I Hear You Knockin' (But You Can't Come In)

Funeralopolis readers that have been on this trip since the start will know in the early editions there was such dedication to found footage. Refusing to accept the belief that it's a spent force but rather a unique concept that succumbed to oversaturation and continuous rule breaking that tired audiences and hindered its growth as a genre. A smarter neater way of saying I almost lost my mind trying to explore all its avenues that can be at its worst irritatingly dumb and at its best so realistic it becomes downright disturbing. Anyway, we remain on the hunt for all the developments in found footage even if everyone else has switched off.

Last year, the stylistically inviting but arguably empty, Skinamarink, bizarrely became a popular hit and a huge talking point even if there was very little to talk about. This year, everyone's talking about Late Night with the Devil, which is even worse. A mostly dull attempt at recreating the success of Ghostwatch that is being widely celebrated even though it breaks too many rules. What's with the off-air segments, illusions that a camera misses and the radical departure that exists potentially in a character's mind? Why is there such big name actors? If it enables David Dastmalchian to have further starring roles then great but the film itself terrible and that's without discussing the controversial use of AI.

On a smaller scale, there is Exposure, a YouTube short lasting only 10 minutes that is almost interesting before it gets carried away and loses itself in utter stupidity. Director Kris J Cummins has cleverly exploited our technophobia in attempt to bring back found footage. His short is based on reports of home invaders using our own devices against us such as Alexa as part of their schemes to enter properties. Hackers can now take control of your Alexa, using it as an accomplice by talking through the speaker. Therefore, they have already entered your home and your 4 walls don't mean shit. With this in mind, it's not too much of a stretch to suggest they could manipulate the weakest members of the household: the children.

Exposures scariest moments appear in its opening few minutes. A dark room at night where a child is being spoken to through an electronic device. We can't see the ghostly figure and can only hear him, giving the uninvited guest total power. Our mind can only fill in the blanks of who this entity may be. At this point, they're not yet a person, they're bigger than that and that's what makes it so terrifying. Their identity is a mystery and we can't defeat what we don't know, adding to the horror of the situation. The voice plays on the fantastical and naiveties of the child by telling they in need of help as they are stuck in the device and the only way they can be freed is if the child opens the front door. It's that combination of harsh realism and child-like fantasy that makes the scene so disturbing.

Disappointingly, this is where everything falls apart. Cheesiness takes over. We see the intruder in the flesh, who laughably looks like a cross of Frank Gallagher, Aphex Twin and Limmy. Then the mother who comes to the rescue can't act for shit. Both of these clowns are outclassed by a child, which is fairly embarrassing.

All suspense is lost because the acting is appalling. Destroying what was initially a creepy premise and fantastic new entry in found footage. You cannot ruin your own mystery. You do that and you lose all power which you came to the table with. It's criminal. Returning to the GOAT of the genre, Blair Witch never did this and that's why people will remember that film for eternity and Exposure will soon be forgotten. If only they'd have kept it to the simplicity of an unknown voice coming out one of your electronic devices. That part was scary. Everyone involved hang your heads in shame, you almost achieved greatness but you let yourselves down. Home invasion lovers stay tuned, on the next page is this week's short story.

They say man is basically good... up to a point. There is much that is up for this discussion in this world and this is where democracy and politics has served us well. However, conversation can only go so far. You hit a man where it hurts and you'll see him bite. You go right to the top of the hierarchy of needs and you will see man rear his ugly head with the violence he is capable of. The full range of human behaviour. Where does it hurt? The home and everything in it. Man is a very resilient creature, it will do nearly anything it can to ensure its own survival. Once you step through the door way, breaking that barrier, man will do whatever is necessary to protect that which is inside, that which it holds most dear. And if that involves abandoning every principle, every moral he's been taught, then so be it. Good, evil, at that point, what does it matter?

I've been guarding my property every night for a consecutive 227 days. Each sunrise, I clock off, marking another nights completion down on the fridge calendar before making my way upstairs to kiss my sleeping wife. "I hear you knockin' you bastards, but you can't come in!". They come after dark and they don't leave 'til the morning. It used to be on evenings with a full moon but they soon abandoned that and started coming any time after the sun went down putting me on permanent night shift. I am the night watchman, I am the protector and I am the killer. This is my house and if they want in, they have to come through me.

They being pretty much anything you can think of actually. They take multiple forms. Zombified humans, giant tarantulas, gargantuan anacondas, blood thirsty vampires, even shadows in the night. They can manifest themselves as anything and possess any living and dead tissue. What are they here for? They're here for what's in the bedroom at the top of the stairs: my gorgeous wife. As I sit sharpening my wooden spears, preparing weapons for the evening, I can hear the music coming from up above. Doris must be listening to her Dixieland records again. Hisses and crackles sneaked in so regularly I had to admit that I'd long forgotten what they originally sounded like. Oh, they could sound like a long uninspired drone for all I cared. Hearing any sound was a blessing. It was a reminder she was still there. And as long as she was still there, I would continue to fight long in to the night.

Yesterday was long gone but with her there was always a tomorrow. Without her there was no point continuing my work. There would seize to be purpose. Days would have no end. It would all become one endless watch, one endless cycle, slowly deteriorating like The Disintegration Loops. Her presence was vital proof that I wasn't alone out here. Everyone needs to do something for someone. Nobody lives for themself, not entirely and that's the cold truth. Solo adventures are all the same. You go for a long hike in the mountains, you take a trip to the local cinema, you read the greatest book in the history of literature. Eventually, you come out with this overwhelming urge to talk to someone. To explain what you saw, what you read, what you felt. Because something essentially deep within its core is missing from the experience. A certain validity that can only be achieved when it is shared. We have to confirm that it happened. Otherwise it may have all been a trick of the mind.

Oh shit, it was getting close to dark and I hadn't finished bordering up all the windows. I'd got lost in thought again, I was doing that more so as of late. Need to keep an eye on that. Easy to romanticise in times of great darkness. What else can you do? I aggressively hammered 3 nails across every plane of wood like Mario taking down barrels thrown by Donkey Kong. This was not my first rodeo. In my former life, due to an absent father unavailable to teach, I'd avoided near enough all DIY and was famous for having the softest hands of any man my age. Now, I knew my way round every tool and had hands as rough as a badger's arse. My smooth fingertips were the key to allowing Doris to reach orgasm so regularly in our early highly sexually active days, when we were still learning all we could about each other. I didn't touch Doris so much these days. Looking at the pile of sawdust on the floor, I made a quick note to pick up some more wood from the forest floor tomorrow.

Sex wasn't on Doris's mind and hadn't been for some time. Survival was the word of great relevance but that didn't stop me thinking about her wet pussy from time to time. what else is a man to think about on a cold evening when nobody else is around? For all my horniness, I remained loyal, continuously telling myself these were only temporary measures. This all started about 2 years ago. At least for me anyway. There was a great confusion when a giant toad turned up at my door one night asking for my wife. I sliced its head off with a bread knife.

After that, slicing heads off became a regular routine. Their numbers increasing with each night. I took defence lessons to improve my chances. Learning defensive manoeuvres and how to handle large groups of attackers. I scooped up the sawdust and dropped it in the bin. Next to the bin were crumpled up calendars all for this month. This momentarily confused me but then I remembered I stupidly printed off about twelve copies of this month by mistake. I must have not had time yet to throw them out.

Before me, Doris's dad, Charles, had my job. I would ask him how he made them stop. Terrifyingly, he told me, it wasn't him that made them stop. They stopped themselves. But why did they come back? He could not tell me what triggered the secondary return. He had no solutions only small term tricks to keep the bastards at bay. It was as though the monsters were never defeated or destroyed. They only lay dormant, waiting for another moment to strike. A volcano acting along with the rules of nature. Eruptions triggered from somewhere far from view. Only chance was evacuating the majority of citizens from the equation. Having those brave few who tough it out and adapt, dedicating their lives to the struggle, studying the remnants and praying it never comes active again.

When things took a severe turn, we chose to hide Doris out in the country at a secluded place once owned by her departed grandfather. We thought they wouldn't find her out there. We thought endless sunshine and wildlife might cure her once and for all. Location was unimportant, the monsters still found her there.

Nowhere else to go, I make our last stand every night without fail. Rehearsing the tensest play over and over. Performance always bettering with the fear that each one might be the last. Waking the next morning in total shock as the show must go on. A sick sitcom way past its sell by date that existed merely as comfort food for the brainless. It reminded me of the notorious coward Robert Ford and his numerous renditions of assassinating his boss and friend, Jesse James. How would that feel to re-enact your most appalling defining moment again and again, night after night? This repetitive art piece where the audience looks for the most minute changes. Slow cinema where the perception of time is manipulated and every object is lingered on to find a meaning that couldn't be found at normal speed. The actor forced and bullied in to take after take like Shelley Duvall slipping in to madness under Stanley Kubrick's direction. At the mercy of a higher power. Lost in a rhythm. Stuck somewhere between beauty and boredom.

Academy award darling and method acting champion, Daniel Day Lewis, spent 6 months living in the Alabama wilderness to prepare for his role in The Last of the Mohicans. During that time, he learned to track and skin animals, build canoes, fight with tomahawks, fire and reload a 12 pound flintlock whilst on the move at fast pace. Mr Lewis doesn't know how easy he has it. The man could quit at any time and when he snaps out of it, he normally opens his eyes to an Oscar in his hands. Some of us don't have that luxury. I wished that I could wake up and this would be all over. That it would turn out to be some dream and I could soon return to regular life like the normal folk. Except, it was turning in to this long winded joke that had long since outstayed its welcome. Only the invaders knew when it would stop and until then, I would come down every night to meet them. They could not have my wife.

Why do they want her? Why do they keep coming back for more? My wife cannot even answer this question. she's a master of language and communication. She has two degrees in English and media. She takes a strong interest in psychology. And yet she does not know. Or she cannot tell me. Does she choose not to tell me? Can she not verbalise what it is? Or does she have not the faintest idea?

I have often wondered whether it is I, whether there is something in my behaviour that is triggering it. "Can I do anything differently", I ask repeatedly. Either I am not the problem or she does not have the heart to tell me. I continue forwards but at every step worried my endless pursuit may be the cause behind it all. If I was to leave her side would all this madness stop? Or would the dark forces slip in and take her for good in my absence? You see my problem.

I share her hell. I see her demons. I fornicate with her darkest places. Where ever she goes, I go. Down the slippery slope and into the abyss. There aren't many things I fear in this world more than the dark. Once, when I was a child, I was kidnapped and place in a shipping container, where I spent 6 days alone with no contact from the outside world. No watches. No phones. Only the occasional light when the thin slit would open and my daily meal would be placed through. Eventually, the police found my location and I was released back in to the world with very little memory of those 6 days. Ever since though, I've started to develop panic attacks whenever someone close to me goes off the grid too long and doesn't check in every once in a while. So all this lack of explanation and communication between us, as you can tell, is doing me a world of good. In spite of all the troubles that lie ahead, my decision is already made, I will not abandon my post. She's worth it.

How much longer until tonight's attack? I check the clock on the wall. They be here within the hour. I sit down on the floor, cross over my legs and meditate. Must stay calm. Don't let them in. Maintaining rational thought is my greatest weapon. Lose them and you lose your head. Days are spent thinking up defensive strategies, nights putting the in to action. This is a strange enemy, when you think you've outwitted it, it comes back stronger. Its attacks are unmotivated, its logic is random without pattern. Like John Carpenter's The Thing it has no problem playing the waiting game, lying out in the ice for decades, waiting for its next opportunity to strike. The silent sycophant.

Every disease must have its cure and so is the reason my ambition never falters. I may not have the brains of Robert Neville but my enthusiasm is no less. Before all this, I was a librarian, arranging and locating books all day, now I'm attacking unspeakable horrors sundown to sunrise. How did it get to this?

Soon as we moved in to this little shack, my job was the first thing to go. According to the books, I am on sick leave. There's literally no better way of explaining it to them. How could anyone explain any of this? Best to stay quiet and work the night shift. But for many days could I keep this up? Did it matter? Otherwise what's the point in this whole marriage thing? Sometimes you gotta just stick it out. Til death do us part. Then again, I don't remember it being in our wedding vows that I'd have to spend all my nights keeping horrific visitors from our door. Hey, ho, if it was easy, it wouldn't be worth it. It's no singing dancing parade. It's pain and it's sacrifice. But in the right hands, you can really build something beautiful. "Ce la vie!", I cry out manically before jumping in shock as the first explosion is triggered.

Straight after the first home-made trip wire is activated, so goes the second and third. I couldn't see the bastards go down but I knew I'd killed a few. No doubt the next wave would fall victim to the hole spikes. Those leaves were perfectly placed, they wouldn't suspect a thing. One foot in front of the other then a sharp drop and an even sharper spike through toe and on to chin. There's no room for decency in murder, this game was won by the barbaric. Next, the survivors of this trap, may meet their end via swinging logs. Now, anyone making it past all of these neatly pre-arranged obstacles has an even bigger problem: me.

The barricades are strong but enough of them will do some serious damage. I rapidly shift between rooms, looking for potential break ins. Soon as I see a hole opening up, I offload a spear in to the intruder and hammer the boards back up. Over and over, as long as it takes. Never pausing for rest. This is my house. Nobody enters without my say. Usually, I can make it through the night with only one or two getting in. The worst it ever got was one time when I fell asleep on the job and had to push them back down the stairs with a large chainsaw. Tonight was also turning in to a bad night. There was just too fucking many of them. Was it time to finally admit I was unqualified for the job? That I was finally out my depth?

I shot silver bullets in to the chest of a werewolf. I axed off the head of zombies. I staked the vampires through the heart. But it wasn't enough. They backed me up the stairs. Out of options, I entered the bedroom at the top of the stairs and barricaded the door behind me ready for a last stand. In between hammering nails, I looked over at the unruffled bed sheets and called out, "nothing to worry about Sleeping Beauty, just a few nasty guests who don't know what closing time means" Something seemed off. I paused, waiting to hear a single snore, a slight creek of the bed springs. Anything to suggest another presence. Since this never came, I shuffled on over to investigate. I reached out to touch her long blonde hair and my hands unexpectedly met cold pillow. My wife was gone.

On which of the hundreds of shifts did they take her? How many pointless nights had I spent protecting an empty bed. Who had been playing the Dixieland records? I'll never know. As a night watchman, I had failed my duties. She was compromised. Did noone think to tell me? Regular programming without interruption, is that how this worked? How long ago was it that The Simpsons first prepared to set off to the annual Christmas pageant at Springfield Elementary? This sick charade had gone on long enough. Everybody had stopped watching long ago and turned off their TV sets but no-one told the actors to stop. They had crossed over and become the characters. But when did the acting stop? What was my mission now? Who was there left to direct me? My energy was depleted. Nothing seemed to hold much value any more. The monsters had claimed my wife and now they came for me. I had truly lost it. In the silence, the bed side clock ticked on. Out of pure frustration, I elbowed it to the ground and put my foot through it so many times it was left in a thousand pieces. Another silence, which is quickly broken by the sounds of the twisted fuckers tapping at my bedroom door. "I hear you knocking you bastards but you can't come in!"

Overall Score: 3/5