AUDIOBOOK of me reading this chapter.
This is a true story. It’s not been easy for me to tell with nuance, perspective, compassion, humor, or humility. Perhaps that’s why it’s taken 35 years to write.
The top is set to spinning. I’ve received another letter from the State’s parole board, and a tsunami of memories flood back. Usually, I can make it through 98% of a day without incident or directly thinking about my traumatic childhood, but there’s always 2% lurking, craving attack. I’ll notice something from the corner of my eye, in a tick of someone’s behavior, the plot of a movie, cover of a book, or a headline in the news.
Horror is everywhere, and I like to keep mine in the past.
I was twelve in 1984, spending summer vacation with my dad R.G., at his condo in Ketchum, Idaho. He and my mom, Janet, had divorced a couple years earlier. I lived with Mom during the school year in Fullerton, California, so summers were exclusive “guy-time” for Dad and me. But for Mom, it meant a break from my, then undiagnosed, ADHD and intensifying pre-pubescent persona.
A few years before ’84, my big sister Judi introduced me to KMET, our local rock radio station, as a way to keep me out of her record collection. Blasting my clock radio, I quickly became a fan of Van Halen, Iron Maiden, The Police, and all bands from the third or fourth wave of rock and roll after the sixties British invasion. In my spare time, I think I was the only kid in Orange County who had an affinity for “monster-movie” make-up. Making me and my friends look like monsters was my first hobby when I was eight years old. On the weekends, I’d transform my bedroom into a haunted house and turn my neighbor Rodney and me into gooey-looking ghouls. My room lit in blacklight; I’d display bowls of frozen grape “eyeballs,” cold spaghetti “brains,” and then plot a couple of jump scares. I’d craft all these gags into a short story, then draw an invitation for Mom and Judi to find.
“Knock on Cory’s bedroom door at 6 pm sharp! Or “The Creep” will escape and haunt the whole house,” read the invitation. Rodney and I’d be an hour early, but the hour of micro-adjustments and fantasizing about how scary we were going to be was the most fun. Six o’clock would come. Sometimes there’d be a knock, knock, knock at my door, sometimes there wouldn’t. So I’d break character and shout downstairs, “We’re READY!!!” Then Rodney and I listened as Mom and Judi rushed up the stairs giggling in what I assumed was sheer terror as they contemplated the fate about to befall them.
My bedroom door would open and reveal the creepshow Rodney, and I had built. They’d laugh and repulse at the bowls of fleshy, sticky noodle intestines or squishy Jello slime. Then, I would jump out for the big scare, sending my mom and sister shrieking out of the room. I’d run after them to confirm a job well done, making sure they were “really scared” and not just “faking it.” They tried their best to retell the spooky experience, but their inability to restrain their laughter showed me otherwise. I knew in my heart of hearts the whole thing was silly. Still, I chose to believe their words rather than actions and immediately began plotting how to terrorize them the following weekend. It's funny how today’s pop-culture boom for 80’s nostalgia makes it seem cliché, but back then, that was me in real life.
Outside of home, my passion for loud music and gross-out make-up raised concerns amongst parents and the faculty of the private school I was attending. They all thought I was weird because I liked to bring Fangoria magazine and Heavy Metal album covers to show and tell. Kids at school nicknamed me Gory Cory, and I loved it. Especially when I noticed my actions were getting under the faculty’s skin. You see, Monday through Thursday, we students were forced to wear uniforms of heavily starched white shirts and itchy corduroy pants, but on Fridays, we could wear whatever we wanted. So I happily showcased my bloody ax-wielding Iron Maiden t-shirts. I don’t know if it was a parent, teacher, or administrator, but after a few weeks they’d had enough. Since my free-dress attire couldn’t be singled-out, they restricted the whole school. I still beam with pride about the principal canceling Free Dress Fridays because of me. Good times, I was ten years old and already rebelling against authority. Then something happened that changed everything.
Thriller. Michael Jackson, the world’s most popular singer, released a music video where he turned into a werewolf AND a zombie. It played every hour on MTV for months, and I was in heaven. Imagine me, a little, towheaded suburban metal-head dancing my ass off to Michael Jackson’s R&B pop grooves. The video featured Vincent Price and make-up effects by American Werewolf in London’s creature designer Rick Baker! C’mon, are you kidding me? It felt like it was custom-made just for me. It validated my love of monsters and horror make-up while expanding my music horizons. Finally, I thought, people will understand me.
That spring, the school held a talent show. My friends and I entered with a lip-sync recreation of the Thriller video. I was the mastermind of the whole thing, doing the zombie make-up and taking the role of Michael Jackson’s character. The performance was a smash, suddenly the weird kid at school was the star! We got an authentic standing ovation, not the fake kind parents give preschoolers for making it through Itsy-Bitsy-Spider without crying or pissing themselves. Almost immediately, Mrs. Lee, the principal, and some PTA goons were backstage demanding a command performance. I and the other castmates were flattered and agreed.
The next day, I went back to Mrs. Lee and told her I’d run out of make-up supplies and needed to buy more for a second performance. She wouldn’t authorize the school to reimburse me, so I backed out. She took it personally, having already alerted the school district heads and media. Me backing out made her look bad. I didn’t care. All the fake blood, latex, and grease-paint I used to create ten zombies cost me over twenty dollars. That was a month’s worth of allowance! Mrs. Lee tried to negotiate, telling me it would be “worth it,” but I didn’t care. Twenty bucks was twenty bucks, and if our performance was that good, both mom and I felt I should be reimbursed. Mrs. Lee didn’t budge, and neither did I, so I walked. Three months later, my stubbornness earned me an expulsion notice. I showed them!
That particular summer, I’m sure Mom was eager to have a break from my antics and pass me off to Dad. I loved getting out of the suburbs and exploring the wilds of Ketchum/Sun Valley, Idaho. Days were spent going to a camp, seeing movies at the Magic Lantern Theater, or riding my bike around the hills of the Sawtooth Valley. Changing things up from years past, Dad signed me up for a pottery & sculpture class. Immediately I saw an opportunity to express my love of monsters. I began constructing a huge mask inspired by Dad’s collection of Native American kachina dolls. The mask was a giant black dome big enough to cover my head, adorned with bull horns, fiendish red eyes, and blood-soaked teeth. Again, I failed to heed authority's warning when my pottery instructor suggested I “should” scale down the sculpture. After being fired and glazed, the mask weighed a whopping twenty-five pounds. It was so heavy my scrawny seventy-pound frame couldn’t wear the unwieldy thing. Hell, I could barely pick it up! On the last day of class, the expression on my dad’s face was, let’s just say he was less than “thrilled.” I sadly realized this wasn’t going to be a proud new piece of southwestern décor for the condo. Maybe pottery wasn’t my thing?
The huge mask found itself a home atop the dresser in my bedroom. There it stared menacingly at me day and night. The thing was freaking scary! What was I thinking? Native American culture believes that Kachinas are the personification of supernatural beings meant to aid and guide human existence. Obviously, I hadn’t considered that before constructing this demon. Each night as I lay in bed, headlights of passing cars reflected off the mask's dark features, highlighting its razor-sharp scarlet teeth. This was the last thing I saw in the rural black Idaho night as I fell asleep.
Late one night, lost in the cozy fog of a dream, I watched myself sitting in the living room of dad’s condo. Not a very exciting location for a dream since all we did there was watch TV and play checkers. The kitchen phone rings, and my dad picks it up, “Yello,” he says with his faded Oklahoma drawl. Suddenly, I’m struck with fear. I watch Dad’s face contort to an expression I’d never seen before. He stutters, “Oh god. Oh god, nuh, nuh, no.” My mind races; whatever’s happening, it’s bad. This sinking in my stomach is mismatched by a surge of panic, I’d never felt anything like it.
I began to sputter questions at Dad still on the call. “Dad, what is it? Is everything okay? Is it Mom?” He doesn’t answer. Dad just listens, his face growing more pale by the second. Whether it was intuition or primal instinct, I realized only one thing had the power to do this to a person, Death. I needed to figure out who had died. I start listing people, “Grandma? Grandpa? Dad, what’s wrong?” My dad’s shaking, his eyes welling with tears. I don’t know what to do. I don’t understand why won’t he answer me? I keep naming people, “Malissa (my biggest sister), Uncle Dean, and Aunt Belle? Aunt Lianne, Aunt Judy, Little Judi (my big sister)?” Then, Dad hangs up the phone.
The dream collapses, and I jet awake, my body surging with adrenaline. I question myself. What was that? It felt like a nightmare, but there wasn’t anything visible to be frightened of. I pull the covers up to my eyes and scan the room for a boogieman. The only thing peering back is that behemoth ceramic mask. Then breaking the silence of my own thoughts, a voice echoed from nowhere, “Help me-”
It grew louder, “HELP ME, somebody, please!” I literally pinched myself like in the movies. I was conscious. “Who said that?” I muttered. The list of names from my dream scrolled through my mind at that same moment. I stopped before saying the very last one. The only person I’d never be concerned about was my big sister Judi. She was the lucky “golden child,” beloved by everyone, especially me. My eyes slowly crept from the floor to ceiling, and there she was, a pale apparition of Judi hovering over my bed. She wore a white dress, like the one from her wedding. It was tattered and drifting in an invisible breeze. Her eyes wandered as a disembodied voice again screamed, “Somebody help me!” Her gaze turned and locked right on me. “Cory,” she said… I froze.
“Cory, help me! Call for help,” she begged.
“Judi?” I whispered, “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”
She convulsed, and I shit you not, blood started dripping down her face and soaking her dress. Tears streamed, mixing with smears of blood while Judi begged over and over again for help. “What can I do? Judi? What can I do?” I called out, but she didn’t respond. Our connection was lost, and she began to fade away. “Judi, I’m here, at Dad’s. Where are you? Should I call the police?” Nothing I said broke through to the other side; then, she was gone. I was left staring at the ceiling.
Just writing this, thinking about it, I’ve broken into tears. Over thirty-five years later, the memory is visceral, transcendent, and heartbreaking.
I sat up in bed and looked around. That fucking twenty-five pounds of jet-black kachina mask is looking back at me. I was cold and scared. Do I wake up, Dad? It’s nearly midnight. I can’t wake him up; it’s only a dream, right? My vivid imagination conjured it. I’m not a baby; I’m freaking twelve for chrissakes. Relax. Relax, just go back to sleep. It had to be some sort of weird psychological cocktail of puberty, mashed with my horror hobbies. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. Just go back to sleep. I curled into a fetal position tucking myself under the heavy covers. My eyes closed and focused on calming my thoughts, but from some distant void, faintly, I could still hear… Hear Judi crying for help.
The next morning was a Sunday which had a regular routine. Get up, have a quick bite to eat, then go to church. We’d get there early because Dad helped out with the service, and sometimes I’d acolyte. The repetition of church was boring for me, but it made Dad happy. Being an acolyte gave me something to do besides judge how lame church was. Plus, I got the best seat in the house, looking out St. Thomas Episcopal's a-frame window toward Mt. Baldy. I spent the whole service gazing at the mountain, daydreaming of skiing its slopes in the wintertime.
Right after church, we came home. I plopped in Dad’s chair, turned on the TV, and was greeted by the familiar tone of James Earl Jones saying, “THIS! Is CNN”. I swear they played that soundbite more than actual news back in the day. Anyway, I started to zone in on the idiot box, and the phone rang.
Dad’s right there to pick it up. “Yello?... Yes- Oh, god. Oh god, no.” Parallel universes collide in an instant. My forgotten dream from last night came rushing back. Like a well-rehearsed actor, I instinctively began reciting my lines. “Dad, what is it? Is everything ok? Is it Mom?” If only I could stop this compulsion of dialogue spewing from my mouth, maybe it could change the course of history. Yet, I continued, “Grandma? Grandpa? Dad, what is it?” My voice strained to get the words out. Don’t let this be real. Make it stop. I locked eyes with my dad and watched the strong, smart man before me crumble. This was happening, whether I liked it or not. I choked out the words, “Uncle Dean? Aunt Bell? Malissa? Aunt Judy? Little Judi?”
Dad hung up the phone and said, “Judi is dead.”
I’m in tears again. This hurts to write. Sometimes I feel like I’ve healed and accepted this. Other times I’m right back in the moment, a cowering twelve-year-old boy, watching his father shatter while losing his daughter, my sister, again and again. I’m there now, and it’s not fucking fair.
I want to destroy the world.
As they say, it gets worse before it gets better, and WOW, does this story get worse! Four years of writing, and I’ve finished the manuscript for Deconstructing the Boogieman. I am now deep into editing and seeking a publisher. (literary introductions are welcome) Not only does the book chronicle monumental trauma-inducing situations, but it fearlessly delves into my recovery journey and provides readers with inspiration to tackle their own traumatic past. - Please subscribe for updates and inquiries. Thanks, Cory
Thanks for sharing this! It was great to learn about the joys of your childhood but also to understand some of the pain that came with it. Keep it up! This was a fantastic read
What happened to her? Was it something that someone might have intervened with to save her or was it sudden with no help to be had?