinning, a strange hot sensation in my chest, like the
fire in the core of a furnace.
A
loping thing rounds the side of the car ahead of me. I walk towards
it, my right arm partly across my chest, the fist clenched. I know it
is going to happen. Everything about it angles the events into one
narrow funnel which can only lead to one outcome. The black shaggy
dog launches at me with an almost sub-audible roar, its teeth
latching onto my right forearm as I bring it meet it. I feel no pain,
no real sensation besides the pressure around my forearm. I am
surrounded by darkness now, the only feeling my pounding heart and
the strain from smiling so forcefully. Then I wake up.
--THE
END--
This
is the tail end of a dream I had a few days ago. I have the feeling
it was a dream which was getting a few things straight in my mind. My
anxiety and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder has continued to be
problematic for weeks. The therapies and methods I have been using to
try to improve my emotional response all rely on a certain level of
acceptance, which at times I have struggled to get to.
This dream seems like a more visceral way of my mind getting the message. If I had to guess, I would say that the cars could be my obsessions, the philosopher the ways I try to get a handle on things/techniques I use and the black dog the anxiety that launches itself at me. In the dream, even not knowing it was a dream, I marched straight towards the dog knowing what would happen, accepting it. It’s quite funny that I can do something like that, yet the prospect of possibly having left a tap running reduces me to palpitations. Either way, a cool dream and one as I said, that feels like it had a use.
This dream seems like a more visceral way of my mind getting the message. If I had to guess, I would say that the cars could be my obsessions, the philosopher the ways I try to get a handle on things/techniques I use and the black dog the anxiety that launches itself at me. In the dream, even not knowing it was a dream, I marched straight towards the dog knowing what would happen, accepting it. It’s quite funny that I can do something like that, yet the prospect of possibly having left a tap running reduces me to palpitations. Either way, a cool dream and one as I said, that feels like it had a use.
Monday 12 May 2014
Dark Review - Paranormal
Friday 9 May 2014
Dark Fiction - Crackle
Crackle
By Casey Douglass
as part of #fridayflash
It started as a tinny
rustling sound, like a small plastic bag cavorting in the breeze. I
looked outside my flat but could see nothing snagged or drifting
across the small communal garden. Thinking it might be something on
another resident's balcony, I did my best to ignore it.
A few days later it got
louder. It sounded like a can of pebbles leisurely rolling down a
grass slope. I struggled to hear the TV over it but again blamed the
neighbours.
After a week, I managed
to get an appointment with my doctor. He hummed and haaah’d and
referred me to the hospital.
Things moved quickly
after that.
Now I’m sat in a
white sanitised room, large sections of plastic sheeting flowing from
ceiling to floor on all sides. The machine next to me beeps now and
then but I don’t always hear it. It can’t compete with the
crackling inside my head.
Some kind of parasite
they think. Probably came over in a shipment of bananas from the
sub-continent they said. Horrible luck they whispered, eyes looking
at the floor beside my bed.
A specialist came the
other day, said that as far as she could see, the bugs reacted to
stress hormones. The more stress hormone in my body, the more
voraciously they reproduced. I asked if there was any kind of
medication that would help me curb the hormone. She shook her head
and said that it had to be an ‘authentic reaction’ or the bugs
wouldn’t buy it. I asked if I relaxed enough, would they leave? She
shrugged.
Now I lay and try to
relax, calling on every technique I can to calm my body and unwind my
mind. The slightest shock to my sensitised system, like a door
slamming somewhere down the hall, causes such a jolt of agony that I
pass out for minutes on end. On the plus side, my hearing is fading
so that kind of stimulus will be no threat soon.
The relaxation seems to
work but I know that in my heart, I am trying too hard to relax. It’s
like trying to accept something horrible in the hope that it will go
away. That’s not true acceptance. You should be able to accept
something whether it goes or stays. It shouldn’t matter.
My head buzzes with the
movements of the larger bugs now, new generations hatching and
chewing on my brain with every passing hour.
I saw the orderlies
install more sheeting around the doorways and windows yesterday. Nice
to know they are planning for the best!
All I know is that I’m
tired now. I feel annoyed to go out this way but I’m sure there are
worse. I’m going to stop trying to relax, stop hoping that I will
recover, give up the dream of recovery. I think it is a genuine
acceptance I feel now but who knows. All I know is I’m done with
the struggle and whatever happens happens.
People condemned to
death usually get a last meal. It is rare indeed that they are
the last meal.
Bon appétit bugs!
Friday 2 May 2014
Dark Review - Daylight
Dark Fiction - Ink
Ink
By Casey Douglass
as part of #fridayflash
You feel the air
currents swirling against your skin but can see nothing through the
blackness that envelops you. You wave your arms around and feel
slight relief that you can feel them, even if you can’t see them.
A cough rasps through
the void behind you. You wheel around and see a small area of golden
light glowing some way off, a dark shadow stooped in the middle.
You force your heavy
feet to take move toward it. You struggle to get the muscles and
nerves to obey the order but you manage a shuffling step. The next is
easier, the third almost child’s play.
The tension in your
body dissipates as you edge nearer the light. The dark shape that
moves and twitches now and then is nothing more than an elderly man
leaning over a large table peering at a piece of parchment. He is
bald and wearing a weathered white robe that looks rather like an old
dressing gown.
You stop beside him but
he fails to acknowledge you. You gaze at the parchment and the design
upon it, wondering what on earth he is doing. The paper is brown with
age and pinned at each corner with a rusty nail. The centre of the
page is covered with a large black blob of ink.
The quivering hand of
the man pours more ink from a small clay vessel, expanding the dark
patch so that it almost takes up the whole parchment. A tuneless hum
sounds from his pursed lips, the smallest hint of a smile stretching
the mottled skin above his white stubble.
‘What are you doing?’
you ask.
He begins to whistle.
‘Hello?’ you say,
waving your hand in front of his face.
He reaches down to a
small drawer and takes out a quill, the edges of the feather fizzing
with tiny sparks.
You watch as he leans
forward. He presses the writing tip into the inky dark and begins to
scrape searing lines of white light. You cannot make out what he is
drawing but your heart begins to pound as some of the elements
coalesce into something horrible. You see a large maw forming, then
some razor teeth. Further up, two eyes with an evil gleam. A little
lower, a massive outstretched claw.
The elderly hand picks
up speed and is gliding over the surface of the parchment now. You
watch the creature take shape, each new feature adding to its hellish
appearance. A trickle of sweat gets stuck in your eyebrow and you
wipe it away with the back of your hand. The air is hot and stifling,
the heat drying the back of your throat.
The man leans back and
mutters something before adjusting his position. His hand manoeuvres
the quill in the area just under the colossal claw, the scratching of
the implement slicing through your nerves. You lean forward, trying
to see what he is drawing now. It is small, tiny even, and very hard
to make out. You reach out and grab his wrist, dread rising inside
you. The wrist cracks in your fingers. The old man yowls.
You sense movement
behind you, a shifting of the air, a tension pressing down on your
head and shoulders. You lean forward, feeling your heartbeat in every
part of your body. You look at the paper, your eyes struggling to
focus on the intricate art. The tiny, dwarfed thing that the monster
is towering over. It’s you! You reading from some device!
You notice your hand is
empty, the man is gone. You vaguely wonder how he vanished and where
he went. That is, until you turn around and empty yourself into the
biggest scream you can muster.
THE END
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