By Douglas Kruger
THE itsy bitsy scrap of Alderney recently hosted a public “house of horrors”. The attraction made it onto the evening news.
Peopled by several iconic movie monsters, variously biting, sawing, gnawing, chasing, and offering a single red balloon, the hosts upped the ante by holding it in the subterranean crypt of the Island Hall, murky lighting and all. Champion stuff! I hope the show makes it to Jersey, so that we, too, can scare ourselves silly.
Isn’t it odd how our species enjoys that?
You don’t find herds of roe deer coming together and whispering, “Let’s make pop-up wolves and give ourselves heart attacks!” Equally, I’ve never heard of hamsters gleefully sharing dark “Final Destination” stories about flushing toilets. Yet clearly, a good fright somehow does it for us humans. Observe the joy with which we inflict our tales on one another.
I recently bought my own copy of “The Ghost Museum – The Jersey Tour,” by G.S. Ramsden, and, frankly, you should too. It’s a great read for a shiver with a local flavour. You can order them on Amazon, and there’s something delightfully effective about a ghostly tale set in venues you recognise. Makes it more real.
Dig a little, and you find that most families have a strange story to relate. Creepy and inexplicable tales that become part of their family lore. Personally, the scariest thing I’ve ever seen was when I sat down to a meal in Taipei, and I’ll spare you, but my Mom back in South Africa relates an eerie one.
Her mother lived on a farm, the better part of a century ago. Farms in South Africa are vast places, with neighbours often miles away over rolling bushveld, and, at the time, the best way to cover the distances was on horseback.
When my grandmother was 10 years old, her father was out in the fields. A storm came up. The thunder and lightning built to a crescendo, and as one particular bolt cracked from the sky, her sister turned to her and announced that that particular bolt had just killed their father.
Minutes later, the horse returned, alone. They held the funeral the following week.
True story.
Some frights, of course, are less lethal. We had a weird one in our apartment the other night. My wife and I were watching an old CSI, when the nearby bathroom door opened. Just a few inches, all by itself, and for no reason. There isn’t even an open window in there to provide a breeze.
My wife decided that chivalry is not dead, and opted to sacrifice me to the inspection.
We still don’t know what happened – probably something to do with heat convection – but I saw my opportunity. I stuck one hand into the dark bathroom, froze, then convulsed, as though something had me in a death grip. My wife still has not, and may never, forgive me. Chalk it up to revenge for the times she has gasped at a passage in a book, sending me into full pyjama kung-fu mode before I realised there really was no emergency.
We do love a good scare, don’t we? My Dad once aged several years in one evening.
He walked out into the backyard, late at night, and there, standing in the shadows, was another man, brazenly looking straight back at him. My Dad froze. The man froze. They stared at one another in a quiet ballet of perfect tension. Seconds ticked by in deathly silence. My Dad weighed up yelling, running, charging directly at the man, or calling out for help. Still the dark figure stared back, unflinching. Finally, it dawned on him that he’d hung his overalls out to dry on the washing line earlier that day. He accredits several grey hairs to that one.
If that moment added years to his age, he actively removed several from my friend and I, when we were about 12. We decided to host a ghost stories night. For ambience, we sat outside in the yard, with a single candle and some Ouma rusks (ask your South African friend).
My Dad thought it would be funny to sneak out of the property, then jump back over the wall from the street. He landed right beside us, holding a pitchfork and yelling “Yaaaarrgh!” That’s all I remember. There may have been a hospital visit.
Still, no matter how much it gets to us, we keep coming back for more.
Since then, I’ve paid to go on a ghost tour in Australia’s Manly Quarantine station, helped to fund the retirement plans of Stephen King and Dean Koontz, and collected a trove of “favourite scary movies”. For the record, my pick of the crop includes The Nun, The Village, The Visit, The Annabelle series, and Stephen King’s “It”, specifically that scene where the nice old lady slowly deteriorates over her cup of tea.
Oh, and The Grudge! Speaking of which, try this with your spouse. One second before you turn off the bedroom lights, stretch your eyes wide, then, as all goes dark, emit that throaty corpse noise right in their ear. Oodles of fun.
I suppose I get my sense of humour from my wall-jumping, pitchfork-wielding Dad. I think it’s called generational trauma.
Anyway, I reckon we’re about overdue for a good Jersey-based horror movie. They can be filmed on a dime-budget, and we’re dripping with creepy locations, provided you plan to shoot in winter. I favour the “found-footage” genre. A bunch of kids film themselves going on an ill-advised excursion. ‘Here’s what the police found…!’
Oo! Location idea! What if we used The aMaizin Maze? The after-hours break-in is all fun and games until one character finds walking herself completely alone. Why is it so silent all of a sudden? Where is everyone? “Dave? Is that you?” Sound of snapping twig somewhere behind…
So, well done, Alderney! What fun! Any chance of doing it again here?
Meanwhile, if that sort of thing lights you up, do make a note in your diary. I’ll be doing a reading from my scary new novel, House of the Judas Goat, at the St Helier library. Pencil it in for the evening of 30 October, and come hear all about a group of kids, an inescapable mansion, and the machinations of one psychopathic child. Just in time for Halloween. See you there!
Douglas Kruger is an author and speaker based in Jersey. His new novel, House of the Judas Goat, is due for release in the UK in three weeks’ time.
