Ahead of the 13th Hour Comedy Festival at the Leicester Square Theatre, we asked five participating comedians to come up with a short horror story...
This Halloween, the Leicester Square Theatre has lined-up a brilliant programme of comic horror treats as part of its 13th Hour Horror Festival; from Colin Hoult’s eerie plays starring the cream of the comedy circuit, to Nathan Dean Williams’ creepy characters, The Beta Males’ ‘so-good-its-bad’ slasher comedy show, a special spooky edition of Sarah Bennetto’s Storyteller’s Club and a zombie-themed stand-up gig featuring Rich Fulcher and Frisky and Mannish.
To get you in the mood for this reign of terror, we asked several comics taking part if they’d write us a short horror story. We were pretty creeped out (and in some cases amused) by what we recieved. So read on, if you dare…
'Collecting' by Guy Kelly (The Beta Males)
I’ll be honest; I don’t really see what the fuss is about. I mean really. We’re all grown-ups here, so please calm down. There’s no use getting so excited. Nothing worth all this fuss that’s been caused, that’s for sure. So what if it’s a little unusual? I’m allowed to have a hobby, aren’t I? Loads of people are collectors. Some collect stamps, some collect autographs. Hell, some people even collect those horrible Toby jugs. Have you seen them? Ugly little beggars, aren’t they?
Alright, alright. So that was a bad joke. I apologise. Geez, no need to get so het up about things, is there? Here. Have something to eat. You look like you need your strength.
No?
Suit yourself.
You’ll excuse me if I eat while I work? I know it’s rude but I do have such a lot on today. Meetings all day from lunchtime, picking up Sara from the nanny – it’s a wonder I ever get a moment to myself. Still, at least it keeps m-HEY. Hey. What do you think you’re doing? I just told you how busy I am, and now you make things difficult? Unbelievable.
Now stay still.
I only want a piece.
'The Night My Flatmate was Murdered' by Rich Fulcher
It was the nineties and I was new to the big urban sprawl which was Chicago.
Rob, my flatmate, was a happy-go-lucky type who would give you the skin off his back.....I didn't know how true that statement would be.
Things were amazing for the first two weeks, until the heat came and one night my worst fears came to be.
I was asleep in the next room when I heard a small thud; it was definitely Rob's room next door.
The window sounded like it was being shimmied open.
I braced myself for a robbery.
There had been several in our building that month and Rob must have left the window open, which made sense since it was such a sweltering night.
Just as I was reaching for a possible weapon, I heard it: 'thud thud, slash, thud.' I paused as there was silence, then the beating was repeated: 'slash, slash, thud, thud'.
"Holy shit," I whispered, "He's being beaten to a pulp by at least two guys." I could just imagine blood being spattered on the wall, the surprise of my arrival followed by my possible impending death.
I rushed over with a lamp and gave out a warlike scream reminiscent of Native Americans before battle.
'Whoosh'.
The door burst open, and there it was.
An empty room, with an open window; the wind causing the blinds to slash against the pane causing a 'thud....thud, slash.'
I just realised that Rob was at his girlfriends' that night.
I surveyed the place: the bed was a mess, the room stank of Happy Meals and then I looked down on the floor next to my shoes: 'holy shit' indeed.
'Them Others' by Colin Hoult
The boy dances back and forth, flapping with autistic glee, showing off in front of his mother whose fat features warp and glow in the fire light. The girl watches too terrified to make a sound.
'Ee you are a good dancer son. You could do that on the telly, on one of them programs where they get people up singing. Do you want me to do your hair?'
The boy slumps down. She rubs his cracked scalp, tenderly.
'Them Others were round again earlier' she says.
'Them Others? Not right, scaring folk!'
'Ey, calm down, son.'
'Well, it's not. Calling us names, thinking they’re better than us. Trying to frighten us out.'
'He's right you know.' She nods at the girl on the floor, seeking approval.
'They only ever wanted your money. “You shouldn’t be living with your mother at your age. We all moved out, why can't you?” We're not well I told them. We got a sickness. From when you got bit by that bloke.'
The mother strokes her neck, ashamed.
'They all left you for dead but I knew you weren’t. A good boy doesn’t give up on his mother. I saw you after funeral, shambling along in the moonlight and I weren’t surprised.'
'Weren’t you?'
'Well I was a bit. But I knew you’d just come back to me. A boy and his mother. The very best of friends.'
Mother and Son share a long wet kiss. Fighting nausea, the girl creeps away. But the son is already there.
'Where you going? Think you're better than us don't you?
'Just like them others'
And Mother and Son dive in together, to feed.
'The Indescribable' by John Henry Falle (The Beta Males)
She screamed.
There IT was. Moving, shadowed between the chaise and the breakfast nook. Looming, framed by the french-windows.
The rippling horror rushing to meet her was just indescribable.
...Well...not entirely indescribable.
IT did ripple. That much could be described. A description of rippling. Which was a thing it did.
Other than that, though, this THING was a paradigm of sheer, indescribable horror.
You could see IT being indescribable by the chaise.
...Which was a description of where IT was when IT rippled.
Other that though, IT was...
And there were some horns, she could see those now. And that was definitely a tentacle of some kind. You could describe horns and tentacles, she thought. “Horns” and “tentacles”. There were words for those.
And at least two – no – three eyes. And IT was wearing a cravat made out of...Was that? Yep. People's tongues. Just like that big old book made of tongues she found in that nasty shop that time. Which gave IT a bit context.
For a plucky girl-reporter, she was going to have to work on her prose if she wanted to make it in the fast-paced world of investigative journalism.
Then IT ate her.
'An Unthreateningly-Cute Chick In Cotton Underwear Sleeps Alone In A Bedroom (Probably With A Slow-Building Synth And Maybe A Creepy Tracking Shot – That Sort Of Thing)' by Sarah Bennetto
The ruby digits on the bedside clock said 3:07. The girl knew something was awry. Sure, everything was quiet, and the silhouetted shapes of her bedroom, familiar, but somehow she felt an unease encroaching on her slumber sanctuary.
She was single; she had been for the longest time. I mean, come on, she used terms like 'slumber sanctuary'. But it didn’t bother her, because she had 'her work'. She told jokes for money, you see, and she knew people found the idea of a goofy, narcissistic overthinker SUPERHOT. So that was in the bag. No problem there. No. No, it was something else that plagued her.
In the darkness a buzz of realisation suddenly reverberated from the tips of her toes, all the way to her well-worn nail varnish. The girl sat up, gasping, and clutching at her moth-bitten Sisters of Mercy t-shirt. Fucksticks! She’d forgotten to write that short ghost story for Spoonfed. The one that was due at 9am. The horror.
Summoning courage she never dreamt she possessed, the girl dragged her laptop into bed. With the click of a button, blue luminosity spilt over her visage. Biting her lip, breathless and pallid, she bravely composed an email:
“The night was dark and stormy. Some really bad stuff happened. [put an ellipse here – people love that shit] Or DID it? It was just the wind. But then it turned out it was the head of her ex-boyfriend! Then her old physics teacher was in an abandoned fairground with a hedge-trimmer. So they shot him with a crossbow that someone incongruously had from somewhere – maybe a fishing hire shop or something? Someone stood over the corpse and did a wicked bon mot. Everyone laughed. Then some chicks made out. And then the cops came. But a previously-unseen, but TOTALLY PISSY, clown staggered from a mulberry bush just over there and stabbed the geeky guy, but the cops shot the clown. Then they pulled off his mask and it was – oh no! – her ex-boyfriend. What a cad! This was soooo like him! And then she woke up and it was all a dream.
…OR WAS IT?
Fin."
The girl clicked send. She beamed to herself as the blue light powered-down; sated. The beast was vanquished. She’d won this round.
That night, our hero slept soundly in the glow of the ruby digital clock. Knowing that as she dozed, the ghosts were winging their way to Spoonfed’s inbox, and that probably by dusk, some hot stud with a boss fringe would read her awesome story and get in touch about a semi-regular thing when his band wasn’t touring or after his third novel came out. Sorted.
The 13th Hour Horror Festival runs from Wednesday 24 October-Sunday 4th November. Click here to see the full comedy line-up.
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