The Gothic Tradition in Fiction - Personal Statement Example

The case was closed. The police had had their suspicions and Detective Greene had come very close to accusing her outright but, in the end, they hadbeen unable to prove anything. At the inquest, the death had been ruled "accidental," and the newspapers had called it an "unfortunate hiking accident." He had lost his footing and fallen off the cliff, right down to the rocky terrain below. It was not a long fall but it certainly was a hard one. His head had cracked open like an egg upon impact and death was instantaneous. She liked to tell herself that he never really knew what hit him. Just one slight shove and he'd toppled over the edge and right down to the rocks below. He never really knew it was her and didn't even have time to scream or shout. It had been over in seconds. Now she had to play the part of the grieving widow, not so much for the police as the case was closed but for the insurance company. They would have to pay up soon. Her lawyer told her than she should her that six-zero check by the end of the week. * * * The check was in her hand. Everything had gone according to plan. She almost felt sorry for Harry. He had truly believed that she loved him. That was rather nave on his part as nobody in their right mind could ever believe that someone like her could fall for someone like him. She's played the part right, though, and convinced him just as she convinced everybody else. Harry had been her second check. Different names and different cities. She was now keeping her eyes open for the third check. A bookish, geeky, awkward man. That was her speciality. They fell for her, of course, just like a tonne of bricks. They invariably proposed and she accepted. Six months into the marriage she would suggest that they take out insurance policies on each other. They'd agree, never suspecting. that by signing the insurance policies, they were really signing their death certificates. * * * She'd just deposited her insurance check. She poured herself a glass of champagne and toasted herself. The key to success, as an old mentor had once told her, was to do what one was best at doing. She was certainly very good at what she was doing and planned to go from good to better to best. The hardwood very slightly creaked but in the silence of the apartment it reverberated like a strong CRACK. She jumped, suddenly a bit scared. She poured herself another glass of champagne and drank it, calming herself down. The apartment suddenly felt quite chilly. Expected, really, at this time of the year. A window must be open somewhere. She got up and round the apartment checking the windows. Strangely, all were closed. There was now an unmistakable breeze coming from somewhere. Where The windows were all closed shut. They were double-glazed and no wind should pass through. What was going on Maybe she'd missed one. Although she was sure she hadn't, she got up to check once again. No. All were closed. But, the breeze was becoming stronger and stronger. It was making a whooshing sound, just as wind blow through trees would. Was she loosing her mind She must be. She just thought she'd heard a voice in the wind. Not just any voice but Harry's voice. She couldn't back out the words but she was sure that the voice had been saying something. The voice in the wind was getting louder and the words were becoming clearer. No. It just wasn't possible. Harry was dead. The dead don't haunt the living and they certainly don't come back from beyond the grave. That sort of thing only happened in cheap Hollywood horror movies. It was all in her imagination. She sat back. Closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind. The police investigation, the suspicions which had surrounded her, the spoken and unspoken accusations they must have all rattled her nerves. She was feeling and hearing things that just weren't there. Harry was dead. She'd shoved him off the cliff herself. Harry was buried six feet under. She'd seen the coffin being lowered into the ground and had stood there watching until it had been completely hidden under mounds of earth. A screech ripped through the air. She almost jumped out of her skin. No. It wasn't real. She was hearing things. She sat there, pale and trembling like a leaf but stubbornly shaking her head in denial. It was her imagination. A strong gust of wind blew right through the living room, messing her loose hair and rattling the coffee cup. There was no denying something was going on. What was it She didn't believe in ghosts and did not even believe in life after death. Harry was dead. "Harry! You are dead!" she creamed at the top of her lungs. "You can't do anything to me! You couldn't even do anything to save yourself!" The voice in the wind became clearer and it was unmistakably Harry's. "YES BUT I'M TAKLING YOU WITH ME STRAIGHT TO HELL." A vase lifted in mid-air, hovered for a second before it flew straight at her, just like a missile. She ducked just in time and the vase went crashing to the floor, breaking up into a million and one pieces. She tried to get up, to ZA run out of the apartment but her legs just wouldn't carry her. "I didn't kill you, you fell," she pleaded with Harry's voice in the wind. A coffee table flew in her direction. "I didn't .." a knife lunging at her from nowhere cut her off in mid-sentence. "Please listen " "I'M TAKING YOU WITH ME!" All of a sudden, the wind dropped, the temperature in the apartment returned to normal and there was not even a hint of anything out of the ordinary. She shook her head as if to drive out all thought from it. Her mind must be playing tricks on her. With that last thought, she went into her bedroom and prepared for the night. She woke up early the next morning feeling refreshed. Then, memories of the night before came crowding into her head, leaving her with a sense of confusion and dread. Was any of it real If not, did it mean she was loosing her mind. If yes, what did it mean That night there was a repeat performance, only Harry's voice sounded angrier and more intent on exacting a horrid revenge on her. Once again, it stopped as abruptly as it had began. By the fourth night she was a wreck. She couldn't sleep and just sat there in her living room, night after night, day after day, waiting for the horror to begin and end. Whatever sense of reasoning and rational thought was left in her told her that she couldn't go on like this. But she knew that thriving couldn't fight the dead or the unknown, either. It was at that moment, and despite some rational misgivings, that she decided to visit a medium. * * * She found Mme. Odette by chance. Channel surfing on one of those long nights had landed her on a home shopping TV and there she'd seen Mme Odette's ad. The woman sitting in front of her hardly fit into the stereotypical image of a medium. She was young, fashionable and very down to earth. She'd expected her to bring out a crystal ball, start chanting, or something - but, none of that Instead, Mme Odette invited her to sit down and chat. After the exchange of a few banalities, Mme Chantal suddenly leaned forward and stared at her. Her gaze was intensely probing and infinitely discomforting. "You've come about Harry, haven't you" She asked. Before she could reply, Mme Odette spoke once again. "He's here you know. He wants me to tell you that he'll never forgive you. He's going to make sure that you die, very very soon a horrible and painful " "STOP IT" she screeched. Then, in a lower tone, "Is Harry here Can you see him" "Yes. He's attached himself to you. He is wherever you are." "I want to speak to him." "Speak, he can hear you." "Harry, I'm sorry it was an accident. I stumbled, meant to lean against you to steady myself and you fell. I didn't realise you were so close to the edge and certainly never meant to push you " The room shook as Harry's voice, magnified and terrible, boomed out. "LIAR." "You can't lie to the dead," Mme. Odette told her in a low voice, "they know everything. He knows how and why he died and knows he wasn't the first." "Wasn't the first what are you talking about" "Have you forgotten your first husband, your first kill," Harry spoke in a chilling voice "You're going to pay you'll pay with your life but first you'll pray you were dead " She stumbled out of the room and the apartment, running down the stairs to the street and open air below. She didn't want to hear the rest of it. * * * Her lawyer had been trying to contact her for three days. Her cell phone was closed and her home phone just rang. He went by her apartment and banged at the door. No answer. He went to the police and after much pleading and cajoling, they agreed to accompany him back to the apartment. Her neighbour opened the door for them with her spare key. They stepped in. Nothing was amiss. Everything was as neat as a pin, as always. The lawyer called out her name. No answer. They found her. She was sitting on the couch, frozen and dead. There was an unmistakable look of terror frozen on her face. Everything was in place. Her hair was as neat as always and the living room was untouched, as tidy as ever. She had died of fright of what, was anybody's guess. Commentary The preceding story can be categorised as both Gothic and supernatural. According to Elizabeth MacAndrews, the two often merge and converge whereby it is difficult, almost impossible, to separate the Gothic from the supernatural or the fantastic. Defining the genre as a "literature of nightmares" (p. 3) MacAndrews explains that the Gothic is, by its very nature, supernatural and fantastic because it renders the impossible possible, largely through the annihilation of the boundaries between the world of the living and the world of the dead, or by making the unreal, real. Concurring, Punter asserts that the Gothic invariably draws upon the fantastic, the supernatural and the unexplainable, in order to create an atmosphere of terror (p. 6). The preceding story subscribes to the aforementioned definitions and clarifications of the intent of the Gothic and the correlation between the Gothic, the supernatural and the fantastic. Hence, in this story, the boundaries between the worlds of the living and the dead are annihilated and the dead emerge as having the power to exact revenge upon the living. In other words, the supernatural dominates for the purpose of creating an environment of terror for the female protagonist. It is not, however, random terror but justified doe to actions undertaken by the protagonist. Assuming that death was final, the protagonist murdered her husband and, following the inability of law enforcement to implicate her in the death, despite suspicions, the murdered husband takes over. He exacts revenge and, in so doing, a fantastical and nightmarish justice is imposed. In typical Gothic fashion, she does not get away with her crime. Within the context of the stated, one may affirm that this story solidly belongs to the Gothic genre, just as one may confirm the correlation between the Gothic and the supernatural. Works Cited MacAndrew, Elizabeth. The Gothic Tradition in Fiction. New York: Columbia UP, 1979. Punter, David. The Literature of Terror: A History of Gothic Fictions from 1765 to the Present Day. London: Longman, 1980. Read More