‘Nightwalk’ ( a short horror story )

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INTRODUCTION

According to my-not-very good publication notes, I wrote “Nightwalk” in 1983. I wonder if that’s true.

My recordkeeping back then was spotty. I never thought it necessary to keep track of production dates or publication credits.

Now, as you might expect, I’m scrambling to backtrack and figure it all out. If I could return to my youth, among the many things I would do differently –  among them getting a job in my teens, or taking steps in high school to prepare for college – would be to keep track of the dates I wrote stories and make a list of where (or if) they were published, and when.

I remember sitting on bleachers at the local tennis courts, shaded by oaks, planning the details of “Nightwalk.” I remember the scene – the two boys walking along the road in the dark, and the menacing shape stalking them. I remember thinking a really good writer could make this look scary.

A friend and I had spent the day in Pensacola, about 45 miles away, shopping, eating and going to movies. On the way home I began telling him the details of “Nightwalk.” When I got to the part where the boy trips over the surveyor’s wire, Steve said, “Ah, don’t do that. They always do that in horror movies – trip over something so the monster can catch up.”

Silly Steve. He didn’t understand the monster was going to catch them, tripping or not. Besides, tripping added an interesting moral dilemma – should the other boy stop and help his friend, or leave him as an offering to the monster?

In retrospect Steve was right. They always trip in horror movies. I should have taken that out.

I don’t remember much else about the story – what prompted me to write it, or how long it took to write. Back then I didn’t have the same concept of storytelling I have today.

According to my spotty records “Nightwalk” was published in the magazine After Hours in 1987. I’ll have to dig through my copies to see if I can find it. Unfortunately, they are hidden in a plastic Sterilite box at my storage unit, beneath teetering towers of other Sterilite boxes. One day, when I am rich and have money to burn, I will build a house with lots and lots of bookshelves, and all my back copies – even the copy of my high school newspaper with my letter to the editor complaining about 43-cent-per-gallon gas – will go up on those shelves, including the edition of After Hours featuring the story “Nightwalk.”

Tripping and all.

NIGHTWALK

 The screen door banged open and there was the wet slapping sound of Nikes beating frantically against the porch floorboards. Then the boys were leaping – arms pinwheeling – as they cleared the cement-block steps and thudded heavily against the grass which was already damp with the night. They were off, then, drawn pell-mell into the smoky twilight like two madly scrambling shadows; one, tall and lanky; the other shorter, the motions of his body more pronounced as he struggled to keep pace with his stronger companion. They ran until they had put the honeysuckle hedge that bordered the front yard between them and the house lights. They ran until every house on the block was behind them and only an interminable asphalt road flanked by dark woods lay ahead. That, and The House. Then the taller boy slowed, allowing the shorter one to overtake him, ad they walked with the rubber-legged gait peculiar to exhausted marathoners, speaking ragged whispers. Their hearts continued to race.

“You think this is far enough?” Demmy asked. He was trying very hard not to look tired. He sounded worn out.

Todd made no pretense that he hadn’t been winded by the sprint – but he had his size for an excuse. The air, it seemed, had grown cooler and more rarified since sundown. It burned his lungs.

“Far – far enough for what?”

Demmy snorted, sucked air. “Far enough so that if she changes her mind and comes stomping out the front door hollering like a goddamned cow about to split its udder for me to haul my ass back, I can say I didn’t hear her.” He sniffed, spat, and let out a long, pent-up exhalation of relief. Todd continued to wheeze.

“It doesn’t – doesn’t matter. As soon as we get to my house she’s gonna call your ass and make you walk all the way back – in the dark – by yourself. Past. The House.”

“Oh, eat me. She is not.”

Todd paused to collect a breath. “Fuckin’ A. She told me herself. Gave me a buck to keep my mouth shut. But since you’re my cool bud, I wouldn’t want to see you get screwed. So I guess you ought to be heading back. See ya around.”

“She really did that?” Demmy asked, incredulous. “Gimme that goddamned dollar, fuckhead!”

Todd shook his head wearily. “Oh, Christ. Don’t pout. I hate it when you can’t take a joke. OK. I was bullshitting you.”

He saw the tension ease out of Demmy’s expression. Then Demmy mumbled, “Pretty shitty joke.”

From some remote corner of the night, a dog barked. Night time is the best time for hearing, Todd thought. Sometimes, when it’s cool and dark and the wind isn’t blowing, it seems you can tune in the whole world – at least as far as The House. His mind seized on that, and he wondered what it would be like to walk past The House at night, if it would be different somehow. If Demmy would do it despite the things they had heard (and Demmy had been hearing them a lot longer), especially after summer before last, those two kids, what happened to those two kids.

“–  don’t see why spending the night with a friend is such a big deal.” Demmy was gesticulating with his hands, flipping them about like spastic marionettes. “She acts like it’s the goddamned worst thing that could happen – Christ, she never lets me do anything!”

Todd took a deep breath. The fire in his chest had cooled to embers; he felt his mind clearing, his thoughts slowly beginning to congeal. Demmy made some crack about his mother and Todd bit down on a sneer. He said, “I like your mom – ”

“Yeah, but – ”

“Yeah, but nothing. Your mom’s OK so lay off.” He looked up at Demmy, hoping find some indication that Demmy knew he was lying. But the other boy’s face was framed in shadow and unreadable.

Demmy grabbed his shoulder, stopped him (Todd’s heart fluttered and he thought, Oh shit! This big, brawny moron is gonna flatten me), and hissed, “But she smothers me, man!” and he went off on an agitated tirade.

Capillaries of a breeze snaked their way through the firs that walled-in the road, tussling Todd’s hair, twining his thoughts and leading them back through time. Demmy’s voice receded into a toneless blur, and Todd remembered Washington, where his father had carved out a niche at the Smithsonian. The city, with its color, its movement, its energy – all the important things in life. Things that had given his mother a nervous condition and had sent them packing to this godforsaken, two-horse western Massachusetts town where his father had bought a hardware store to squander their collective future.

Todd chewed over all the old arguments. Washington was it; Jesus, everything that mattered – everything important – was in Washington: the institute, the colleges, the arcades, the rinks, the malls … the people. What did this place have going for it? Frigging hardware store and wormy-ass friends like Demmy.

Demmy! Todd wondered why they still called him that. The kid was a year older and three inches taller than Todd. Todd had always been called Todd. Never Todd-O or any of those other dumb kid names. Just Todd. And his parents. They were cool. Always letting him do just about anything he wanted – almost anything. Like staying in Washington. No, they wouldn’t – couldn’t – let him do that. Sure, he was only 14. But they could’ve stayed at least until he was old enough to start college instead of dragging his ass out to this – this hole, where time ground down on rusty sprockets and old clock springs, where a stickup at the 7-Eleven made headlines on the front page of the county weekly. Christ.

“ – and then I’m gonna ask her if she’ll let me go swimmin’ – by myself – in Jefferson Hole. You think that’ll shake her up? Hey, Todd, you listenin’?”

Todd blinked away cobwebs and said uneasily, Yeah, uh, I think that would probably, uh, do it.”

The trees shook themselves and sighed as the breeze freshened. A bird twittered and then quieted. The night was alive with furtive noises, and this was the only part of Olianth Todd could abide. Nighttime in the country, with its mysteries, its secrets. There were times, like tonight, when the stars seemed so impossibly large that he thought they might come crashing down out of the sky to smash against the ground. Huge stars, hone to flawless, brilliant clarity in the smoke-free sky of the backwoods. And the quiet – God, it was oh-so quiet.

Except for little noises.

Demmy snapped his fingers. “Hey, wanna cig?”

Todd shook his head. “Hell no, I don’t want a cigarette – not unless you got some gum – and I know you don’t ’cause you never do. And what would your old lady do if she knew you smoked?”

“Fuck her,” Demmy said automatically. “And you’re right. I ain’t got no gum.”

“Well, fuck you then.” Todd’s voice slipped into a grainy falsetto, and he began speaking in clipped-off syllables. “Now Demson, I will not permit you to use that sort of language in this classroom. Is that clear?”

“Wait a second.” Demmy stopped, dug deeply into his pocket and withdrew a pack of Kools. He hooked one from the pack, inserted it into his mouth like the Marlboro Man, and let it dangle there while he opened a book of matches. He struck one and cupped it in his hands. His face flared into ethereal brilliance, framed against twilight. He drew heavily on the cigarette and a thick cloud of smoke swept about his face and vanished into the darkness. He coughed, nearly spat the cigarette, then took another drag and inhaled deeply.

Again, the falsetto. “Demson, my boy. Are you listening?”

Demmy put away the matches and said, “Lemme guess: Miss Lothario. Fourth period.”

Todd clapped his hands. “Correct, my man. You win the Samsonite luggage.”

Demmy grimaced. “I hate that bitch. Always calling me Demson. If I’ve asked her once I’ve asked her a thousand times not to call me Demson. I’m Demmy. That’s who I am.”

You sure are.

“Yeah, I know,” Todd said. “But she does have one thing going for her. She’s the sexiest goddamned teacher in school.” He growled playfully. “She’s a regular Twentieth-Century Fox. God! I could do the horizontal bop with her any time, any place, Bub.”

They were walking along the road shoulder. Chunks of asphalt crumbled beneath their feet. Ahead, the orderly line of fir trees was broken by a blank gash in the night. Hunched at the inner reaches of the pit, they could make out the vague, shadowy outline of a house. It was a massive, brooding structure that had since fallen victim to the years and passed into senility. Patches of shingles had slipped from the roof. Window panes were cracked or missing altogether. The front door had been torn free from its hinges, leaving a gaping socket of blackness in its middle. The house had been given up.

Todd elbowed Demmy in the ribs and nodded. “Why, I’d even be willing to spend the night in that old place, so long as she came along.”

Demmy wrinkled his nose. “That place gives me the creeps. The House. Wish somebody’d tear it down or something.”

“Tear it down?” Todd spoke with mock incredulity. “Nobody’s gonna tear it down. Nobody’s gonna go near that place.” Then, in a whisper, “They say something still lives there.”

“Awww, that’s bullshit.”

“Yeah. You know it’s bullshit, and I know it’s bullshit, but that’s what they say.” He wondered if Demmy would run. He almost felt like giggling..

But Demmy only snorted. Without a trace of humor. “Look, I’ve been living in Olianth a lot longer than you, and there ain’t nothing to any of that bullshit, not even what happened. …” His voice trailed away. Then he said, “So just shuddup, OK?”

“What’s the matter?” Todd leered. “Scared?”

“No, I ain’t scared – ”

“Afraid a monster’s gonna come slithering out of the dark, like OVER THERE!” Todd pointed frantically at the house. Demmy stiffened and Todd heard a tiny gasp squeak past his lips.

“Goddammit!” Demmy hissed. Todd laughed – out loud this time.

“Awww c’mon, you gutless pud. Just a joke. A little joke, that’s all.”

“Yeah. Ha ha,” Demmy answered, still whispering. “Real funny.”

Todd kicked a fractured chunk of asphalt, sent it tumbling along the road shoulder ahead of them. “Seriously though. You know Mr. Aikens?”

Yeah, Demmy knew him.

“He was in the store the other day, shootin’ the shit with my old man, and my old man mentioned something about maybe buying that place – ” Now they were directly across the road from the house “– fixing it u so he could rent it out to somebody one of those bed-and-breakfast places. As soon as he said that, Mr. Aikens starts in on that writer who used to live there – you’ve heard about him, I’d imagine.”

“Yeah,” Demmy mumbled uncertainly.

“That real famous writer way back in the late twenties or early thirties. I’m not sure; what’s his name?”

“I dunno.”

Todd scratched his chin. “He used to write all those weird stories about devils and monsters and old ruins. He wrote ‘Nightwalk’ – his novel that’s really famous – while he lived in that house. It was about this huge flying thing that only comes out after dark; I saw the movie on Creature Feature.”

“Sounds like a mental to me,” Demmy remarked gloomily.

“His name … what was it?”

“Strangelove?”

Todd sniggered. “No, dummy. That was a movie with Peter Sellers. And I know who you’re thinking about. Lovecraft. It wasn’t him.”

“Poe?”

Todd rolled his eyes. “No, not Poe for God’s sake. Somebody else – Jakes! Jakes! That’s who. Jakes. He lived in that house, way back when. At least that’s what Mr. Aikens told my dad.”

Demmy murmured in a low voice, “Yes, I think I remember somebody saying something about a famous writer staying in that house for awhile, but that was a long time ago. Didn’t he take off?”

In the distance Todd could see a patch of wan light. The porch light at his house. They were almost there. Mom had probably left it on for him before she and Dad left for Sebring.

“I dunno. Anyway, Aikens. …” and the night grew hushed, as if it too would stoop closer, bend an ear and hear the story. Todd found himself whispering, “… said that this writer guy moved into the house and for awhile, everybody here was real excited – you know – having somebody really famous living right here in town and all. People used to walk down this road just to catch a glimpse of him.”

The night pressed closer. Todd lowered his voice still further.

“But it was no dice. The guy never came out. A recluse. Spent all his time cooped up in that old place. Used to send his housekeeper into town for groceries, and she was a tight-lipped old battle ax.”

Demmy sniffed, poked his hands into his pockets.

“Anyway, after awhile, people began to think something weird was going on in there, and they started staying away. Eventually they were pretty much able to forget about him – that is until the night he left.

“Aikens said that the ‘writer fella’ had up and left without so much as a goodbye or a kiss my ass. Forgot about all his stuff and just blew right out of town like he was runnin’ scared or something. Damnedest thing he’d ever seen. One of those storage firms brought a truck in about two, three weeks later and gathered up all his stuff. And that was it. Never saw him again. And the guy never wrote another book. Strange.”

Todd cleared his throat. “Then Aikens took a long suck off his Nehi Grape and said the house had been rented out at least a dozen times since and the longest anyone had managed to stick it out was three months, and how the general consensus – that’s polite for gossip – was that maybe this writer guy, during his stay at the house, had stirred up a bunch of ‘spooks,’ seeing as how he was a horror writer.”

“I don’t think I wanna hear anymore,” Demmy whispered. The House was now to their right and behind them as they continued toward the point of light in the distance. Every few seconds, Demmy would snatch a furtive glance over his shoulder.

“What do you mean you don’t want to hear anymore?” Todd mocked. “I’m not finished.” You’ve got to hear more. I haven’t gotten to the good parts yet, the parts about why they call it “The House,” the parts about those kids, summer before last, how they were mutilated so badly that nobody could look at them without puking, how the cops thought they might have been partially eaten .. there. In front of The House. “You scared? Afraid something might reach out and grab you? Huh?”

“Shuddup!” Demmy hissed pleadingly. “I don’t give a flying fuck about no monster. But haven’t you noticed how weird it feels out here all of the sudden? It’s too quiet. Even the crickets have stopped – ”

“That’s because the monster is around somewhere,” Todd answered in a sibilant whisper. He smiled. “The monster from the writer’s novel. The one that lives in The House. The one that killed those kids.”

“It was a pree-vert who killed those kids,” Demmy snapped. But he looked genuinely alarmed.

“That’s what the cops told everyone. But that isn’t what they think,” Todd answered ominously. He jerked his head to the right. “The monster – ”

“Shuddup! Shuddup! Listen!” Demmy squealed.

“ – tore them limb from limb, chewed them up and spit them out in little pieces all over the front drive – ”

Demmy grabbed Todd’s arm, squeezed it so tightly that Todd winced and had to grit his teeth to keep from shouting. He tried to jerk away; Demmy’s grip was unyielding.

“What’s your problem anyway?”

Demmy had stopped. His eyes had gone wide and were shot with fear. “Can’t you hear it? Can’t you feel it?”

Todd paused. What was Demmy talking about? Could Demmy hear things that he couldn’t, or see things he couldn’t see? Did he have some unexplained sensitivity, some jungle instinct that had been dulled in Todd by years of city living?

“Something is out there …” Demmy said thickly. Todd snorted, laughed uneasily.

“Awww, c’mon. Bullshit. There isn’t anything out there. …” His voice trailed away when he realized how dumb that had sounded. Demmy’s grip on his arm tightened.

“Something’s out there. I can tell.”

Todd hesitated. Demmy was right. Something had changed. It was unusually quiet. Where were the night sounds, the little whisperings and rustlings that let you know the sun had gone down? Shadows slithered and roiled in the inky turbulence. The woods on either side of the road had become impenetrable black walls – walls that could hide things from anyone – two boys, for instance, walking along a deserted road at night.

“Bear … or something, maybe,” Todd whispered. The air had become supercharged with panic that had a burnt, ozone smell.

Demmy moaned, “Ohhh, Todd, let’s get outta here,” and then behind them – behind the wall of firs – Demmy gasped and whirled. A part of the night grew darker, and then tree limbs were being sheared from their trunks to the sound of bones snapping as something big moved toward them out of the darkness like a black thunderstorm.

Todd’s heart crawled into his throat. Suddenly – miraculously – the pressure on his arm was gone. He turned and watched as Demmy began running – running for the pinprick of light that now seemed impossibly far away. Panic prodded at him; his feet began to move with dreamy slowness, as if this were a nightmare where nothing moved with any urgency. From the cavern of night came a low, rumbling growl that cut a swath of chills along his spine. He felt himself staggering – then running. As he moved his mind seemed to clear so that everything came into sharper focus, and he knew suddenly that if he did not run he die here on this dark road, he would die –

Ahead, Demmy’s misty form bobbed against the light. Todd heard talons clawing at asphalt behind him. From some hidden reservoir of terror came the strength for him to scream, “DEMMY – DEMMY – WAIT! PLEEEEZE!”

Claw clicks on the pavement, drawing nearer.

“DEMMY! DEMEEEEE!”

Demmy’s form suddenly winked out of eclipse and Todd heard a whimper and a thud. In a second he was on top of the other boy, saw him lying in the wet grass on the road shoulder, his face screwed into a rictus of surprised horror. A surveyor’s wire was wrapped around his ankle.

“Todd? Todd – ”

Todd raced past him without breaking stride. Serves him right.

He reached the front yard. God, the light looks like heaven.

He took the porch steps in a single, exaggerated leap that sent him careening against the screen door. For a panicky moment he couldn’t get the damn knob in his hand. From out of the night he heard his name called. He got the door open, but hesitated before stepping inside to look. Demmy was at the corner of the yard, running stiffly, and behind him … oh, behind him, the darkness bearing down.

Todd stepped inside and slammed the door shut.

The house was black; it seemed unnaturally large in the murky twilight. Everything was hidden in sooty shadows and ear-ringing quiet. All he could hear was his thundering heart, his ragged breathing, and from outside –

“Todd! Todd!”

– distant and muffled by wood, plaster, but drawing closer now. Much closer. Pretty soon. …

“Todd! Open the d – ”

The sentence was left unfinished. The silence that followed came down like a question mark. Todd turned, pressed his cheek against the cool door facing and whispered, “Demmy?”

Nothing.

“Demmy? Then, louder, “Demmy?”

Todd frowned. “Demmy? What’re you doing? What the fuck are you doing, dammit! Demmy!”

The bones in his leg seemed to so soft. His stomach roiled queasily.

“Demmy!”

Panic was edging back into his voice – God – none of this was happening. That line he’d fed Demmy on the road back there – pure bullshit. Fiction. There couldn’t be anything out there. There couldn’t.”

“Demmy?”

It could have been a dog, or something. Couldn’t it? A bear. Did they have bears in Massachusetts? Todd didn’t think so. Probably a big dog from the sound of things – somebody’s lost pooch out roaming the woods, maybe a wild dog that wouldn’t come near the house, the light. Maybe Demmy already knew that and was hiding in the cedars by the porch, playing some stupid-shit joke, getting him back for all the shitting things he had done.

“Demmy.” Todd’s temples had begun to throb angrily. “Demmy, I know you’re out there. Goddammit! If you don’t want to spend the night in the front yard you’d better hoist your ass up here pronto!”

He was out there, hiding, playing some dumb game. Having a good laugh at the city boy’s expense. That’s what he was doing – that’s what he had to be doing. Making Todd look like an idiot so he could go around school Monday and tell everybody how he’s pulled a fast one on Mr. Bigshot City Slicker, and what a pussy Todd had been, afraid of the dark, of noises and shadows in the dark.

Todd gritted his teeth and whipped open the door. That frigging dumbass –

The porch was slicked down with something that looked oily and scorched in the porchlight’s yellow glare. And at the welcome mat lay a shredded bundle of – a –

Jesus.

Then the porch light was swatted out, and the night reached out to Todd to gather him in.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .

Image courtesy of Toho Studios.

Starring Minami Hamabe as Noriko Oishi; Ryunosuke Kamiki as whiny Koichi Shikishima; Sakura Ando as Sumiko Ota; Kuranosuke Sasaki as Quint, ah, Yoji Akitsu; Munetaka Aoki as Sosaku Tachibana; Hidetaka Yoshioka as Hooper, ah, Kenji Noda; and a toddler who cried as needed, among others. Directed by Takashi Yamazaki. Rated PG-13. Two hours, 4 minutes in length. Theatrical release.

Mladen’s take

“Godzilla Minus One” ain’t no “Shin Godzilla” but it’ll do. My concern is that Toho Studio’s new filmmaking philosophy is to render Godzilla movies more people-centric, rather than monster-focused, to draw more theatergoers and yen. How do I know? Because “Godzilla Minus One,” which is a crappy title for the movie, by the way, has trounced all of its other Godzilla releases at the Japanese and global box offices.

I concede that I almost fell into Toho’s people matter trap, which Del, no doubt, willingly threw himself into. Hamabe’s Noriko and Ando’s Sumiko are terrific in the film and, well, stunning, as in pretty as heck. Their presence almost offset our hero’s whimpering demeanor. All I could think about when Kamiki’s PTSD-ed former Zero fighter pilot Shikishima was on the screen was how much he reminded me of self-loathing, angst-ridden, crybaby Shinji in the “Evangelion” franchise.

“G -1.0” is a reboot of the reboot (“Shin Godzilla,” 2016) of 1954’s “Gojira.” Where “Shin Godzilla” was an innovative and imaginative rework of the heralded kaiju, “G -1.0” is a true-blue re-tell of “Gojira” down to scenes like the attack on a commuter train and a structure used by radio reporters describing Godzilla’s rampage toppling. Oh, the film’s ending is wanky, albeit intriguing. 

Am I a disappointed Godzilla fanboy? No. “G -1.0” is a very good movie. When the monster appears, the action is fabulous, though derivative. Shades of “Jaws” and even the MonsterVerse’s “Godzilla vs Kong” flow through “G -1.0.” But, oh, boy, the battle between the newest Godzilla and former Imperial Japanese Navy heavy cruiser Takao is something to behold. The ship’s fate is a combination of HMS Hood, USS Arizona, and IJN aircraft carrier Akagi exploding. That scene, when I play it again and again on my home theater using a 4K disc, will be so loud that my neighbor’s will call the PD to file noise complaints. Just you wait. 

Most importantly, “G -1.0” pays tribute to Akira Ifukube’s iconic Gojira score, as well as director Ishiro Honda’s vision of the monster. Hell, Tokyo’s Shinagawa ward is featured but, regrettably, there’s nary a Serizawa in the film. Still, there’s no question that you’re watching the real Godzilla, Toho’s Godzilla, rather than the non-real Godzilla, which is now that rambunctious, no-charisma, no-lineage creature of the MonsterVerse.

Yeah, go see “Godzilla Minus One” at the theater. Make sure it’s a Dolby or IMAX venue because this movie demands a sound system like no other. You Godzilla amateurs will love the people story in the film and you fanboys will get just enough G to look forward to Toho’s next release. My hope for, I don’t know, “Godzilla Plus One,” is that Toho mimics a sci-fi kaiju movie that takes its cue from Jordan Peele’s “Nope,” also somewhat of a dumb name for a film. “Nope” achieved a right smart balance between captivating humans and a fresh, big-ass monster. But it can’t be interpreted as a movie about people with the kaiju playing a supporting role.

Del’s take

“Godzilla Minus One” isn’t your grandfather’s Godzilla.

Critics and moviegoers are raving about Toho Studio’s latest iteration of the iconic lizard. Rotten Tomatoes gives it a 4.8 out of 5 rating, Simon Abrams of RogerEbert.com calls it a “well-calibrated popcorn movie,” and The Guardian says it’s one of the very best of the Godzilla series, giving it 5 out of 6 stars.

High praise indeed. So why was I so bored?

Which isn’t to say “Godzilla Minus One” is a crappy movie. It’s quite good, and Mladen, proving once again that even a blind squirrel can sometimes find a nut, rightly encourages moviegoers to see it in a theater, preferably an IMAX, to make better use of its sprawling 2.39: 1 aspect ratio. Oh, and don’t forget the Dolby surround sound.

And kudos to Toho Studios for trying to address the human quotient in its Godzilla equation, which in the past was relegated to comical stereotypes that served no purpose than to lecture the audience about whatever denunciation-worthy subject was trending at the time of filming. Don’t listen to Mladen’s crabbing about people-centric vs. monster-focused – he was long ago absorbed by an alien pod and no longer possesses human emotions.

Sure, the movie’s about a giant monster that flattens part of Tokyo. But it’s about a lot of other things, too – for instance, national identity, and the role of bushido, the honor code, in postwar Japan. The movie’s protagonist, Koichi Shikishima (played by Ryunosuke Kamiki) is a World War II kamikaze pilot who chickened out, which makes him a disgrace to himself and a traitor to his people. He lands his plane on Odo Island, where he’s exposed as a coward by members of the garrison stationed there. Later, he fails to act in a crisis and several men are killed, and his status as coward is cemented. He spends the rest of the movie trying to atone for that sin.

“Godzilla Minus One” is surprisingly candid in addressing issues of postwar sentiment in Japan vs. prewar militancy and honor, which steered me away from my traditional interpretation of Godzilla as a metaphor for the hubris of science, specifically the development of the atomic bomb. It occurred to me (maybe wrongly) that the monster could be a symbol of the United States itself, a behemoth that descends on a moral, honorable Japan and wreaks destruction without regard to who or what was deserving of such treatment.

But the movie has its problems. The first act is excruciatingly slowed by character development – not even interesting character development. I found myself propping my head on my hand, awaiting the arrival of monster mayhem. And it may be a backhanded compliment to suggest “Godzilla Minus One” is the least ridiculous of the Godzilla films but still has its moments. For instance, when the movie tries to explain the absence of America in the fight against Godzilla, it suggests the United States is fearful of a Soviet response. Apparently the scriptwriters never heard of Korea or Vietnam.

The Godzilla in this movie is an angry, muscular Godzilla, shrugging off the slow evolution that has taken place since 1954 when the monster first appeared as a symbol of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, to more recent times as Godzilla became a kind of benevolent protector from kaiju thuggery. FX are top-notch and the destruction is worthy of a Roland Emmerich film. I loved Godzilla’s radioactive breath, which set off spectacular, nuclear-like explosions. Very cool!

Also, I was impressed with Naoki Sato’s score, a perfectly calibrated synthesis of wonder and horror as the monster wreaks havoc on Tokyo’s Ginza. Yet it made room for elements of Akira Ifukube’s original “Gojira” theme, offered as a deserved homage.

Overall I’d give “Godzilla Minus One” a grade of A-. It’s an attempt to modernize the monster mythos while honoring its roots. Apart from a slow first act and a few sillies thrown in – what would a Godzilla movie be without a few sillies – it’s a good monster movie.

Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical writer. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and writer.

Photo courtesy of ph.

I say this story was written in 1988 but I wouldn’t quote me on that.

It was written in the 1980s, I’m sure. It has the tone of my ’80s fiction – bleak sketches usually set in a rural back road or bar. I worked the night shift at our local newspaper and afterwards, we night-shifters would venture out in search of a cheap watering hole or, if not a bar, a convenience store with cold beer, and off we’d go, into the hinterlands, because it was there a beer-drinker was not likely to be pulled over by the boys with the blue-and-red lights on their cars.

Out there in the rural dark – the real dark folks don’t see these days because cities are too lit up these days – I found a mysterious tint to the world, what Yeats might have called that rosy afterglow of the realm which lies beside this one, visible only to young children who have not had their senses dulled by maturity and experience. Except this glow was of a darker variety, and I wonder if Yeats could have appreciated that, given his musings about the nature of the new messiah.

To me, there were mysteries to be discovered in the unyielding dark of the countryside, mysteries to be glimpsed not articulated but sensed in the way you know to stay out of that abandoned house in the woods, the one that looks something terrible might have happened there years ago, resulting in it being scorned by humanity. Your ability to sense hidden dangers depended on your willingness to believe.

Which is what this story is about.

When I was a kid there were mysteries in the world, things we did not understand and places we had not seen. But we wondered about them. There might be jungles and dinosaurs on Venus, or spindly, water-starved creatures struggling to survive on Mars. Who knew what lay in that jungle heart of darkness, or the deep ocean trench? Were flying saucers winging overhead, always when we’d left the camera sitting on the table by the front door?

But as time went by and we learned more, the world began to grow smaller and the mystery fade, replaced with cold facts (or hot facts in the case of Venus, a roasting hell hole of carbon dioxide). Poor Mars became an icy desert with air so thin you could not reasonably call it air. Flying saucers became swamp gas and ocean trenches were filled with nothing but silt and a scattering of weird, glow-in-the-dark shrimp.

Think “Excaliber,” and the world of magic giving way to a world of men.

I liked life better when I didn’t know so much about it, just as I liked my friends better when their thoughts weren’t paraded across a panoply of social media. Didn’t we all get along better before we found out so-and-so voted for that evil bastard Trump?

The lack of knowing every stinking detail about every stinking thing – and the curious imaginings that filled those gaps – made life magically delicious, to borrow a breakfast cereal jingle. And that’s what this story is about, in a darkly roundabout way.

Maybe there’s still a bit of mystery – and magic – left in this world.

Lord, I hope so.

“Animal” is available only on Amazon’s Kindle, but remember: You don’t need a Kindle device to read a Kindle book. Download the free Kindle app to your phone or tablet.

Order a copy of “Animal” by following this link.

(Cover image courtesy of ph.)

From Amazon

Animal: Revised, updated and enhanced with additional content, “Animal” asks the question, “If larks, and katydids, can dream, then can I?”

Billy Stafford would rather be home, in his bed, grabbing a few winks because tomorrow will bring a special challenge at his job and he’ll need his wits about him and. …

And here he is, at Earl’s Tavern and Package Store, listening to Bob Decker go on and on in a drunken stupor about crazy things – monsters in a lake, or Bigfoot, or UFOs. Worse, he’s forcing Billy to get drunk with him, which means tomorrow Billy will wake up with a headachy brain fog and everything will be for s**t.

Across the bar, two men are teasing the lady bartender about something they’ve got in their Jeep, something they shot out in the woods that day, something that nobody has ever seen before. Billy thinks Bob should be talking to them, not him. It’s all a crock of you-know-what and truth be told, Billy just wants to go home and sleep.

He finally disentangles himself from Bob and heads out the door, and the night should have ended there. But it doesn’t.

Because he sees something.

In the Jeep.

About the author:

Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”

Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.

As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.

Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, Ello and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .

About this book:

“Animal” is a 3,555-word short story and was written in 1988. It has never been published. Copyright © 2022, Del Stone Jr.

The book’s total length is 5,691 words.

Image courtesy of Paramount.

“A Quiet Place” Starring Emily Blunt, John Krasinski, Millicent Simmonds and Noah Jupe. Directed by John Krasinski. 90 minutes. Rated PG-13.

Del’s take

“A Quiet Place” is relentlessly tense. To be honest, I was relieved when the movie ended because throughout, my stomach was cinched into a knot. It has a couple of problems, but overall it’s a good value for your entertainment dollar and I recommend it.

It’s directed by John Krasinski of  “The Office” fame, but Emily Blunt, who plays his wife both on and offscreen, has been getting top billing. Krasinski also directed the film. I’ve always wondered how that works. If you screw up a scene, do you get mad and yell at yourself?

The story is about a family trying to survive the emergence of a blind super predator that hunts by sound. I was a little unclear as to where the predators came from. Are they extraterrestrials? Demons? Genetic mutations? I don’t think the movie made that clear, but reviewers are calling them aliens so I’ll go with that.

The Abbott family lives on an abandoned farm in the countryside, never speaking, never wearing shoes, never doing anything that might reveal their presence to the monsters. They communicate through sign language and scatter sand along their footpaths to muffle the sound of their tread.

The first anecdote of the movie ratchets up the tension to an unbearable level. The family is scavenging for supplies in a nearby town. Their youngest, a little boy named Beau, finds a battery-operated space shuttle toy and wants to play with it, but Krasinski takes it away from him and removes the batteries, explaining the toy is too loud. Later, Beau’s big sister Regan (Simmonds) gives him the toy, and as they’re leaving Beau grabs the batteries.

As they’re walking back to the farmhouse the boy falls behind – because he’s loading the batteries into the toy. When he turns it on it begins to emit loud sounds, and what you fear might happen … well … it actually happens.

Cut to a year later. Blunt is pregnant. Otherwise, nothing has changed. Well, not quite. Regan blames herself for her little brother’s death. She thinks her father hates her. She doesn’t feel welcome in the family, even after her dad tries to invent a turbocharged hearing aid that might repair her deafness. The Abbotts’ other son, Marcus (Jupe), is more terrified of the monsters than the rest of the family and doesn’t think his father will keep them safe. Turns out he should be afraid.

I won’t say anything more about the plot. I don’t want to spoil it for you. Suffice it to say everything that follows cranks up the tension to the point you will be breaking for the bathroom or snack bar just to get your heart back in sync, like I did during a certain scene involving a nail.

But yes, in my opinion the movie had a few problems. The story supposedly takes place between one and two years after the creatures arrive, yet the town the Abbotts raid for supplies looks like it’s been abandoned for many years. By the same token, the farm where they hide is surrounded by lovingly cultivated fields of corn, which could not have been accomplished without the use of heavy – and loud – machinery.

And what’s with this baby thing? Why would they bring a baby into this world? And aren’t babies loud? I mean, really, really loud?

If the monsters are attracted to sound, why couldn’t Krasinsky set up some speakers in the middle of that corn field, crank up the Iggy Pop and blast the monsters to smithereens when they show up?

Details, details.

Apart from those gripes, “A Quiet Place” is a super tense, super scary movie that should appeal to both fans and non-fans of horror. See it in a movie theater. Don’t wait for it to show up on Netflix or Prime.

While I’m at it, let me recommend the smartphone app MoviePass. You pay $7 a month for one theatrical release – per day. Thirty-one movies for $7? I don’t know how they make money at it, but somehow they must.

That’s how we got to see “A Quiet Place.”

I give it a B+.

Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.

Image courtesy of Universal Pictures.

“Pacific Rim: Uprising” Starring John Boyega, Scott Eastwood and Cailee Spaeny. Directed by Steven S. DeKnight. 111 minutes. Rated PG-13.

Del’s take

I had great hopes for the original “Pacific Rim” and came away greatly disappointed, so my expectations of “Pacific Rim: Uprising” were minimal. But what the hell. It was a rainy Sunday afternoon and while I had a crap-ton of stuff that needed doing, I didn’t feel like doing any of it. “Uprising” it was.

And hey, guess what? It didn’t suck as bad as I thought it would. Let’s face it: You don’t go to a “Transformers” or “Pacific Rim” movie for the social commentary or existential angst. You go to see giant monsters and robots beat the shit out of each other, destroying cities in the process. In that meager capacity “Uprising” did not disappoint.

The movie stars John Boyega as Jake Pentecost, son of Idris Elba’s Stacker Pentecost from the original movie. Stacker was the marshal of the Jaeger corps, giant robots built to defend humanity from the Kaiju, equally giant monsters from another dimension that entered this world through a breach in the Pacific Ocean floor. Stacker is revered for his role in sealing the breach and saving the world.

Jake, once a promising Jaeger pilot himself, has given up his career to become a petty criminal. During a theft gone wrong he meets young Amara Namani (Spaeny), who has built her own Jaeger called Scrapper. Because it is against the law to own unregistered Jaegers, Amara and Jake are hauled in by the authorities. Instead of being jailed they’re sent to the Jaeger corps, where Jake is to resume his old job and Amara becomes a cadet.

The Shao Corporation has a plan to replace Jaegers with huge, robotic drones, and I won’t say any more about that because it would spoil the movie for you. Suffice it to say “Uprising” becomes more action-oriented with the second act and continues through the third.

John Boyega does a good job with his role and shows he can act outside of “Star Wars.” He manages to bring a little more oomph to his role, which is saddled with clichés. I last saw Scott Eastwood in “The Fate of the Furious” and he was about as wooden as a ventriloquist’s dummy. His acting has improved and at times he seems almost human, so there’s hope. Spaeny is a natural for the screen. I think we’ll be seeing a lot of her in the future.

I think this movie was better written than the original. The dialogue was an improvement. It didn’t strike me as silly and fanboyish as del Torro’s script.

The flaws? I’m sure there were plenty. The premise itself is the biggest flaw of all. But I turned off that part of my brain before I walked into the theater. Again, you don’t watch a “Transformers” or “Pacific Rim” to appreciate the logic or scientific accuracy. The movie panders to a Chinese audience so if you have a problem with that, be prepared.

“Uprising” sets up a sequel, and I initially thought that wouldn’t happen until I checked the overseas grosses. Domestically it has earned just south of $60 million, with a budget of $150 million. But worldwide? A whopping $275 million for a $333 million cume, so I guess we can expect a “Pacific Rim: Domination.” Way to go, Chinese audience.

Don’t get me wrong: “Uprising” is an entertaining and even fun movie if your expectations aren’t too high. But don’t expect much in the way of depth.

I give it a B-.

Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.

Monsters-movie-image

Image courtesy of Magnet.

—

“Monsters” Starring Scoot McNairy and Whitney Able. Directed by Gareth Edwards. 94 minutes. Rated R.

Del’s take

Late in the movie “Monsters” there comes a moment a literary book reviewer might call “luminous.” Ever notice how literary book reviewers always bring the word “luminous” into play, as if to excuse the lack of plot, the unfolding of dreary characterization and the trendy massacre of clearly wrought prose? You will never hear a Larry Bond novel called “luminous.”

This illuminating moment takes place when our two protagonists, Andrew (Scoot McNairy) and Samantha (Whitney Able), witness two 300-foot tall walking squids engage in making out, foreplay, maybe actual intercourse – with all the flailing tentacles, bioluminescent pulsing and noble whale song-like groaning it’s hard to tell what’s going on. Andrew and Samantha watch in awe as these two leviathans perform the vertical bop and you expect them to whisper, “Beautiful” as they gaze adoringly at each other.

I was whispering “Will somebody please BLOW THESE THINGS UP?”

To paraphrase my friend Kari: “Monsters” is what happens when an indie filmmaker, the cinema equivalent of a literary writer, tells himself, “We have nothing to fear but fear itself … and monsters.”

“Monsters” isn’t about monsters, that’s for sure. The monsters are metaphors for Andrew and Samantha, or illegal immigration, or existential angst. But it is more about the message getting lost in a stew of competing thematic imperatives.

The story goes like this: NASA discovers evidence of life elsewhere in our solar system and dispatches a probe to recover a sample. The probe crashes somewhere in Mexico and shortly thereafter weird creatures begin disrupting the flow of cocaine to America. Andrew, a jaded photojournalist, goes into the “infected zone” to document the mayhem. But he somehow becomes responsible for escorting his publisher’s daughter, who has been in the area, back to the States. They try by land, sea and air but due to a series of setbacks, mostly caused by their own stupidity, they fail and must travel directly through the infected zone to reach the gigantic wall America has constructed along its border with Mexico. Along the way Andrew, who has a kid but not a wife, and Samantha, who is to marry a fellow she doesn’t love, discover a growing affinity for each other. Can you guess how this is going to end?

I will give Edwards credit: “Monsters” is ambitious. It is not another “Godzilla,” “The Mist” or “Cloverfield.” What I didn’t like about it, however, was the plodding pace, the incompetence of the characters and their forced transformations, which did not encourage me to suspend my disbelief.

Characterization is shaky. We are expected to dislike Andrew at first because of his cynicism, then bond to him as he realizes there’s more to life than shooting a prize-winning photo. In reality Andrew is a scummy opportunist who shacks up with prostitutes when Samantha won’t sleep with him, something he pursues with such diligence that Samantha could have had him arrested for sexual harassment. And Samantha, as the poor little rich girl, is a cipher with no real purpose for existence other than serving as an object of desire for Andrew.

At every critical juncture in their journey they pause, undecided, then embark on some irrelevant and unrealistic conflict that jeopardizes their success. For instance, at one point they must get off a boat and travel overland under the watchful eye of armed guards – except Andrew doesn’t want to because the guards are carrying guns. Um, excuse me, but what part of “armed” did he not understand? And in a land occupied by 300 foot-tall squids who like to squash human beings, would you rather your guards be armed with Nerf Frisbees?

And once they reach the wall, well. It’s every Tea Partier’s dream, a cement monolith designed to keep out “illegal aliens.” Except the aliens, as we see in the scene I referenced above, are nothing more than noble, benighted creatures who want nothing more out of life than a brief interlude of happiness amidst an uncaring world. Except they are 300 feet tall and like to squash humans. I say, “Will somebody please BLOW THESE THINGS UP?”

“Monsters” is an interesting movie but it has problems. On a scale of A to F I would rate it a C+.

Mladen’s take

Let’s start with a list.

They’re 300-foot-tall walking octopi, or is it octopuses? Get your mollusks straight, Del.

They do get blown up, you savage, it’s just not witnessed, and,

“Monsters” the movie has one of loveliest, mournfully serene soundtracks ever pasted to celluloid.

For me, the best way to characterize “Monsters” is this: The movie is deeply satisfying, but superficially disappointing.

It took me about 20 minutes to realize that the film was unlike a Godzilla smashfest, “Cloverfield,” or “The Mist.”

After that, I shed the expectation of carnage and allowed the movie to chart its own course. The story is about man’s inhumanity to man and our reckless belief that we can corral nature.

Samantha and Andrew are likable tools used to teach us a lesson. They do a good job leading us through the Infected Zone, where the alien creatures have established a sanctuary after being brought to Earth by a NASA probe that crashed.

Once in the zone, the duo exists to draw attention to the look of civilization as it’s consumed by its own folly.

Vines overtake hotels built for tourists.

An F-15 emerges from the depths of a river, playfully pulled through the black water by one of the tentacled beasts. It never bothers Samantha, Andrew, or the crew of the longboat hired at an exploitative price to help get the Americans back to America.

When the couple finally reaches the U.S.-Mexico border, it discovers that the zigzagging walled fortress separating one country from the other has been abandoned. The aliens had breached its ramparts. The fight has come to the Homeland.

Agreed, there’s some hokey symbolism in “Monsters.” Del already gave examples, but you have to give the director of the film credit for trying to create something original.

“Monsters” is an artsy film with a liberal message, which ain’t gonna play too good in these parts.

Sit back and enjoy the film, paying attention to events and scenes framing the relationship between Samantha and Andrew because that’s the movie’s strength.

Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical editor. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.

Image courtesy of United Artists.

“The Magnetic Monster” Starring Richard Carlson, King Donovan, Jean Byron, and others. Directed by Curt Siodmak and Herbert L. Strock. Writers Curt Siodmak and Ivan Tors. 76 minutes. Rating: Approved. Amazon Prime.

Mladen’s take

The Atomic Age fuses with a quark-y idea, valent script writing, and energetic performances to form the nucleus of “The Magnetic Monster.”

This elemental gem of a sci-fi movie is only 76 minutes but tells the story, and captures the fear of the unknown about radioactivity, in 1953 with panache.

There are no goofy sound effects in “The Magnetic Monster.” No overdone dumbing-down of science. There are no mad scientists, though there’s one not-too-bright physicist, in the film. There’s gentlemanly sexism. Dare not there be a woman engineer or researcher. Instead, we get a clever pregnant wife, a diligent switchboard operator, and a very athletic store clerk with one helluva body.

Now that I irritated, or is it irradiated, Del long enough by withholding a film summary, here you go.

An appliance and hardware store near a Government facility populated by “A-men” (atomic men) is magnetized. Watch out for the engineless push lawnmower with some dastardly looking blades bolting at you because you’re in the way of the pull of the polarized attractor with thirst for pure energy. A-men Drs. Jeffrey Stewart (Carlson) and Dan Forbes (Donovan) are dispatched by the Office of Scientific Investigation chief scientist to uncover the facts and cure the problem. Geiger counters tick. A man is found dead in a secret, makeshift laboratory. Off go Stewart and Forbes to get to the bottom of the incident.

The disaster that unfolds isn’t a nuclear reactor going China syndrome. The disquiet and radioactivity haven’t been released by a detonating A-bomb. “The Magnetic Monster” menace is tough to find and, when found, tough to throttle. It has to be fed to keep contained. Each subsequent feeding requires magnitudes more food and, in one instance, takes blacking out a city to provide the needed electricity. The magnetic monster grows after it eats like the Republican party bloats as it chews our democracy. That means the next monster feeding will require a bigger source of power. How long before the Earth, the solar system, the galaxy, the constellation, or the universe are consumed because the beast needs matter converted to energy to stay satiated? Oh, Einstein, what have you caused with that E=mc² thing.

I loved this black-and-white movie for its effort to pay attention to science. For showing us wavy lines on cathode ray tubes. For demonstrating how fast those new-fangled jet-powered airplanes with straight wings can fly. For the cool, realistic explosion of a volt-injecting machine the size of a building. Thank you for at least making the effort to show that decaying metals are heavy, literally. And, dadgum, you made a block of gray material smaller than a breadbox the plausible villain.

A-, Del. “The Magnetic Monster” is an A-. Need a rationale? If you think “The Haunting” is an A-, there’s no way you can think anything less of “The Magnetic Monster.”  

Del’s take

A- my ass.

“The Magnetic Monster” is at best a C. It has a couple of things going for it and a lot of things that don’t, so let’s touch on the positives first.

Number 1, forget the story. “The Magnetic Monster” is a time capsule of life in the 1950s, and while much of that life is better left to history, other aspects invoked a pleasant nostalgia for conduct and commodities that I wish existed today.

For instance, the cars. The cars are behemoths of chrome and steel, fitting of all the old nicknames – land yachts, battle cruisers and road hogs. No doubt they got crappy gas mileage and polluted the environment, but man, they sure were nice to look at. Designers back then were still trying to create art, not aerodynamically efficient blob mobiles. We all could use a little more art in our lives.

Men and women dressed for work. The ladies wore dresses and skirts with hats and gloves, while the men were clad in suits and ties. Call me old-fashioned but I think a more formal workplace dress code imparts a more formal manner of job conduct and thinking. Much of the work today seems like it was done by somebody wearing a bathrobe and house slippers.

People back then – at least in the movies – seemed more articulate. Their speech was almost patrician, with a whiff of an English accent in some – a welcome departure from the onslaught of slurred, mispronounced vulgarities we are subjected to these days.

From there “The Magnetic Monster” sleds downhill.

I’ll be first to point out life in the ’50s might have been grand for white males but not many others. Women, as illustrated in “The Magnetic Monster,” occupied the lower rungs of the corporate ladder or were kept at home in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. In many of these movies you don’t see people of color unless they’re about to be devoured by the title threat.

Value judgments aside, the movie makes a laudable attempt to sell a scientific plausibility, and unlike many B movies of the ’50s you never see an actual “monster.” That’s because the monster is radiation, though I was confused about the relationship between magnetism and radioactive particles that sicken and kill people.

From what I’ve read, much of the “science” in “The Magnetic Monster” is nonsense, which is not necessarily a cause for dismissing the movie. The science in virtually all science fiction movies these days is nonsense. Don’t get me started on “Star Wars.” Still, while it must have sounded impressive to an audience of that era, I heard mostly nonsense.

The movie itself relies on special effects “borrowed” from a German science fiction film of the 1930s called “Gold.” It also features brief cameos by a computer called “M.A.N.I.A.C.,” which are good for a chuckle. I’d wager an Apple Watch has millions of times more computing power. Such is the march of technology.

“The Magnetic Monster” was the first movie of a trilogy, which included “Riders to the Stars” and “Gog,” both shot in the mid-1950s.

I mentioned two things in the movie’s favor. The other is that it’s short, a hair over an hour.

I enjoyed some aspects of “The Magnetic Monster” but mostly I thought it was boring. The ’50s produced some wonderful science fiction movies – “The Day the Earth Stood Still” and “Forbidden Planet,” but this is not one of them. It’s a product of the days when people feared the atom, the Russians and the unknown. Now, we know that climate change, incompetent politicians, corporate greed and evolving pathogens present a much greater threat.

Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind returning to those simpler days. At least in some ways.

Sorry, Mladen. C.

Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical writer. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.