The moon has been terribly bright over Chicago these last few nights (something that is fairly rare, considering we see the sky only 2.7 times between October 1 and April 27), which naturally got me thinking; whose stupid idea was the werewolf?
Don't get me wrong, I'm all for horror creature lore. My love affair with vampires borders on "bothersome," according to my girlfriend, who is going to have to learn to live with the posters of Eric Northman and Lestat above my bed.
But come on. Werewolves are just stupid; specifically in the manner in which they are created. So you get bitten by one, then the werewolf germ strain infects you to the point where your entire body morphs into a giant canine, including hair that covers the body thicker than a Greek landlord's, and only does so when there's a perfectly full moon outside? Seriously? Okay, I'm willing to buy the transformation (I've seen my friend Patrick turn pretty feral when he doesn't get his coffee germ), but a transformation that follows a tighter cycle than my brother-in-law's entirely too expensive new high efficiency, computer-managed washing machine? Please.
The werewolf transformation is the female menstrual cycle on mutated HGH, and I have a hard enough time understanding the one, much less wrapping my mind around the other.
Of course, to be fair, I have to admit that vampires aren't much better when it comes to origin. I have no idea how drinking vampire blood might turn one into a vampire (Ulcer-inducing? Sure. Vampiric transformation? Eh.), nor do I particularly believe that a stake through the heart of a creature that has absolutely no use for a heart would do much in the way of instant death. On top of that, how on earth does a rare blood disease make one allergic to garlic and vulnerable to sunlight, AND give one the ability to turn into a bat and/or a cloud of fog? It's all very mysterious.
Following this line of thought, I was forced to make what was for me a surprising conclusion; zombies are the most likely horror creature archetypes.
This was surprising for me because, generally speaking, I think zombies are stupid. I mean, don't get me wrong, I enjoy them in the way that people enjoy watching a drunken kitten bump its head against a wall twenty times in a row. But as a horror creature, the zombie poses incredibly little threat. They're slow, they're stupid, and their bodies are soft and malleable like gangrenous marshmallows, making it entirely too easy to kill them. If zombies attacked, the most effective method of escape would be to walk casually in the opposite direction. It's ridiculous.
The best response I ever received to the question of what makes zombies scary is, "They just keep coming! You can outrun them, but they won't give up!" Really?
That's what scares you? Determination in the face of extreme inability to excel at something? The Hallmark Hall of Fame made-for-TV movies must leave you scarred for life.
But despite all this, they have the most believable origin. I am entirely willing to believe that getting bitten by a rotting, greenish, deadish thing with saliva as thick as melting string cheese would give someone a blood infection that would cause some serious health problems. The zombie strain is really just a really lame version of rabies, and I've seen
Old Yeller enough times to know that you don't mess around with the infected.
I can even get behind the strange hunger for brains. Heck, I'm from Washington, MO, where "brain sandwich" is on half the menus in town. In fact, it would probably take weeks before the general WashMO population realized they were hosting a zombie hoard. For all we know, there have been zombies hiding out in town for decades. I think I went to high school with some.
So, okay, when it comes to transformation, zombies win. But whatever. When I write and publish my 9-part Vampire vs. Zombie young adult novel series, we'll just see who comes out on top.
