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In the roll call of the all-time great horror masters, there are few who loom as large, few who cast such a strange shadow as Clive Barker. Born in Liverpool in October 1952, Barker pulled himself away from the sooty industrial landscape of the north of England to become one of the most distinctive voices in horror. He is a creator whose work transcends horrors more traditional boundaries to explore themes such as transformation, desire, and the strange otherworldly terror that lies at the intersection of pleasure and pain.  Many of his contemporaries would approach horror through a lens of pure fear. Barker was different, he brought something more complex. A philosophy and aesthetic sensibility that would change monsters into angels, Hell into a puzzle of dark enlightenment and made suffering itself a pathway to transcendence. Barker’s journey in becoming a master of horror didn’t start with the haunted words of gothic literature. Rather, he started in the vibrant and experimental world of fringe theatre. In the late 70s, studying at Liverpool University, he helped found The Dog Company, an avant-garde theatre group. And it was here he began his experiments in exploring the far edges of human experience. In cramped venues, along with converted spaces, Barker started to develop his unique approach to horror. One that highlighted the theatrical, the visceral, and the transforming power of the extreme experience.
The background in theatre would later prove invaluable to his success in horror. Working in theatre requires a knowledge of physical space, knowing how bodies move in different environments and how an audience will react to what is happening in front of them. The skills he developed later translated into his approach in literature and film. He would, time after time, showcase an almost supernatural ability to create a scene that feels immediate and present. But most of all real. The gore and violence in his stories don’t feel gratuitous because they come from the character and situation with the same inevitability as any classical tragedy. What was also as important was Barker’s career as a painter. His work, which often portrayed figures from nightmares in a moment of ecstasy or agony, showed an artist fascinated by the human form in extremis. This visual obsession infused his writings with a high degree of specificity. He doesn’t simply say that something is horrific. His horrors are painted in such vivid detail that it is seared into the readers imagination. The descriptions of the Cenobites from The Hellbound Heart are crafted in such a way that they read like an instruction manual from a master sculpture, albeit in one working in wire and flesh. Consider their first arrival on the page; “When it spoke, the hooks that transfixed the flaps of its eyes and were wed, by an intricate system of chains passed through flesh and bone alike, to similar hooks through the lower lip, were teased by the motion, exposing the glistening meat beneath.”  The literary foundation he built upon came from a voracious reading habit while recognising early that at its best, horror was a way of exploring the deeper questions of human nature. He would be influenced from authors such as Edgar Allen Poe and Jean Genet, read classic mythology to modern experimental fiction. A literary foundation this broad allowed him to see horror not as a collection of standard tropes and conventions, but rather as a way of artistic expression. And with this he could push his readers far beyond their comfort zones. He would make them question truths, perhaps uncomfortable, about mortality, desire and the nature of reality. Books of Blood arrived in 1984, and with it came the arrival of a major new voice in horror. The oft-quoted endorsement from Stephen King, “I have seen the future of horror and his name is Clive Barker” showed the recognition that something truly original had come to the genre. The six volumes of short fiction he had written didn’t just create new monsters or a different way to scare readers; they changed on a fundamental level what horror fiction was and what it could do.  The stories Barker wrote in Books of Blood utilise a different logic than most traditional horror. While regular horror punishes those who transgress and can reinforce the social norms, the stories Barker creates often celebrate the transgressive and make us question the foundations of normalcy. With The Midnight Meat Train, our protagonist investigates a series of brutal murders in New York. This doesn’t lead to a justice or a resolution, but rather his acceptance of his own role in an ancient, and necessary, cycle of violence. In the Hills, the Cities, two towns in Eastern Europe quite literally transform their inhabitants into two giant humanoid figures in order to do battle. The story reads like something Franz Kafka would write after spending a day or two with David Cronenberg. What made these stories unique was how sophisticated their philosophies were. Barker didn’t just want to shock; he wanted to see what was beyond shock. To explore the realm where horror became revelation. His demons and monsters weren’t evil in the traditional sense. They represented different ways of being. And the majority of time, they were more real and honest than any of the “regular” humans they encountered. This became the centre of Barker’s entire aesthetic. That horror may not be about facing up to evil, but more about confronting our own limited understanding of what it means to be human. Books of Blood may have established his literary reputation, but it was the movie Hellraiser (1987) that turned him into a cultural phenomenon and changed the landscape of horror cinema forever. Based on The Hellbound Heart, a novella he published in 1986, this movie introduces the Cenobites to a worldwide audience. They are beings from a dimension where the boundaries between agony and ecstasy have been forever removed.  Led by the figure who would come to be known as Pinhead, the Cenobites were a huge shift from the traditional horror movie monsters. They weren’t mindless killing machines like Jason Vorhees, or a dream invader like Freddy Krueger. These were intelligent, sophisticated beings with their own philosophy and logic. They viewed torture not as a negative thing but rather a means to enlightenment. Even their appearance, with religious style gowns, and bodies showing ritual scarification and strange surgical changes, showed us beings who had transcended our notions of physical existence. The impact of Hellraiser on horror cinema was immediate and lasts even today. It proved that audiences were hungry for intelligent horror, movies that offered a complex theme along with the blood and gore. The film’s success birthed multiple sequels, although very few captured the philosophical sophistication of the original. But perhaps more important, a generation of horror moviemakers were influenced to think a lot more seriously about the monsters they were creating, and the themes of their movies. One of the central themes of Barker’s work is transformation. His idea is that humans are not fixed entities but a fluid and changeable form, capable of extreme metamorphosis. This theme appears regularly in his work, from the body-twisting horror of his short stories to the deeply elaborate enhancements of the Cenobites and reality-shifting narratives in novels like The Great and Secret Show (1987) and Weaveworld (1989). It is rare that transformation in his work is presented negatively. They are often violent and disturbing but also liberating. In "The Age of Desire", a businessman’s encounter with a strange woman leads to a physical transformation. Portrayed as both terrifying and ecstatic, Barker is suggesting that real desire may mean us abandoning our attachment to the regular human form.  The theme of transformation is directly connected to Barker’s broad philosophical idea: that horror fiction can serve as a means of exploring that which lies beyond the human experience. The monsters he creates aren’t just foul beasts to be destroyed, they are differing forms of being, ones that raise challenges for the audience. The transformation theme also mirror’s Barker’s own experience as a gay man coming of age in a time when homosexuality was still stigmatised and criminalised. A lot of critics have pointed out the various ways his exploring of the different forms of identity and desire can be read as a metaphor for questions of sexual and social transformation. The extreme body modifications of the Cenobites could be viewed as representative of how marginalised individuals can create a new identity and community. But even with all that, there is no theme in his work that has proven more controversial or influential than how he treats sexuality. From the start, his fiction has been concerned with desire in all forms. More than sexual or romantic desire, but the deep longing we all have for transcendence, to connect with something more. In the universe Barker creates, sexuality is never simple or straightforward. Usually, it’s wrapped up with transformation, violence, spiritual revelation. The Cenobites realm is a place where physical pain and sexual pleasure have blurred together and pursuing the ultimate sensation has led to types of experiences that go beyond regular pleasure and suffering.  His approach to sexuality was a huge break from the traditional prudishness of mainstream horror and also wider cultures tendency to separate desire from spiritual experience. Throughout his work Barker suggests that real desire, the type that leads to transformation, will require getting rid of our notions of normalcy, safety and appropriate behaviour. The characters he writes usually find their deepest desires lead them to realms that are both horrific and enlightening. The sexual themes he explores also highlight his wider interest in the dimensions of human experience. The majority of his stories can be read like contemporary versions of mystical literature. In which extreme experiences, doesn’t matter if its sexual, psychological or physical, can be used as a walkway to transcendent understanding. The horror Barker writes about doesn’t come from the sexual experience itself. Instead, he suggests that real transcendence will only come once we abandon everything, we know about ourselves and our world. As Barker’s career evolved, his work started to move beyond the boundaries of horror fiction completely. His novels Weaveworld, The Great and Secret Show, and Imajica (1991) showcased his ability to create different mythologies as detailed and complex as anything found in literary fiction or high fantasy. We saw an author who could build worlds on an epic scale, with an imagination encompassing full cosmologies of connected realities. Taking Imajica, many consider this the peak of Barker’s literary ambitions. It’s a huge book, over 800 pages, telling the story of five interconnected realities and the people who move between them. He weaves horror, science fiction, fantasy and magical realism into a story that is both intimate and with a cosmic scope. How he treats sexuality, gender and identity in the novel proved influential, predicting many of the themes that would become important in modern speculative fiction. And his later novels showed Barker’s commitment to the theme of transformation. In Imajica, his characters go through spiritual and physical changes that make the changes in his others works seem mild by comparison. He suggests that the whole of reality is in flux, and that the boundaries between ourselves and the other, between the human and divine, could be far more permeable than we ever imagined.  While highly regarded as a writer and filmmaker, Barker is also a talented visual artist. His paintings are important in understanding the totality of his aesthetic vision. What he puts on canvas show a world that is both incredibly disturbing but beautiful. His figures, caught in that moment of transformation, glow with an inner light that is demonic and divine. With them we can see that Barker’s horror aesthetic is based in a real appreciation of beauty. It’s not a conventional prettiness, but rather an understanding of beauty that includes the terrible, the sublime and the transformative. The figures he paints often seem to be experiencing a revelation that is causing them ecstasy and agony. True beauty may only emerge with the total destruction and rebuilding of the regular form. His visual sensibility has deeply affected his approach to literature and film. His written descriptions are unusually precise, as though he is painting scenes with his words rather than simply describing them. The first encounter with the Cenobites in The Hellbound Heart is a clear example of this. Barker describes them with photographic detail. He writes as someone who has actually seen them and painted them in all their horrific beauty; “Why then was he so distressed to set eyes upon them? Was it the scars that covered every inch of their bodies, the flesh cosmetically punctured and sliced and infibulated, then dusted down with ash? Was it the smell of vanilla they brought with them, the sweetness of which did little to disguise the stench beneath?” It is hard to overstate Barker’s influence on modern horror. His approach, visually elaborate, sexually explicit and sophisticated philosophically helped open doors for artists who wanted to use horror as a means for serious expression. Without his influence, it becomes harder to imagine David Cronenberg’s later work, Thomas Ligotti’s philosophical horror or Julia Ducournau’s body horror. His influence is seen more clearly in horror creators who share his interest in philosophical complexity, sexual themes and transformation. Authors such as Phillip Fracassi and Poppy Z. Brite all owe a debt to Barker’s approach to horror.
In cinema, we see his influence in the work of moviemakers who prioritize practical effects and detailed creature design. Directors such as Guillermo del Toro, whose creations a lot of times share the same philosophical desires as many of Barker’s imaginings. There has been a resurgence in body horror movies with such examples as The Neon Demon, Raw and Titaine. These all showcase the influence Barker has on horror’s visual language. In 2022, Hellraiser was rebooted and directed by David Bruckner. Jamie Clayton played a reimagined Pinhead and marked a huge moment in the cultural influence of Barker. Serving as executive producer rather than director, he helped ensure a return to the philosophical sophistication of the original after many lacklustre sequels that had become formulaic. Casting Clayton, a transgender actress as the lead Cenobite, showed how Barker’s original vision had always been concerned with issues of identity and transformation. It led to widespread discussion about the level of representation in horror but also highlighted Barker’s continued relevance in modern culture. But even more broadly, the success of the reboot proved once again that audiences wanted horror that wasn’t condescending and offered complex themes. We are in an era when horror cinema has achieved respectability in mainstream audiences thanks to movies like Get Out and Hereditary. And so Barker’s approach feels more relevant than ever.  The rise of Clive Barker from underground Liverpool artist to the dark prophet of horror is one of the genre’s most remarkable success stories. But more importantly, it shows a massive transformation in what both horror cinema and literature could aspire to be. Before Clive Barker, so often horror was dismissively waved away as an outsider genre, something that was focused mainly on cheap, schlocky thrills and the fears of our teenage years. Barker showed us that horror could ask deeper questions about human nature but also be used for serious artistic expression. His influence extends way beyond horrors own boundaries, into contemporary literature, cinema and art. His themes are featured heavily in modern culture, and his monsters are now icons not just of horror, but the broader cultural imagination. But perhaps most importantly, he proved that audiences don’t want art that condescends to them. With his success, he opened the door for other creators to produce artwork that didn’t provide easy answers but rather asked the hard questions about what it means to be human. Barker didn’t just create monsters that were memorable, he created a new way of thinking about what those monsters may represent and what horror can achieve. And so, the Liverpool artist became something more. More than just a successful creator, he became horrors dark prophet. A visionary whose influence shaped how we understood both the limitations of the horror genre, and the possibilities. Adam PageAdam is a freelance writer with a special love for all things horror-related, ever since he was a kid and read a battered old copy of Carrie. He plays awful guitar and is a cat person. His daughters think it is hilarious he has so many Stephen King books.
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 I left our husband’s body where I found it: in front of the redwood desk, head slumped over a stack of papers and a dried ballpoint pen. I made tea by squeezing the milky sap from poppies into water. Our husband drank tea during the day like he drank wine at night, constantly inhaling liquid with millisecond breaks to click his tongue or puff a cigarette. Poison is an investment in time, ingredients, tenacity, and faith. I used it sparingly, especially when a sprinkling’s difference turned medicine into poison. I left the body where I found it only because there was nowhere else to put it, and because I knew little about the art of concealment. Someone would discover him anyway—whether it be the butler or maids or my sisters. I believed there was less suspicion in the painfully obvious. Certainly, my sisters would never rat me out, as they disliked our husband equally, though they only voiced it in secret, while we gathered in the kitchen at night to raid the leftovers and drink tea from earthenware jugs, pretending we were savages. My sisters complained more skillfully than even the gardener who yelled at the sun for its warmth and the clouds for their dreariness.  “Can you imagine, he lifted my skirt in the middle of mourning,” my younger sister said. “I couldn’t even get up this morning, I had to ask for the maids to powder my face since the rouge was so horribly far away,” my elder sister countered. She slept in the largest room where you could host a sword dancing performance without shattering the mirror and splintering the shelves. This was not because our husband favored her, so she claimed, but because she moved in first and had the best pick of rooms. We were still in the middle of mourning our husband’s father who’d been trampled by a horse, so they say. The horses feared that entire family to the point they’d act dead whenever our husband or his father neared. If anything, our father-in-law likely trampled the horse with his cane for snorting too loudly and later died from tripping in horse poop.  Our husband liked skin. My younger sister still feels soft to touch, like the year’s first snow when it covers the European-styled buildings and streetcars. My elder sister resembles the frozen surface of Jingpo Lake, a mirror surrounded by rime, leading to an icefall preserved in pure, white shards. Our husband alternated between them regularly. He visited me only when both my sisters were occupied with their menstrual cycles or out on their trips to the night market where you could buy coats made from sika deer fur. When it was only us two, he refused to touch me unless I turned into a red-crowned crane, a body I disliked because of how clumsy and clunky it felt when I could not stretch my full wingspan, and because the sky barricaded by the window seemed eons further as a bird. At my strongest, I could cross oceans. Instead, our husband brought raccoon dogs and red foxes and gray wolves that I’d fight off with my beak, leaving my room’s carpet bloody and matted with fur and the occasional feather. The animal got bigger with each visit, but my skills also improved as I learned to target creatures’ vitals or temporarily blind them with my partially folded wings.  Our husband would watch quietly, motionless while sitting on my bed, and even when the wolf turned on him, his arms remained limp as I swooped in to stab the creature’s neck mid-pounce. “I trust you to save me. How majestic,” he’d say as he wiped my beak with a checkered, satin handkerchief and I waited for the signal to revert to human form. “You become more beautiful every time,” he’d speak into my hair as I reoriented myself with the room and brushed my hands over my arms, skin tender from the plucked and discarded feathers. Going from human to bird to human again doesn’t come naturally: you’ve got to will your body into restructuring, like smashing a sculpted clay figure into a ball only to reshape its guts into another life form. I’d fall asleep in his lap despite the smokey scent of a fresh gunshot into the animal’s body—insurance in case I spared the creature, and wake up the next morning clothed in my gown, dry and clean as though it’d been any other night.  My younger sister was a spot-billed duck, and my elder sister was a vulture. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care that our husband never asked my sisters to show their bird forms. Killing is much more tiring than making love, and my body would quake for weeks afterward while their bodies recovered within a day to partake in drinking and eating lamb skewers while flirting with the big-shouldered and round-bellied North-easterners. Nevertheless, my sisters despised our husband who provided only enough allowance money to buy freshly roasted sweet potatoes on the streets. In turn, they’d steal precious jade fish statues and antique calligraphy brushes from the dining room and trade them for coins to buy beer. “You’ve not seen a more frugal husband,” my elder sister lamented despite her secret wheat business that made money off poor harvests and hungry mouths. “He won’t notice if a few more gold bands go missing,” my younger sister shrugged. So I left our husband’s body as I had done with the wolf and the fox and the raccoon dog. I maneuvered the gun from his pocket and aimed it at his heart as insurance—because poisoned tea travels slowly, the way I once crossed rivers and mountains by following the clouds.
Lucy Zhang writes, codes, and watches anime. Her work has appeared in Virginia Quarterly Review, Shenandoah, The Massachusetts Review, and elsewhere. Find her at https://lucyzhang.tech or on Instagram @Dango_Ramen.  The brawny shirtless scientist found the beauty in white shorts and a dark back open blouse inside the cave, laid-back on a rock where the creature from the black lagoon left her. Upon emerging from the subterranean waters, witnessing a toxic masculinity display suffocating its object of desire makes the creature infuriated, as any passionate lover would be in those circumstances. Being a monster empowered by Mother Nature, was about to dispose of the scientist, but underestimated his employees’ human cleverness. They shot the creature in the back multiple times. That being, so powerful a few moments ago, left the cave mortally wounded, plunged, sank bleeding into the black lagoon bottom and faded in the movie’s closing credits. Red velvet curtains with gold fringe covered the silver screen. I took a look at my antique Longines Diamond wristwatch: almost half past one in the morning. How could I get a late-night bite at this time so far away from downtown? Pale sconces lit my way out of the ancient Sunrise Theater red golden screening room. “Hey, next Friday, our Creature Feature Festival will be screening Attack of the Giant Leeches, a cult Roger Corman production.” The lobby attendant got in my way. “Yvette Vickers is in the flick.” Curling the thin lips into an oblique smile, he pointed out the movie lobby card which framed a sultry blonde threatened with a rifle. “If you care to attend this coming showing could easily realize that she looks just like you.”  “I see.” Having been again the target of a weird pass from him, I looked away at the huge crystal chandelier hanging from the intricate plasterwork ceiling until put that skinny guy behind me. Some patrons who joined me in watching the creature from the black lagoon be shot in the back by brave humans left the theater walking down the sidewalk and engaging in a noisy trivia battle about Jack Arnold movies. My car was parked around the opposite corner. Being an environmentally friendly person, I was a proud owner of a beautiful little red Smart. As I got close, something became clear: the car had a flat tire. A challenge to my late-bite plans and, damn it, I was hungry. Suddenly there was light. Down the street where a post office and a dozen small business shops had closed their doors many hours before, slowly came a pair of headlights. Those worn tires stopped rolling on the opposite lane, the rusty exhaust pipe smoked a last cloud. I had trouble reading the peeling scarlet letters on the white van side: Congregation of the Sacrament of Penance. The doors were open with progressively loud squeaking noises. A tall, bald man wearing a white monk robe and a woman the same size as myself, hiding the hands inside her nun’s white habit long sleeves, left the vehicle. “Good evening. I am Brother Jeremiah. Could Sister Agatha and I be of any assistance?”, he brought that saddle-shaped nose and broad chest really close, making me feel like an agnostic forced against the ropes by a heavyweight prize-fighter from heaven. “The Lord be with you.”, the sweetness reflected in her round, light brown eyes approached me in heavy steps of military boots. “Hi.” I closed my burgundy blouse button. “My car has a flat. As a matter of fact, I was thinking about calling my service, but this late, it would take forever for them to show around here.”  “Why bother yourself with this? There is a gas station a few blocks down the street right on the avenue corner, we can take you there and ask for their service.” Sister Agatha flashed me the mother of all bright smiles. “You guys must have better things to do on a Friday night.” I wrapped the finger in a lock of my hair. “We drive through the night searching for anyone who needs the benefit of our help.” Brother Jeremiah’s dark eyes reached for the clouded sky. “By serving a brother or sister, we lighten our Spirit.” Sister Agatha gently bowed her head. “I am far from a believer as you would ever find.” I kicked the flat. “It’s just another reason to show you how unselfish is the Lord, who, in his infinite wisdom, put us in this way, accepting you as you are.”, he grabbed my shoulder. “Mysterious are the ways of the Lord.”, she was almost singing the words. “A few blocks, you said?” I frowned. “No more than that.” Brother Jeremiah raised his thick eyebrow. “Please, my blue-eyed angel.” Sister Agatha held my hand. “Let us honor the Lord helping you.” “OK.” I walked to their second-hand van. “There are all kinds of stuff behind, the front seat can accommodate us all together.”, he opened the passenger door. “Would you be a lamb?” I got into that musty-smelling vehicle. She followed right after me. Constantly staring at me, Brother Jeremiah made his way back to the other side and settled down behind the wheel, “We are ready to go.” They slammed the doors so hard that the van shook. “Let me give you a piece of the good word, our newsletter. The current edition is about how dangerous it is to become blind to our own sins.” She reached for the glove compartment. “You forgot to mention this religious conversion clause included in the ride.” I was following a Saint Peter medallion hanging from the rearview mirror that swayed hypnotically from side to side, up to Brother Jeremiah shoulder push that cheap plastic thing against the dirty windshield. He was all over me, grabbing my both hands and twisting the wrists backwards. “It was a joke…” I slipped down the bench. “C’mon!” Sister Agatha pulled me back by the hair. She covered and rubbed my face with a white handkerchief, the fabric soaked in a dense, strong-smelling liquid. I felt a strange euphoria feeling taking me over and my ear lobe swimming in Brother Jeremiah’s dripping tongue as my eyes closed and my head leaned over Sister Agatha’s shoulder.  It was a murky, cold, upside-down little world. I made an effort to correct the picture in my mind. At the end of the low-ceiling room, which had a suspicious resemblance to a basement, red pillar candles filled a hole shaped like an inverted cross on the wall. Right below, a faded copy of Caravaggio’s Crucifixion of Saint Peter was fixed over a torture rack, darkened bloodstains drawing a surreal map in the device’s wood frame. In front of this peculiar altar, reclining against a pair of wooden high-back chairs were Brother Jeremiah and Sister Agatha. They had changed clothes. Trying to figure out his cheap costume, it seemed to me that he has self-ordained himself a bishop, as told by the Alb, a garment dressing the whole body in white latex, displaying a scarlet inverted pectoral cross and the Mitre, a white pointed headdress showing a small version of that same cross. She wore a white latex habit, a scarlet inverted cross stamped in the thick headband of her shoulder-length veil and another gracing the chest of that outfit so deliciously tight in those curvaceous forms. Lit by the candles glow, pincers, whips, thumbscrews, and a collection of punishment instruments hanging from the walls lengthened its shadows across the cement floor. And, of course, it wasn’t the room, but myself who had been placed upside down. They had stripped me naked. Seems that I made the right decision when waxed me last night. Rough ropes around my ankles, waist, elbows and wrists firmly bound me in an inverted cross made of dark wood planks, arms stretched over the arms of the cross, one foot on top of the other like a reversed redeemer. Brother Jeremiah and Sister Agatha got up from their chairs and came close to me in solemn, practically choreographed steps. They both looked really tall from my point of view. “Her skin seems so smooth and milky...”, she sighed. “It’s better if I start.”, he took a deep breath. “The Congregation of the Sacrament of Penance follows Peter, the apostle, who, even in his martyrdom glory, requested that his cross be placed upside down when sentenced to death, feeling himself unworthy of being crucified in the same way as our Lord Jesus.”, his tongue clicked, “The Congregation tribunal is now in session. I advise you to forsake the sin of vanity, learn the way of humility.”, his eyes pierced mine, “We, The Sacrament of Penance Ministers, humble beg of thee, Peter, the apostle, bless us, enlighten us, made us worthy of this sacred mission, guide us during this heretic trial.”, his hands joined in a prayer. “Amen.” Sister Agatha’s hands assumed the same posture. “Let her soul finds pardon through sincere admission of all the sins she has committed, which will be taken to light by this trial.” He brought his right hand from the cross on his chest to the one in his headdress, then touched the left shoulder and moved it to the opposite one, concluding the inverted cross sign. Sister Agatha, again, mimics his gestures. “Liturgy of the Sin, first reading. Brothers and Sisters, if someone is caught in a sin, you who live by the Spirit should restore that person gently. But watch yourselves, or you also may be tempted. Galatians 6:1.” Brother Jeremiah bent his head over my foot, sucking the big toe for a while. “Our little lamb is cold.”, he stepped back. Sister Agatha turned to the wall and grabbed a flogger. “We tracked your life for some time to identify you as a heretic beyond a shadow of a doubt.”, she turned the whip’s short handle, those many tails undulated as serpents in front of my eyes. “You never are around family, friends or even acquaintances, living in an oldmansion out-of-town all by yourself. You visit downtown only to enjoy your little indulgences, and avoid engaging in any sort of relationship, an obvious preference for loneliness. Is this a narcissistic way of claiming yourself better than the rest of us?” Brother Jeremiah rubbed his nose on my instep. “What do you have to say in your defense, proud little bitch?” Sister Agatha whipped the flogger giving my abdomen a few light strokes. I breathed like a belly dancer. “You don’t seem to have any kind of productive role in society. Have you ever tried to perform the work of God?” Brother Jeremiah gazed at the ceiling. "Answer me now!" His breath expanded that already wide chest. “The hand of the diligent will rule, But the slack hand will be put to forced labor. Proverbs 12:24.” Sister Agatha barely twisted the wrist and down the flogger, hitting my right upper shoulder. “Discipline will teach you not to be lazy and give the answers that His Eminence requires.”, this time the tails landed on the left one. “Your financial portfolio reports are sent from countries like Bulgaria, Macedonia, Romania.” Brother Jeremiah held the chin. “What assets do you own in these foreign lands?” “His eminence would go that far to collect late tithes?” I widened my eyes at him. Sister Agatha raised the flogger, her left hand gently tugging the tails for a while, then dropped it at a crescent speed, “Just answer the question, you greedy sinner!” The whipping landed on my breasts. He shook from head to toe propelling a wave through the Alb. “Be strong, brother.” She brought his headdress back into place. “Only suffering can free her flesh from iniquity, as was done with that brunette cheerleader who also yelled heresies and suddenly became so eager to please.”  “Indeed.” His lips corners hinted at a smile. “Behaving as this you won’t find forgiveness, my lamb. The tongue should be used as a spiritual purification instrument, to serve a candid confession of the sins.” My closed lips prompted him to tap his fingers on her shoulder. “This inquisition process demands the deepest truth from the heretic. Since you’d rather feel pain than talk…”, her wrist rotated the handle swiftly, the tails whistling in hardly visible circles, its points lashing my neck once… twice… many times. Brother Jeremiah crouched down next to me. “I see no punishment evidence, sister. The skin still seems immaculate, almost as if this sacred scourge couldn’t hurt her.” He got up and touched the pectoral cross. “For a long time, I haven’t found two people so invested in their roles.” I made him raise those bushy eyebrows. “This cheesy drama of yours became surprisingly interesting.” “Let me interest you in something else!” Sister Agatha pressed my chin with the boot heel and my hair swept the floor. “How surprising is this?”, her stretched smile reminded me of Conrad Veidt in The Man Who Laughs. “Well, your trap sure didn’t surprise me at all.” I breathed her boot leather. “A flat tire? Really? Didn’t I deserve anything smarter?” “But this is our modus operandi.” A sweat drop slipped down to his nose tip. “Don’t explain yourself to her!” Sister Agatha pushed the handle against his lips. “What else do you think you know? Talk, bitch!”, her spit hit my nose, the boot sole smeared it all over my face. “It’s a little too late to conceal things from me.” I couldn't hold back the sneeze. “Should I say how many times I’ve spotted your van around my house? Try to hide a white vehicle behind lush trees is not an ingenious way to go unnoticed.” I shook my head. “Of course, no care would matter much on a property with a state-of-the-art surveillance system like mine.” “She has been upside-down for a while; maybe the blood has rushed to the head, causing dizziness, making her insensitive to pain and babbling all this stuff.” Brother Jeremiah wiped his nose with the Alb sleeve. “You forget about all of this in the morning, you’ll see…” I blinked at him. “Shut up!” Sister Agatha swiveled the waist raising the flogger, the latex sticking to her sweaty back, and turned to me arching the arm down, lashing my face. “Enough of heresies! You are in our hands and will be properly punished for the sacrilege of being arrogant. Maybe a torture device change is in order.” She marched to the opposite wall. “Here is what such a blasphemous bitch deserves!” Sister Agatha picked up a wrench-sized metal implement, a bar connecting two forks set against each other. “The heretic’s fork!” “Put in her flesh! Hurry!”, he clenched those big fists. She bent over me, supported one fork under my upper chest and forced the other against my throat. “A very crafty blacksmith honed these extremities especially for you. Feel like tasting your blood? Just raise the head, let the fork do the work… or lower the voice to humble whispers and repent every sin.” Sister Agatha stood up and rested her hands on those provocative hips. “You may proceed, brother.” “Liturgy of the Punishment, second reading. Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The Spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. Matthew 26:41”, his calloused hand squeezed my thigh. “Lust for horror movies is a manifestation of those unnatural, illicit sexual urges imprisoned in the bottomless pit of your soul. Confess us each one of these perversions in its details!” “Will consider an extra sin if I drop a couple of spoilers in my review, his eminence?” I frowned. “This white meat would favor a spicy seasoning, brother.”, her right hand took from the wall a cane made of rattan. “The bastinado will drag out the horror imagery with which she pleasures herself in the darkness. Remember, bitch, keep the head real still while you are talking.” The cane hissed in harmony with her breath at each strike on my toe tips. “Punish her!”, he punched his palm, “Break her, sister!” “Oh, yes! I will enforce discipline until this lustful sinner disowns all her Rated “R” debaucheries!” The bastinado furiously cut the air multiplying hits over my knees, hips and shoulders as I peered through the transparency of Sister Agatha's habit. “This spanking is not working, she keeps unwilling to talk, the skin still looks like a glass of milk and the eyes are free from distress.” Brother Jeremiah squeezed her shoulder. “Far before this point, we have done a stubborn redhead bodybuilder cry in fear.”, he bit her earlobe. “I dare say this whole trial is amusing our little lamb.” “I’ll find out how much more amusement the bitch can take!”, she shrugged her shoulder free of his hand, “Be sorry for your sins with all your heart, and ask forgiveness for choosing to do wrong and failing to do good!”, another cane blows volley spread through my body. “Hmm… This sadistic religious fetish has been staged in a way too tasty for your own good.” My speech forced the metallic bar. “Her chin is bending the heretic’s fork!” Sister Agatha walked back. Their toy broke in half, the forks bounced off the floor and got lost in the room’s dark corner. “What a hungry!”, my neck swung between them, “It’s far beyond my control.” “My God!”, he leaned over me, “Do you hear the bones cracking? The forehead is waving, cheekbones projecting, her whole face is grotesquely reshaping itself!” “His eminence no longer feels attracted to me?” I blew him a kiss. “Darkness erased the blue in her eyes.” Brother Jeremiah got up and joined his hands in a prayer. “Fingernails expanding as it were razors!”, his face became whiter than the Alb. “The blood seems to be glowing in the bitch veins!”, her shaking hand dropped the cane. “Please, don’t talk about blood, you two are already smelling...” I moistened my lips. “For Christ’s sake!” Brother Jeremiah crumpled his pectoral cross. “Her canines are stretching into fangs!” “Let me thank you both, not just for your holy scriptures refreshing interpretation, but mainly for choosing an inverted cross as this kinky congregation symbol.”, my laughter reverberated on those cold walls. “I will kill her!” Sister Agatha hurried her martial steps to the back of the room. “But we are still one reading and three sins short!” Brother Jeremiah spread his arms wide. “Get out of my way, brother!” Sister Agatha ran to me holding a silver Smith & Wesson with both hands. “Die, bitch, die!” She pulled the trigger until emptied the gun barrel. A couple of her shots drilled holes in the wall, four bullets passed through my chest and pierced the cross.  “Then I saw another beast, coming out of the earth. It had two horns like a lamb, but it spoke like a dragon. Revelations 13.11.” Tearing the rope, splitting the wood, I crossed my arms. Breaking what was left of the cross, the remaining ropes flying around, I threw myself forward, flipping, hitting Brother Jeremiah’s groin with both feet. Sending me a satisfaction shiver, a lament escaped from his gaping mouth while the burly body collapsed, sinking into unconsciousness by hitting the floor. Sister Agatha threw the revolver at my chest, crouched down and pulled a knife from a boot pocket. She lunged forward aiming the two-inch blade at my heart and flashing all those dazzling white teeth in an equally sharp smile. I dodged the blade, grabbed and twisted her wrist. The knife fell and the smile turned into a growl. “Where is your God now?” I grabbed her by the neck and threw the no longer smiling sister against the wall. “O Holy Apostle…” Muttering a prayer, she dropped back into my arms. I raised her and, feeling like Christopher Lee himself, carried Sister Agatha, gently laying her down on the table-like surface. I secured the ankles and wrists widespread in the rack axles ropes. “I request to see if you were made in God’s image.” I pulled her habit collar, the latex whistled as it split in half. “The All-Mighty has indeed a celestial taste.” I threw the scraps on the floor and groped that voluptuous, well-rounded body as her murmurs turned to grumbles. “Don’t touch me, bitch!” Sister Agatha fought the ropes. “Way to go! Fear makes the flavor better.” My tongue caught a blood drop that slipped down her trapped wrist. “Hmm... 1999, fruity, supple and of moderate aging, a late twenty-century fine vintage. Time to drink you, sister.” “Jeremy, help me!”, her wild movements ripped cracks from the wood. “His eminence will take a while to wake up.” I lifted the mouth corners drawing a smile on her face. “Be happy, Peter, the apostle, is waiting for you.” “Wait! Listen to me!”, the dread dilated her pupils, “Let me help you! I have the names and addresses of all our congregation members.” “What a busy Friday night they must be having ambushing unwary people to torture them in filthy basements like this!” I rotated my index finger inside her navel. "Think about it." She sounded raucous as a crow. “I can deliver to you healthy men and women to be your livestock for a long time!” “Would you include that skilled blacksmith in the deal?” I scratched her round nose. “Of course, he lives nearby, I can call him right now if you wish!”, the deep breath lifted her sweaty breasts. “This is not a very Christian behavior on your part.” I pinched her nipple. “Give me a chance, I will surrender myself unconditionally and take care of all your needs like no one has ever done before.”, she nodded the head in frantic agreement with her own words, “I swear in God’s name!” “So, the bible also taught you how to vacuum a room? Sorry, I am away ahead of you in this matter. Jeremy, or rather Brother Jeremiah is already selected to serve me.” “You won’t like having Jeremy, his own home is a mess. Get rid of him and choose me!” “It seems his eminence deserves little regard from you! The thing is, I’ve always thought that those duties are better served by men. Using the right incentive, they become highly dedicated butlers. Anyway, thank you very much for your application, but I see you more as a blood bag kind.” I kissed her trembling lips. “Please, Sister Agatha, find a way to absolve me of the deadly sin of gluttony because, in our present situation, it will be more deadly for you than for me.” I leaned over to her. “No!”, as she tried to avoid me lowering the chin, I twisted it, laid her face on the rack. “Stay away from me…”, was her last whisper. My fangs punctured the neck, penetrating the common carotid artery. I enjoyed her life essence slowly, keeping the heart beating as long as possible while feeding… tastes exquisitely better in this way. After draining Sister Agatha, I licked my lips, gathered a sharp piece of the broken cross and staked her heart. And, just for insurance, also severed her head. “Aggie…” Brother Jeremiah rolled over the floor crushing that silly headdress. “I have bad news for you. Sadly, Aggie, or Sister Agatha, as I was introduced to her, is gone.” Holding by the veil, I lifted her. “My sincere condolences for your loss.” His eyes darted back and forth from Sister Agatha’s head in my hand to her decapitated body on the rack, “You are an abomination in the sight of God!” “She shouldn’t have called me a bitch that many times.” I threw my hunting trophy right into his lap. “Isn’t polite, you know?” He gently lowered the lids, hid the horror frozen in those eyes, rearranged the nun’s habit scraps, and rested Sister Agatha’s head in this sort of latex holy mantle. Brother Jeremiah jumped off the floor and swiftly swung his right arm toward my face.  “If you had heard the bride of Christ begging me to get rid of you.”, I blocked his clenched fist halfway to my face, squeezed his arm and forced him to his knees. “Learn to worship me.” I released that big hand, dove into those dark eyes, found his conscience hiding behind a religious depravities mind wall, overpowered Brother Jeremiah’s will. It wasn’t that difficult, the desire to submit had been burning in his soul for a long, long time. I opened a wound between my breasts with the index fingernail. “Drink my essence distilled from countless useless lives…”, he licked the thread of blood like a puppy. “Our alliance is sealed, you’ll be my sleep’s sentinel, my house servant, my will’s slave. Rejoice! You have finally found a purpose in life.” What can I say? After decades of taking care of my own affairs, I took a servant again. Contrary to Sister Agatha’s beliefs, his twenty-four-seven devotion keeps the mansion clean, bright and pristine. In my now organized closet, anything is ready to wear, no matter what I choose. Always wanting to please me, he set up fun situations to deliver his congregation’s acolytes to my mercy. Right now, by the way, having gotten rid of dinner leftovers (what a juicy blacksmith), he just made our private screening room ready to show my Stag film collection. Such valuable souvenirs to keep alive my memories from the Roaring Twenties. Guess what? In one of these reels, the only remaining image of me as a beautiful naked human being, just before the Frenchman turns me into an everlasting performer. Of course, the Kinetograph wasn’t able to capture his slender figure on film. I will enjoy these black & white silent gems while taking full advantage of Brother Jeremiah’s oral skills. THE END
 By Denis Winston Brum A man is framed through the noose of the gallows attached to his living room ceiling while the soundtrack accompanies the fast beating of his heart. This unexpected shot opens “Excitação”, director Jean Garret's second film, a rare horror title at a time when Brazilian cinema suffered under the military dictatorship's political censorship. Born in Açores, Portugal, José Antônio Nunes Gomes e Silva arrived in Brazil to work as a photographer. He soon found himself under the tutelage of José Mojica Marins, better known internationally as Brazilian horror titan Coffin Joe, and performed several singular jobs in the master’s productions. Adopting the alias Jean Garret, he got involved in a film genre known as “pornochanchada”, a mix of popular comedy seasoned with some light nudity and completely avoiding any political content. His first film in this genre was the dramatic, romantic, erotic, and full of surrealist touches, A Ilha dos Desejos. Just a couple of years later, in 1976, making a full turn into the horror genre, he chose Excitação for his second directorial effort, sharing script duties with Ody Fraga, a well-known name in Brazilian exploitation cinema.  Renato, an engineer responsible for programming computers more passionate about machines than people, isolates his beautiful wife Helena from the big city pressure in order for her to recover from a nervous breakdown. The chosen mansion of solitude is located next to a beautiful natural landscape at the end of a sunny beach, without Helena knowing that a suicide was committed in this same house. Roberto leaves his unstable wife by herself most of the time and, to complicate matters, Helena has Arlete, the suicide’s widow, as her only neighbor.  When she tries to relax in a bath, the shower pours increasingly hot steam over her. She finds herself locked in the bathroom and barely escapes with a local fisherman’s help. Renato dismisses the incident, attributing it to a hallucination resulting from her nervous breakdown. The scale of inexplicable events grows as the television set turns on by itself and displays a late-night horror movie. Soon, every electronic device seems to take on a life of its own. Helena is also disturbed by apparitions of the man who hanged himself in her living room. Renato receives all this with skepticism. Unaware that she is having an affair with her husband, Helena finds little solace in Arlete’s company.  Under this tense atmosphere, the arrival of Arlete’s cousin Lu, who has fun teasing each one of them with her hedonist life philosophy, messes up the situation. In a faith paradox typical of Brazilian society, after Lu reveals that the suicide of her visions took place in her own home, Helena goes to a Catholic Church and also brings a group of Umbanda, an African-based religion, to perform a spiritual cleansing in the house’s living room, in an attempt to help the dead man’s soul to find rest. Things go quiet for a little while and Helena feels strong enough to try to seduce Renato, and rescue the romance in her life, but she suffers a cold rejection from him.  The attacks return more aggressively than ever, and Helena strongly believes that she is in contact with the dead man’s vengeful spirit. The ending reserves a couple of twists, none of which are so easy to guess. Unlike many exploitation films of this period, which seems to lengthen scenes to ensure enough time and find distribution as a feature, the lean script was written in a way that delves into situations and characters without repeating itself.  For the main roles, Jean Garret casts Kate Hansen (Helena), Flávio Galvão (Renato) and Bety Saddy (Arlete), well-known faces from the TV soap operas, and added Zilda Mayo (Lu), protagonist of countless pornochanchada productions as a support player. As the dialogs were dubbed later, this often affects the spontaneity of the cast’s performance. Even so, Kate Hansen stands out as the tormented and neglected wife, especially when Helena accelerates her descent into madness. Flávio Galvão projects all of Renato’s unbalanced human coldness and technological passion. Bety Saddy composes Arlete with an ambiguous sweetness, making her convincing when she loves, helps or betrays others. The underrated Zilda Mayo portrays Lu with an extra layer of sassy, having fun delivering her dialogs that challenges prevailing morals. The São Paulo coast serves as the main location elevating the production values with its natural beauty.  Brazilian exploitation productions used to rely on stock music in their soundtracks. In “Excitação”, Beto Strada’s original score flirts with the electronic music that would dominate world cinema in the following decade. Almost entirely electronic, the theme that accompanies the attacks by machines against Helena proves to be very efficient. The film is also far ahead of its time in employing abrupt changes in soundtrack volume as scare tactics. “Excitação” resorts to ingenious, very well-edited, practical effects to simulate machine attacks and supernatural events. These scenes contributed to the suspense and shock in the darkness of a 1970s movie theater; however, it is undeniable that those effects have suffered with the passage of time and, it will not be surprising, become laughable to current audiences.  Jean Garret avoids using the handheld camera as much as possible, opting for smooth pans and tracking shots. Always framing the house in a long shot, the director illustrates Helena’s isolation. To achieve a claustrophobic feeling, most of the time he frames Helena through windows, door frames and in the background of ceiling lamps. Wide shots are only used when she is in other character’s company. Jean Garret aesthetic refinement even helps to disguise the production’s limited budget. Realized through pornochanchada's cheap production values, this unexpected blending of technological and supernatural horror seasoned with a giallo pinch is Jean Garret's unique, fascinating contribution to the Brazilian horror genre.  In the mid-1980s, Brazilian cinema faced one of its many crises, and, at the end of his short career (he only lived to be 50 years old), the need to survive led Jean Garret to get involved with pornography, as did a considerable number of Brazilian filmmakers. “Excitação” was never released on home video, and, as it were a ghost from cinema eras past, can be rarely seen haunting Brazilian late-night cable TV.
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by Jimmy O'Hara
Source: Etheria Film Festival 2024 Teaser 1. Submit to self at the mercy of an army of cannibalistic teeth.
2. Worship at the altar of a cheesy marinara god.
3. Battle demons from the passenger seat of a predatory automobile.
4. Join a fair/competitively priced pyramid scheme headed by THE Barbara Crampton! (And THE Ax Man!)
5. Stream ETHERIA FILM NIGHT 2024, a short film festival dedicated to championing female identifying genre filmmakers, on Shudder NOW!
2. Worship at the altar of a cheesy marinara god.
3. Battle demons from the passenger seat of a predatory automobile.
4. Join a fair/competitively priced pyramid scheme headed by THE Barbara Crampton! (And THE Ax Man!)
5. Stream ETHERIA FILM NIGHT 2024, a short film festival dedicated to championing female identifying genre filmmakers, on Shudder NOW!
Source: Etheria Film Festival 2024 Teaser
A delightfully dreadful and diverse showing of genre filmmaking promoting independent Women filmmakers within the industry, both on and off screen! From body snatching folklore to edible eldritch horror to a satirical, social media induced slasher, these nine short selections from Women writers, directors, producers, and stars entertain a wide variety of chills, thrills, and overall good genre entertainment (and all under 120-minutes)!
Source: Etheria Film Festival 2024 Teaser
Kicking things off with the equal parts cheeky and GORY “creature” feature, Tooth, writer Katie Gault and director Jillian Corsie bring a new meaning to “body horror”. Janine Peck stars in a near silent but sensational performance as an elderly woman attacked by her own…teeth!?! Stylish, funny, and BLOODY from start to finish! These teeth have literal teeth and…well, let’s just say that these cannibalistic canines bite back!
Source: Etheria Film Festival 2024 Teaser
Faye Jackson’s Ten of Swords brings its own unique hunger. Theo Solomon stars as a zombie with not only a constant craving, but ALSO a conscience as the latest victim of a late-stage capitalistic venture seeking to monetize…the afterlife?!? And these zombies don’t moan and groan all day! Instead, they hold blue collar jobs, perform musical numbers, and form undead unions of likeminded, reanimated proletaries.
This gritty allegorical critique offers a chillingly close glimpse into a not-so-distant future society SUFFERING (both living AND dead) under capitalism. A sleek display of postmodern science fiction and jam packed with brutally symbolic imagery, touchingly nuanced performances, and visually dynamic direction. Jackson’s story makes the strongest case for feature-length adaptation with vast potential for lore expansion within her meticulously crafted universe.
This gritty allegorical critique offers a chillingly close glimpse into a not-so-distant future society SUFFERING (both living AND dead) under capitalism. A sleek display of postmodern science fiction and jam packed with brutally symbolic imagery, touchingly nuanced performances, and visually dynamic direction. Jackson’s story makes the strongest case for feature-length adaptation with vast potential for lore expansion within her meticulously crafted universe.
Source: Etheria Film Festival 2024 Teaser Video
Sofie Somoroff’s Ride Baby Ride, an antithesis to John Carpenter’s Christine (1983), matches the colorfully whimsical atmospheres established in both aforementioned outings brilliantly, but subtextual exploration of gender roles and female sexual assault dissolves far less comfortably than themes addressed in preceding festival romps. The short runtime is intentional, choosing to abandon the audience as quickly as possible in an effort to disarm their sensibilities throughout the violent action sequence.
A non-stop heart racer of (wo)man vs. beast. A young, female mechanic in the middle of nowhere fighting for much more than just her life. The audience can’t help but be affected until after the credits roll.
So fast paced, so action packed, so thrilling that it is only capable of being fully digested in the aftermath. A rather disarming and confounding viewing experience that is eerily emblematic of what survivors experience in the wake of an assault.. Subversive, stifling, surreal!
A non-stop heart racer of (wo)man vs. beast. A young, female mechanic in the middle of nowhere fighting for much more than just her life. The audience can’t help but be affected until after the credits roll.
So fast paced, so action packed, so thrilling that it is only capable of being fully digested in the aftermath. A rather disarming and confounding viewing experience that is eerily emblematic of what survivors experience in the wake of an assault.. Subversive, stifling, surreal!
Source: Etheria Film Festival 2024 Teaser Video
And yet, it is Grace Rex’s alluringly unnerving The Shadow Wrangler that steals the show with a provocative probe into the (increasingly) blurry psyche of a smut novelist as she is haunted by metaphysical ruminations of grief. The heavily stylized worlds, of both the writer’s reality and her fiction, clash violently in melodramatic juxtaposition. All seamlessly produced with refreshing polish by writer/director Rex and held together by Mitzki Akaha’s star-making performance in the leading role; equal parts tenacious and grounded, Akaha navigates comedy, drama, and horror with sultry magnetism and cool, veteran-like ease.
No matte backdrops, painted with fields of bright flowers hidden between puffy pink clouds, nor romantic sunsets, washing out debonair highwaymen from the dirtiest, wettest dream, can color the dark shadows that creep within this lonely writer’s apartment. A visual FEAST, Rex is the real deal and Akaha has serious chops to match! A duo made in Hollywood heaven (which probably is nowhere near as stunning as that opening sequence)!
Source: Etheria Film Festival 2024 Teaser Video
The festival closes out on the high note with the most hilariously absurd (complimentary) piece for last, Brea Grant’s MLM. Horror legend Barbara Crampton is at the center of a horrific scam aimed at utilizing social media to victimize wealthy, and lonely, suburban housewives. Comedic tour de force’s Jessika Van and Courtney Pauroso succumb to the negative consequences of their “feminist” subscription as the final act, fully allowing the leading duo to show off their range as actors in a meta comedic display of slapstick, satire, and slasher HORROR. The subscription may be terminal, but shipping is free!
Etheria Film Night 2024 is also free to view on their website AND Shudder! Horror fans, be sure to support these works (and more!) from up-and-coming Women filmmakers…or else face the wrath of the Ax Man!
Etheria Film Night 2024 is also free to view on their website AND Shudder! Horror fans, be sure to support these works (and more!) from up-and-coming Women filmmakers…or else face the wrath of the Ax Man!
About The Bitter Wolf
Part-time wolf.
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I live in a cat with my cat, Connie.
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